Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

Costuming herself as a dowdy, middle-aged woman from another decade.

Allison settled behind her desk and I took the other white chair. The cushions were warm and smelled of Allison. The position placed me three feet from Beth Scoggins.

She said, “Sorry for hanging up on you.”

“I’m the one who should apologize.”

“Maybe you did me a favor.” She glanced at Allison. “Dr. Gwynn said you work with the police.”

“I do.”

“So what you told me, about research, it wasn’t true?”

“It’s possible that I may look into the general topic of foster care, but right now I’m focusing on some specific foster parents. Cherish and Drew Daney.”

“Drew Daney abused me,” she said.

I glanced at Allison. Allison’s eyes were on Beth. It brought back my intern days. Talking to patients while being evaluated by supervisors behind one-way mirrors.

Beth said, “He started off being really nice and moral. I thought I’d found someone honest.”

Her eyes turned blank. Then they came back into focus and shifted toward Allison. “Should I give all the background?”

“Whatever seems right, Beth.”

Beth breathed in deeply and squared her shoulders. “My father left my mother when I was eighteen months old, he’s some kind of roofer but I don’t know much about him and I don’t have any brothers or sisters. My mother moved from Texas to Willits- that’s up north- then she left me to raise horses in Kentucky when I was eight. I have severe learning disabilities. We were always fighting over school and everything else. She always told me I was a hard kid to raise and when she moved away I figured it was my fault.”

Her knees pressed together, glossy-silver knobs in gray nylon.

“She always liked horses. My mother. Liked them better than me and I’m not just saying that. I used to think it was because I gave her problems. Now I know she was lazy, just wanted an animal that was easy to train.”

Beth Scoggins stopped talking and stared at the ceiling.

Allison said, “Hon?”

Beth lowered her head and nudged the purse on the floor with one shoe. Deep breath. Her tale of abandonment continued in a soft, flat voice.

Cared for by a widowed maternal grandmother who eked out a living running a thrift shop. Passing through school without learning much. Discovering boys and dope and alcohol and truancy at twelve, a habitual runaway by her thirteenth birthday.

“Grandma got mad but she always took me back. The cops said she could declare me incorrigible but she figured she had to be a responsible person.”

If she’d been my patient, I might’ve suggested that her grandmother cared about her.

This wasn’t therapy.

What was it?

“The last time, I ran all the way to Louisville. Took the bus and hitched and I finally found her after a week. My mom. She had different hair, had got skinny, was married to another horse groom and they had a baby, real cute, a little girl. Amanda. She didn’t look a thing like me. My mother was like freaked because I showed up. She couldn’t believe how big I got. She said I could stay. I hung around for a few days but I don’t like horses and there was nothing for me to do, so I came back. Grandma got liver disease from her drinking and died and they collected her junk from the shop in boxes and took it away. Some people from the state wanted to talk to me but I got out of there.”

She went silent again.

A history not unlike Troy ’s and Rand ’s. They’d murdered a child. This young woman was struggling to make it. Coming along nicely, until a stranger called.

Allison said, “You’re doing great, Beth.”

Beth’s freckled hands gathered skirt fabric. “I went all the way up to Oregon, then back to Willits. Some people were coming down to L.A. To see a concert at the Anaheim Pond, they said they’d get me tickets. They didn’t but I was here so I stayed. In Hollywood. I met some other people.”

She blinked several times. “I ended up at a shelter in Glendale run by this church school. They assigned me to Mrs. Daney and she was nice, her hair reminded me of my mom’s. She said I could leave the shelter and move in with her, she had other girls, everyone was cool, I just couldn’t use drugs. I moved in and it was okay except there was too much praying and the other kids were mostly Mexican. Mrs. Daney was homeschooling everyone, had all these books and lesson plans. I was seventeen, hated school. Mrs. Daney said you should do something, so I ended up being Mr. Daney’s assistant. That meant I’d go with him when he went to all these places and help out.”

“What kind of places?” I said.

“Sports programs, churches, church camps. He drove around doing jobs.”

“Church jobs?”

“Sometimes he’d lead prayers or grace,” she said. “Mostly he was like a camp counselor or a coach. Or he’d teach Bible. He did it because he needed the money.”

“He told you that?”

“He said that after he gave up a career as a minister he didn’t make enough money to do just one job. Said all the foster money went to the kids. They did feed us pretty good and we always had clean clothes even though it was mostly cheap stuff. I was being his assistant for about a month when he started to abuse me.”

She stared at the carpet.

Allison said, “You can stop any time.”

Beth chewed her lower lip. “I think what he did was put something in my Seven-Up, a roofie or something.”

“He drugged you?” I said.

“I’m pretty sure. We were in the car, driving home from some camp, and it was late and he said he was hungry. We stopped at a Burger King and he bought a cheeseburger for himself and two Seven-Ups. After I drank mine, I started to feel sleepy. When I woke up, we were parked somewhere else, some road, real dark. I was in the back of the car now, and he was next to me and my pants were off and I knew from the smell that we did it.”

She bent forward, as if in pain. Two breaths.

“After that we started doing it pretty regularly. He never asked, just pulled over in the car and led me to the backseat. He held my hand and opened the door for me and talked nice and didn’t hurt me. It was always real quick, which made it kind of like nothing. Sometimes he said thank you. It’s not like it was… I mean… I wasn’t feeling much those days.”

Moisture collected in the corners of her eyes. “I guess I thought he cared about me because sometimes he asked if I felt okay, was it good, could he do anything to make it better.”

She fingered her beads. “I lied and said it was great. A few months after we started I was late for my period. When I told him is when he started acting weird.”

Two hands filled with fabric, gathered her skirt above her knees. She smoothed it down quickly. Patted her eyes with her fingers.

“Weird, how?” I said.

“Like part of him was happy but part was freaking out.”

“Happy about…”

“Getting me pregnant. Like he was… he never said ‘Great, you’re pregnant,’ but there was something… the way he looked at me. Like he was… Dr. Gwynn?”

“Proud of himself?” said Allison.

“Yeah, proud of himself. Like look what I did.”

“But there was also the angry part.”

“Exactly, Dr. Gee. Like look what you did, stupid. He called it ‘the problem.’ It’s your problem, Beth, but I’m going to help you fix it. I said maybe I’m just late, that happened before.” Her eyes shifted to the floor. “What I didn’t tell him was that I was pregnant before, years ago, but I lost the baby- it wasn’t really a baby, just a little glob of blood, I saw it in the toilet. This was in Portland, the people I was hanging with took me to a free clinic. I got scraped out and it hurt like cramps. I didn’t want to do that again unless I was sure. He wouldn’t listen.”