Jonathan Kellerman: Obsession

I kept silent.

“Maybe it is crazy. But the least I can do is check it out. That’s why I thought maybe Detective Sturgis could run a computer search on the places we lived to see if something happened nearby and we’d learn nothing and that would be it.”

Child of the cyber-age. I said, “LAPD’s computer system is pretty primitive, but I’ll ask. Before we get into that, you might consider-”

“If I’m prepared to learn something horrible. The answer is no, not really, but I don’t believe Mommy actually killed someone. That would be totally insane. What I’m thinking is at the worst she was involved in some kind of accident that she blamed herself for and she wanted to make sure it didn’t come back on me. Like a legal claim. She wanted to make sure I was prepared.”

She sat forward, played with her hair, used a long thick swatch to cover her eyes, let it drop.

I said, “After she told you all this, what did you say?”

“Nothing, because she fell asleep. It was like she’d unburdened herself and now she could rest. For the first time since she’d been hospitalized, she looked peaceful. I sat there for a while. Her nurse came in, checked her vitals, turned on the morphine drip, said she’d be out for at least six hours, I could leave and come back. I stuck around a little longer, finally went home because I had a test to study for.”

One hand clawed a chair arm. “The call came at three a.m. Mommy had passed in her sleep.”

“I’m so sorry, Tanya.”

“They said she didn’t suffer. I’d like to think that she went peacefully because she was able to express herself that last time. I need to honor her memory by following through. Since she died, I’ve been replaying it every day. ‘Terrible thing.’ ‘Killed him, close by.’ Sometimes it feels ridiculous, like one of those corny scenes you see in old movies: ‘the killer was-’ and then the person drops back and closes their eyes? But I know Mommy wouldn’t have wasted the time and energy she had left if it wasn’t important. Will you talk to Detective Sturgis?”

“Of course.”

“Maybe if you tell him what Mommy was like, he won’t think I’m totally whack. I’m so glad I came back to you. You understand why she was more than the best mother. I didn’t come out of her womb and when Lydia ditched me, it would have been easy to send me off somewhere and go on living her life. Instead, she gave me a life.”

“You brought meaning to her life, as well.”

“I hope.”

“Her pride in you was obvious, Tanya.”

“It wasn’t equal, Dr. Delaware. Without her I’d be nothing .” She glanced at her watch.

“We’ve got time left,” I said.

“That’s really all I have to talk about.” She stood again. Out of her purse came a white business-sized envelope that she’d brought to me. P. L. Bigelow embossed on the back flap, an address on Canfield Avenue. Inside was a sheet folded in perfect thirds. Typed list, centered.

Four other addresses, each accompanied by Tanya’s handwritten notation.

Cherokee Avenue, Hollywood. We lived here four years, from when I was three until I was seven .

Hudson Avenue, Hancock Park. Two years, seven until around nine or so .

Fourth Street, the Wilshire district. One year, nine to ten .

Culver Boulevard, Culver City. Two years, ten until twelve, then we bought the duplex .

Constructing the timeline using her age. Playing adult but clinging to the self-centered world view of an adolescent.

I said, “Maybe whatever happened was relatively recent.”

Pretending to be a believer.

“At Canfield? No, it’s been peaceful there. And I was older when we moved, would know if something happened in the neighborhood. By the way, I relinquish all confidentiality so feel free to tell Detective Sturgis anything you want. Here, I’ve put it in writing.”

Out of the purse came another razor-creased paper. Handwritten release note, composed in the stilted wording of amateur legalese. Then a check, made out to the discounted fee I’d billed her mother ten years ago. Twenty percent of what I got nowadays.

“Is that okay?”

“Absolutely.”

She headed for the door. “Thank you, Dr. Delaware.”

“Did your mother ever talk about any malpractice cases at the hospital?”

“No. Why?”

“The E.R.’s a high-risk unit. What if a patient she was involved with died and she felt responsible?”

“No way she’d ever mess someone up fatally, Dr. Delaware. She knew more than some of the doctors.”

“Lawsuits don’t always depend upon truth,” I said. “In a hospital situation, lawyers sometimes go after anyone who blinked at the patient.”

She leaned against the door. “Malpractice. Oh, my God, why didn’t I think of that? There could be some huge lawsuit pending and she was worried someone would go after my trust fund. Or the duplex. She wanted to tell me more but ran out of steam-you’re brilliant, Dr. Delaware!”

“It’s just a suggestion-”

“But a great one. Scientific parsimony, right? Go for the simplest explanation. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.”

“You’ve had a lot on your mind. I’ll call Dr. Silverman right now.”

I reached the E.R. Rick was in surgery. “He’ll call back. If there’s something to tell you, I promise to let you know right away.”

“Thank you so much, Dr. Delaware-no offense but can we be sure Dr. Silverman will be up front? Maybe his lawyers have told him not to discuss-okay, sorry, that’s stupid, I’m being paranoid.”

“Still want me to talk to Detective Sturgis?”

“Only if Dr. Silverman says there was no malpractice issue for Mommy, but something tells me you’ve figured it out. She always said you were brilliant.”

Ten years ago my treatment of her had been anything but. I smiled and walked her out.

When we reached her van, I said, “Once we resolve this, would you consider a couple more sessions?”

“To accomplish what?”

“I’d like to know more about your living circumstances and who you have for support.”

“My living circumstances haven’t changed. The duplex is all paid off, and the downstairs tenants are a really nice young family, the Friedmans. Their rent covers expenses plus extras. They’re in Israel for Dr. Friedman’s sabbatical but they advanced me a year’s worth and are planning to come back. Mommy’s insurance and investments will take care of me until I finish at the U. If I end up at a private med school, I may have to take out some loans. But physicians do fine, I’ll pay them off. My friends at school give me support, there’s a group of us, all premed, they’re very cool and understanding.”

“Sounds good,” I said, “but I’d still feel better if you were open to coming back.”

“I will be, I promise, Dr. Delaware. Just as soon as my exams are over.” She smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not having any of my old problems. I appreciate your caring. Mommy always said for you it was more than a job. She told me I should observe you, learn what caring for patients meant.”

“How old were you when she told you that?”

“That was…right before the second time I saw you, we’d just moved to Culver, so…ten.”

“At ten, you knew you wanted to be a physician?”

“I’ve always wanted to be a physician.”

As we descended the stairs, she said, “Do you believe in the Hereafter?”

“It’s a comforting concept.”

“Meaning you don’t?”

“Depends on what day you catch me.” Images of my parents flashed in my head. Dad, red-nosed, in boozer’s heaven. Were there celestial procedures in place for unpredictable behavior?