Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

She crumpled a tissue. “I was clueless. About creating a family. It’s a challenge under the best of circumstances. If you do it right, it’s daunting, you have to put in time, personal investment, doubting yourself. Educating yourself. You can’t just read books or dial it in, you can’t just delegate it to other people. So I decided to do it right and changed my life.”

She swiveled toward me. “Big insight to a psychologist, huh? But what did I know? Not that I’m some Suzy Housewife baking cookies. Keep me away from kitchens, keep me far away if you value your intestinal tract. And I know I’m lucky, I can pay people to do things I don’t want to do. But actually raising my children? The real stuff? That’s my job.”

She smiled. “Listen, I’m not some martyr, claiming I gave it all up for them. I lost nothing, gained everything. They bring me meaning every day, the other stuff never did. Now the thought of blabbing someone else’s lines makes me want to throw up.”

I kept silent.

“You think I’m a burned-out weirdo?”

“I think you’ve moved on.”

“Well,” she said, “whether you mean it or not, you say the right things-sorry, I tend to be a little cynical.” More hair fluffing, more ciliary rain. “So they seemed well adjusted to you?”

“They did.”

“Did you expect spoiled monsters?”

“I didn’t know what to expect, Prema.”

“Aw c’mon, ’fess up, Dr. Delaware, you had to have a little bit of expectation, no? Crazy Hollywood mom, crazy kids? But trust me, no way that was going to happen. No way they were going to have a childhood like mine. I don’t believe-I refuse to believe that we’re condemned to repeat our own crap.”

My personal mantra. When things got low I congratulated myself for not ending up like Harry Delaware.

I said, “If I didn’t agree, I wouldn’t do this job.”

Prema Moon’s eyes watered up again. The tissue had wadded so tightly it disappeared in her fist. “I don’t know why I’m getting into this. Why I feel the need to justify myself to you.”

I said, “It’s normal to feel judged in a situation like this.”

“You followed us. That was based on a judgment. What’s going on?”

“I’ve been trying to learn about you and your family. Haven’t been very successful because you’ve dropped off the grid. When families isolate themselves, it’s often because of serious problems and that’s what I suspected. I know now that you’ve been trying to take control of your life, are focused on protecting the kids. For good reason. You know that better than anyone.”

She bit her lip. “Great monologue, Doctor. You could’ve made a living in my old business. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“You need help, Prema. You know that. That’s why you’re here.”

She opened her palm, watched the tissue expand like a time-lapse flower. Crushed it again. “Maybe you’re being sincere, I hope you are. But with the good ones-the performers -you can never be sure. Meryl, Jack, Judi. Larry Olivier-I knew Larry when I was a kid, he was always sweet to me. But when he chose to be someone else? Good luck. Maybe that’s you, Dr. Alexander Delaware.”

“You’re the performer, Prema.”

“Me? I’m a hack. I made a ridiculous fortune doing crap.”

“I think you’re selling yourself short.”

“Not in the least, Dr. Delaware. I know what I am and I’m okay with it.” Her knuckles were white and shiny as ivory. “How long have you been learning about us?”

“I did a bit of digging right after that first appointment was made. Because the circumstances were odd: The person who called was evasive, wouldn’t even tell me who the patient was. I assumed I’d be seeing one of the kids, looked for anything I could find about them. Which wasn’t much but I did come across a photo. You and the kids, a theater lobby in New York. They seemed unhappy. Ill at ease. You stood behind them. You came across detached. Not exactly a happy family portrait.”

Her eyes flashed. “Detestable picture, you have no idea how much time and money it took to get it offline.”

“I’m glad I saw it before you succeeded. Now I understand.”

“Understand what?”

“I’d missed the emotional content. You were scared-all of you.”

She flinched. “Why would I be scared?”

I said, “Not why. Of who.”

She shook her head. Closed her eyes. Sat lower and got even smaller.

I said, “My guess is you-all of you-were scared of the person who set up the shot. Someone who doesn’t care about kids, but didn’t mind using them.”

The eyes opened. New shade of indigo, deep, hot. “You’re frightening.”

“Am I wrong?”

Silence was my answer.

I said, “You talk about your children in the singular. ‘I,’ not ‘we.’ You’re doing it alone. For good reason.”

She crossed her arms. Blanche licked her hand. Prema remained unmoved. Her lips set. Angry. I wondered if I’d lost her.

I said, “No matter what you do, he rejects them completely. It must be tough, living with that degree of callousness. Your kids are your world. Why can’t he see how wonderful they are? Understand the joy of being a parent. But he doesn’t. And now there’s a new level of fear and that’s why you’re here. Because of the other work I do.”

Shooting to her feet, she stormed out of the office, made it halfway up the hall where she stopped short, swung the big bag as if working up momentum to use it as a battering ram.

I had a clear view, stayed in my chair.

The bag grew still. Her shoulders heaved. She returned, stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb for support.

“My God,” she said. “The things that come out of your mouth.”

Then she returned to the couch.

Another head shake. More hair fell. A woman coming apart strand by strand. She hugged herself. Shuddered. Ten fingers began working like Rubinstein on Rachmaninoff.

I said, “If you’re feeling cooped up, we can talk outside.”

“How did you know I felt that?”

Because you look like a caged animal .

I said, “Lucky guess.”

I told Blanche to stay in the office, paid her with a Milk-Bone. Prema Moon said, “She can come with us.”

“She needs to nap.” The real reason: Time to minimize distraction. And comfort.

I walked her through the house, out through the kitchen and down the rear steps to the garden, stopping by the pond’s rock rim. The waterfall burbled. The sky was clear.

“Very mellow,” she said. “To encourage confession?”

“I’m not a priest.”

“Isn’t this the new religion?”

“God doesn’t talk to me.”

“Only Freud does, huh?”

“Haven’t heard from him in a while, either.” I sat down on the teak bench that faces the water. The fish swarmed.

Prema Moon said, “What are they, Japanese koi? Pretty.”

She took in the garden. Robin’s studio, softened by trees and shrubs. A whine cut through the waterfall. The band saw.

“What’s that noise?”

“The woman I live with builds musical instruments.”

“She’s going to come out here and see me?”

“No.”

“You’ve trained her to stay inside when a patient’s here?”

“Once she’s in there, it’s for hours.”

“What if she does come out?”

“She’ll go right back in.”

“What’s her name?”

I shook my head.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m just … I’m jumping out of my skin, this is … I don’t know what it is. Don’t know what to do.”

I uncapped the canister of fish food, scooped a handful of pellets, tossed.