Jonathan Kellerman - Blood Test

“Hi, April.”

She batted her lashes, lowered her face, and giggled, a natural coquette.

“Remember the toys we played with last time?”

She nodded and giggled again.

“I have them here. Would you like to play with them again?”

She looked at her mother, requesting permission.

“Go ’head, honey.”

The little girl climbed down and took my hand.

“I’ll see you in a while, Ricky,” I said to the sullen boy.

I spent twenty minutes with April, mostly observing as she manipulated the miniature inhabitants of the playhouse. Her play was organized and structured and relatively untroubled. Though she enacted several episodes of parental conflict, she was able to resolve them by having the father leave and the family live happily ever after. For the most part, hope and determination emanated from the scenarios she constructed.

I drew her out about the situation at home and found that she had an age-appropriate understanding of what was going on. Daddy was angry at mommy, mommy was angry at daddy, so they weren’t going to live with each other anymore. She knew it wasn’t her fault or Ricky’s and she liked Carlton.

Everything was consistent with what I’d learned during the initial evaluation. At that time she’d expressed little anxiety over her father’s absence and had seemed to be growing attached to Conley. When I questioned her about him now her face lit up.

“Carlton’s so nice, Docka Alek. He take me to da zoo. We saw da diraffe. An da cockadile.” Her eyes widened with wonder, the memory alive.

She went on singing his praises and I prayed Judge Severe’s cynical prophecy would be proved wrong. I’d treated countless girls who’d suffered tortured relationships with their fathers or no relationship at all, and had witnessed the psychic damage they’d incurred, grievously handicapped in the relationship game. This little sweetheart deserved better.

When I’d observed long enough to convince myself she was functioning reasonably well, I took her back. She stood on tippy toes and reached out toothpick arms. I bent and she kissed my cheek.

“Bye, Docka Alek.”

“Bye, honey. If you ever want to talk to me, tell your mommy. She’ll help you call.”

She said okay and crawled back to the pillowy sanctuary of her mother’s thighs.

Ricky’d moved to a far corner where he stood alone, staring out the window. I walked over him, put my hand on his shoulder, and spoke softly so only he could hear: “I know you’re really mad about having to do this.”

He thrust out his lower lip, stiffened his neck, and crossed his arms across his chest. Darlene got up, still holding April, and started to say something but I motioned her down.

“It must be real hard not to see your dad,” I said.

He stood as straight as a Marine, trying hard to look tough and grim.

“I heard you ran away.”

No reply.

“That must have been a real adventure.”

The hint of a smile danced across his lips and escaped.

“I knew you had strong legs, Ricky, but to go five miles all by yourself. Whew!”

The smile returned, staying a little longer this time.

“See anything interesting?”

“Uh huh.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

He looked back at the others.

“Not here,” I assured him. “Let’s go to another room. We can draw and play like the last time. Okay?”

He frowned but followed me.

Mal’s office amazed him and he circled the immense room several times before settling down.

“Ever see a place like this?”

“Uh huh. In a movie.”

“Oh yeah? Which one?”

“It was about bad guys who were taking over the world. They had an office with lasers and stuff. It looked like this.”

“Bad guy headquarters, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think Mr. Worthy’s a bad guy?”

“My dad said he was.”

“Did he tell you anyone else was a bad guy?”

He looked uneasy.

“Like me? And Dr. Daschoff?”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you understand why your father said that?”

“He’s mad.”

“That’s right. He’s really mad. Not because of anything you or April did, but because he doesn’t want your mom and him to get divorced.”

“Yeah,” the boy said with sudden ferocity, “it’s her damn fault!”

“The divorce?”

“Yeah! She kicked him out and he even paid for the house with his money!”

I sat him down, took a chair opposite him, and put my hands on his small shoulders as I spoke:

“Ricky, I’m sorry everything is so sad. I know you want your mom and dad to get back together. But that’s not going to happen. Do you remember how they used to fight all the time?”

“Yeah, but then they’d stop fighting and be happy to us.”

“When that happened it was nice.”

“Yup.”

“But the fighting got worse and worse and there wasn’t much happiness left.”

He shook his head.

“Divorce is terrible,” I said. “Like everything’s falling apart.” He looked away.

“It’s okay to be angry, Ricky. I’d be angry, too, if my parents were getting divorced. But it’s not okay to run away because you could get hurt that way.”

“My dad’ll take care of me.”

“Ricky, I know you love your dad very much. You should. A dad is someone special. And a dad should be able to be with his children, even after a divorce. I hope some day your dad can see you a lot, and take you places and do fun stuff with you. But right now — and this is really sad — it’s not a good idea for him to spend a lot of time with you and April. Do you understand why?”

“Cause he’s sick?”

“Right. Do you know what kind of sickness?”

He ruminated on the question.

“He gets mad?”

“That’s part of it. He gets real mad or real sad or real happy all of a sudden. Sometimes without a good reason. When he’s real mad he could do mad things that wouldn’t be right, like fight with somebody. That could be dangerous.”

“Uh uh! He could beat ’em up!”

“That’s true, but it would be dangerous for the person he beat up. And you or April could get hurt, accidentally. Do you understand?”

A grudging nod.

“I’m not saying he’ll always be sick. There are medicines he can take that can help. And talking to doctors, like me, can help, too. But right now your dad doesn’t want to admit that he needs help. So the judge said he couldn’t see you until he got better. That made him really mad and now he thinks everyone is a bad guy trying to hurt him. But we’re really trying to help him. And to protect you.”

He stared at me, stood, found the drawing paper, and proceeded to construct a fleet of paper airplanes. For the next quarter hour he waged a solitary battle of epic proportions, destroying entire cities, massacring thousands, stomping and shouting and shredding paper until Mal’s antique Saruk was covered with confetti.

After that he drew for a while but wasn’t happy with any of his creations and tossed them, crumpled, in the trash. I tried to get him to talk about the runaway episode but he refused. I reiterated the danger and he listened, looking bored. When I asked him if he’d do it again he shrugged.

I brought him back and took Darlene into the office. She wore a pink pantsuit with a faint diamond pattern and silver sandals. Her dark hair was piled high and sprayed in place. She’d spent a lot of time on her makeup but still looked tired and worn and scared. After seating herself she pulled a handkerchief out of her purse and passed it from hand to hand, kneading and squeezing.

“This must be really hard on you,” I said.

Tears oozed out of her eyes. Up went the handkerchief.