Obsession Read online

  “Did you spend much time with her at the end?”

  “Not as much as I should’ve,” he said. “I’d show up, we’d make a little small talk, she’d kick me out. I’d argue to make sure she meant it. She meant it.”

  He plucked at his mustache. “All those years she was my main RN, but apart from occasional coffee in the cafeteria, we never socialized, Alex. When I took over, I was an all-work, no-play jerk. My staff managed to show me the error of my ways and I got more socially oriented. Holiday parties, keeping a list of people’s birthdays, making sure there were cakes and flowers, all that morale-boosting stuff.” He smiled. “One year, at the Christmas party, Big Guy agreed to be Santa.”

  “That’s an image.”

  “Ho, ho, ho, grumble, grumble. Thank God there were no kids to sit in his lap. What I was getting at, Alex, is that Patty wasn’t at that party or any other. Always straight home when she finished charting. When I tried to convince her otherwise it was ‘I love you, Richard, but I am needed at home.’”

  “Single-parent responsibilities?”

  “Guess so. Tanya was the one person Patty tolerated in her hospital room. Kid seems sweet. Premed, she told me she’s thinking psychiatry or neurology. Maybe you made a good impression.”

  He got up, stretched his arms over his head. Sat back down.

  “Alex, the poor kid’s not even twenty years old and she’s alone.” He reached for his coffee, stared into the cup, didn’t drink. “Any particular reason you took the time to come over here?”

  “I was wondering if there was anything about Patty I should know.”

  “She got sick, she died, it stinks,” he said. “Why am I thinking that’s not what you’re after?”

  I considered how much to tell him. Technically, he could be thought of as the referring physician. Or not.

  I said, “Tanya’s wanting to see me has nothing to do with grief. She wants to talk about a ‘terrible thing’ Patty confessed on her deathbed.”

  His head shot forward. “What?”

  “That’s as much as she’d say over the phone. Make any sense to you?”

  “Sounds ridiculous to me. Patty was the most moral person I’ve met. Tanya’s stressed out. People say all kinds of things when they’re under pressure.”

  “That could be it.”

  He thought for a while. “Maybe this ‘terrible thing’ was Patty’s guilt about leaving Tanya. Or she was just talking nonsense because of how sick she was.”

  “Did the disease affect her cognition?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me, but it’s not my field. Talk to her oncologist. Tziporah Ganz.” His beeper sounded and he read the text message. “Beverly Hills EMTs, infarc arriving momentarily…gotta go try to save someone, Alex.”

  He walked me through the glass doors, and I thanked him for his time.

  “For what it was worth. I’m sure all this melodrama will fizzle to nothing.” He rolled his shoulders. “Thought you and Big Guy were stuck in court for the rest of the century.”

  “The case closed this morning. Surprise guilty plea.”

  His beeper went off again. “Maybe that’s Himself giving me the good news…nope, more data from the ambulance…eighty-six-year-old male with subterranean pulse…at least we’re talking a full life span.”

  He stashed the beeper. “Not that anyone makes those value judgments, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  We shook hands again.

  He said, “The primary ‘terrible thing’ is Patty’s gone. I’m certain it’ll all boil down to Tanya being stressed out. You’ll help her come to grips with that.”

  As I turned to leave, he said, “Patty was a great nurse. She should have attended some of those parties.”

  CHAPTER

  3

  My house sits high above Beverly Glen, paper-white and sharp-edged, a pale wound in the green. Sometimes as I approach, it seems a foreign place, fashioned for someone with cold sensibilities. Inside, it’s high walls, big windows, hard floors, soft furniture to gentle the edges. An assertive silence I can live with because Robin’s back.

  This week she was away, at a luthiers’ convention up in Healdsburg, showing two guitars and a mandolin. But for the trial, I might’ve gone with her.

  We’re back together after two breakups, seem to be getting it right. When I start wondering about the future, I stop myself. If you want to get fancy, that’s cognitive behavior therapy.

  Along with her clothes and her books and her drawing pencils, she brought a ten-week-old, fawn-colored French bulldog pup and offered me naming honors. The dog flourished in the company of strangers so I christened her Blanche.

  She’s six months old now, a wrinkly, soft-bellied, flat-faced ball of serenity who spends most of her day sleeping. Her predecessor, a feisty brindle stud named Spike, had died peacefully at a mature age. I’d rescued him but he’d chosen Robin as his love object. So far, Blanche didn’t discriminate.

  The first time Milo saw her, he said, “This one you could think of as almost kinda pretty.”

  Blanche made a little purring sound, rubbed her knobby head against his shin, and turned up her lips.

  “Is it smiling at me or is it gas?”

  “Smiling,” I said. “She does that.”

  He got down and took a closer look. Blanche licked his hand, moved in for the cuddle. “This is the same species as Spike?”

  I said, “Think of you and Robin.”

  No welcoming bark as I passed through the kitchen and entered the laundry room. Blanche dozed in her crate, door open. My whispered “Good afternoon” caused her to open one huge brown eye. The natural stub that serves as a tail for Frenchies began bobbing frenetically but the rest of her remained inert.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty.”

  She lifted the other eyelid, yawned, considered her options. Finally padded out and shook herself awake. I picked her up and carried her into the kitchen. The liver snap I offered would’ve sent Spike into a feeding frenzy. Blanche allowed me to hold it as she nibbled daintily. I toted her into the bedroom and placed her on a chair. She sighed and went back to sleep.

  “That’s because I’m such a fascinating guy.”

  I searched the storage closet for Tanya Bigelow’s chart, found it at the bottom of a drawer, and skimmed. Initial treatment at age seven, one follow-up three years later.

  Nothing relevant in my notes. No surprise.

  At five twenty the bell rang.

  A clear-skinned young blonde in a white oxford shirt and pressed jeans stood on the front landing. “You look exactly the same, Dr. Delaware.”

  Undersized child had morphed to petite young woman. I searched for memory jags, came up with a few: the same triangular face, square chin, pale green eyes. The tremulous lips.

  I wondered if I’d have picked her out on the street.

  I said, “You’ve changed a bit,” and motioned her in.

  “I sure hope so,” she said. “Last time I was a baby.”

  Anthropologists say blond is attractive because so few towheads stay that way, it represents youth. Tanya’s yellow curls had relaxed to honey waves. She wore it long, gathered in a high knot held in place by black chopsticks.

  No resemblance to Patty at all.

  Why should there be?

  We headed up the hallway. As we neared the office, Blanche stepped out. Shook herself, yawned, padded forward. I scooped her up.

  “Now, this is different,” said Tanya. “The only livestock you had last time were those gorgeous fish.”

  “They’re still here.”

  She reached out to pet the dog, changed her mind.

  “Her name is Blanche. She’s well beyond friendly and into gregarious.”

  Tanya extended a cautious finger. “Hi, cutie.” A puppy shiver jelloed Blanche’s rotund little body. A moist black nose sniffed in Tanya’s direction. Meaty lips curled upward.

  “Am I anthropomorphizing, Dr. Delaware, or is she smiling?”

&nbs
p; “You’re not, she is.”

  “So cute.”

  “I’ll put her back in her crate and we can get started.”

  “A crate? Is that necessary?”

  “It makes her feel more secure.”

  She looked doubtful.

  I said, “Think of a baby in a crib as opposed to rolling around in open space.”

  “I guess,” she said, “but don’t banish her on my account. I love dogs.” She rubbed the top of Blanche’s head.

  “Want to hold her?”

  “I…if she’s okay with it.”

  Blanche went along with the transfer with nary a twitch. Someone should study her brain chemistry and package it.

  “She’s so warm—hey, cutie. Is she a pug?”

  “French bulldog. If she gets too heavy—”

  “Don’t worry, I’m stronger than I look.”

  We settled in facing chairs.

  “Comfy leather,” she said, stroking an arm. “That’s the same…” Looking down at Blanche. “Am I holding her correctly?”

  “Perfect.”

  She looked around the room. “Nothing in here has changed but the rest of the house is totally different. It used to be smaller. With wood sides, right? At first I didn’t think I had the right address.”

  “We rebuilt a few years ago.” A psychopath had made the decision for us, torching everything we owned.

  Tanya said, “It came out extremely stylish.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So,” she said. “Here I am.”

  “Good to see you, Tanya.”

  “Same here.” She looked around. “You probably think I should talk about Mommy’s death.”

  “If you want to.”

  “I really don’t, Dr. Delaware. I’m not in denial, it’s been a nightmare, I never thought I’d experience anything this horrifying. But I’m handling my grief as well as can be expected—does that sound like denial?”

  “You’re the best judge of that, Tanya.”

  “Well,” she said, “I really feel I am. I don’t bottle up my feelings. On the contrary, I cry. Oh, boy, I cry plenty. I still wake up every morning expecting to see her, but…”

  Her eyes misted.

  “It hasn’t been long,” I said.

  “Sometimes it seems like yesterday. Sometimes, it’s as if she’s been gone forever…I suspected she was sick before she did.”

  “She wasn’t feeling well?”

  “She just wasn’t herself for a couple of weeks.”

  Same thing Rick had said.

  “Not that it stopped her from double-shifting or cooking or keeping up the house, but her appetite dropped and she started losing weight. When I pointed it out, she said don’t complain, maybe she’d finally be skinny. But that was the point. Mommy could never lose weight, no matter how hard she tried. I’m premed, knew enough bio to wonder about diabetes. One night, when she’d barely touched her dinner, I pointed out what was happening. She said it was just menopause, no big deal. But she’d started going into menopause two years ago and women typically gain, they don’t lose. I pointed that out but she brushed me off. Finally, a week later, she was forced to check it out.”

  “Forced by what?”

  “Dr. Silverman noticed the yellow in her eyes and insisted. But even with that, before she agreed to see a doc, she had blood drawn in the E.R. When the results came back, Dr. Silverman ordered an emergency CAT scan. The tumor was sitting right in the middle of the pancreas and there were metastases in her liver and her stomach and her intestines. She went downhill fast. Sometimes I wonder if the shock of knowing took all the fight out of her. Or maybe it was just the natural course of the disease.”

  She sat straight-backed, dry-eyed. Petted Blanche slowly. Someone who didn’t know her might judge her detached.

  I said, “How long was she ill?”

  “From the day of diagnosis, twenty-five days. Most of that was spent in the hospital; she became too weak to live at home. In the beginning, she did her best to be ornery—complaining her tray wasn’t taken away promptly, griping that float nurses weren’t like regular nurses, there was no continuity of care. Every shift, she insisted on reading her chart, double-checked that her vitals had been recorded accurately. I guess it made her feel in control. Mommy was always big on control. Did she ever tell you about her childhood?”

  “A bit.”

  “Enough for you to know what happened to her in New Mexico?”

  I nodded.

  Small hands clenched. “It’s a miracle she turned out so wonderful.”

  “She was a terrific person,” I said.

  “She was an incredible person.” She studied an etching on the left wall. “That first week in the hospital, she was an absolute despot. Then she got too sick to fight, mostly slept and read fan rags—that’s what she called celebrity magazines. That’s when I knew it was really bad.”

  She turned her lips inward. “Us, People, Star, OK! Stuff she’d always made fun of when I brought it home for weekend reading. I’m no star-chaser but I do work-study at the U. library fifteen hours a week and between that and premed, why not enjoy a little guilty pleasure? Mommy loved to kid me. Her fun reading consisted of investment books, the financial pages, and nursing journals. At heart she was an intellectual. People tended to underestimate her.”

  “Serious error in judgment,” I said.

  She petted Blanche. “True, but the country-girl image could also work against her. She told me before she met Dr. Silverman she never got what she deserved from her bosses. He appreciated her, made sure she received her promotions…anyway, I think you can see that I’m working through the grief. I don’t repress. Just the opposite, I force myself to remember everything I can. Like when you have a splinter and dig deep.”

  I nodded.

  “Sometimes,” she said, “I freak out, cry it out, get too tired to feel anything. Nights are the worst. I have nonstop dreams. That’s normal, right?”

  “Dreams in which she appears?”

  “It’s more than that. She’s there. Talks to me. I see her lips move, hear sound but can’t make out the words, it’s frustrating…sometimes I can smell her—the way she always smelled at night, toothpaste and talcum powder, it’s so vivid. Then I wake up and she’s not there and there’s a huge feeling of deflation. But I know that’s typical. I read several books on grief.”

  She recited half a dozen titles. I knew four. Two were good.

  “I found them on the Web, chose the ones with the best feedback.” Wincing. “I’ll just have to go through this. What I do need help with—and please forgive me but I’m not even sure you’re the right person to talk to about it…” Her cheeks colored. “I thought of talking to Dr. Silverman…I turned to you because Mommy respected you. So do I, of course. You helped me…” She compressed her lips again. Plinked one thumbnail with the other.

  Smiling at me. “You’re not allowed to be angry, right?”

  “What would I be angry about?”

  “If I wasn’t totally up front—okay, let me just get it out. The real reason I’m here is that you work with that detective—Dr. Silverman’s significant other. I would’ve gone straight to Dr. Silverman but I really don’t know him that well and you were my therapist so I can tell you anything.” Deep breath. “Right?”

  “You want me to put you in contact with Detective Sturgis.”

  “If you think he can help.”

  “With…?”

  “Investigating,” she said. “Finding out exactly what happened.”

  “The ‘terrible thing’ your mother confessed.”

  “It wasn’t a confession, more like…there was drive there, Dr. Delaware. Drive and determination. Exactly the way Mommy got when a problem needed to be solved. You’re thinking I’m being ridiculous, she was sick, her brain was impaired. But as sick as she was, she clearly wanted me to focus.”

  “On the terrible thing.”

  She blinked. “My eyes itch. May I have a tissue, ple
ase?”

  Swiping her lids, she exhaled.

  Blanche’s flews billowed.

  Tanya looked down at her. “Did she just imitate me?”

  “Think of it as empathy.”

  “Whoa. She’s the perfect psychologist’s dog.” Sudden smile. “When does she get her own Ph.D.?”

  “You talk to her,” I said. “She wants to be an attorney.”

  When she stopped laughing, she said, “What was that? Comic relief?”

  “Think of it as a pause for air.”

  “Yes…so may I tell you exactly what happened?”

  That’s what they pay me for.

  I said, “I’m listening.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  The second week was all about pain,” she said. “That was everyone’s focus except Mommy’s.”

  “Hers was…”

  “Getting stuff done. What she called putting her ducks in a row. At first, it upset me. I wanted to take care of her, tell her how much I loved her, but when I started to do that she’d cut me off. ‘Let’s talk about your future.’ Saying it slowly, gasping, struggling, and I’m thinking it’s a future without her.”

  “Maybe that distracted her from the pain.”

  The muscles around her eyes shivered. “Dr. Michelle—the anesthesiologist—had her hooked up to a morphine drip. The idea was to give her a constant flow, so she’d experience as little discomfort as possible. Most of the time she turned it off. I overheard Dr. Michelle tell a nurse she had to be suffering but there was nothing he could do. Do you remember how totally obstinate she could be?”

  “She had definite opinions.”

  “Ducks in a row,” she said. “She lectured and I had to take notes, there were so many details. It was like being in school.”

  “What kind of details?”

  “Financial. Financial security was a big thing for her. She told me about a trust fund she’d set up for my education when I was four. She thought I had no idea but I used to hear her talking to her broker over the phone. I pretended to be amazed. There were two life insurance policies with me as the sole beneficiary. She was proud of paying off the house, having no debts, between my job and the investments I’d be able to pay the property taxes and all the routine bills. She ordered me to sell my car—actually quoted me the blue-book value—and to keep hers because it was newer, would require less maintenance. She spelled out exactly how much I could spend per month, told me to get by with less if I could help it but always to dress well, appearances counted. Then there were all the phone numbers: broker, lawyer, accountant, plumber, electrician. She’d already contacted everyone, they were expecting to hear from me. I had to be in charge of my own life, now, and she expected I’d be mature enough to handle it. When she got to the part about selling her clothes at a garage sale or on eBay, I started crying and begged her to stop.”