Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

“Magna-tiles,” he said. “It’s easy-peasy, you just stick them and unstick them.” Plucking off a pointed roof, he demonstrated, transforming a double-spired area to something that resembled a Gothic arch.

“Easy for you,” I said.

Another shrug as he fought not to smile, finally allowed himself the merest upturn of lips.

“You spend a lot of time building, Ovid?”

“It’s all I like,” he said. “Except for food.” Laughter, sudden and burp-like, as if inner heat needed to be released. Then he clipped it off and turned serious.

A restrained boy... As I watched him create, I took in more details: spotless clothing, clean nails. Even the loose laces of his high-tops had been knotted carefully. Identically.

Maybe Karen Gallardo had sorted him out carefully for the last couple of days, but my gut told me he was used to taking care of himself. Had an instinct for it.

He began humming as he worked, nothing hurried, everything thought out.

Mentally disorganized mom, buttoned-down kid?

I said, “What kind of food do you like?”

“Tacos, burritos, pho.”

“Mexican and Vietnamese, huh?”

He looked up. “Pardon?”

“Pho’s a soup from Vietnam.”

“I don’t know where it’s from. We get takeout. It’s my favorite.”

“Pho?”

“Takeout. It’s like... it’s here and you get to eat it.” A tongue tip materialized between the lips as he reached for more tiles.

“Barn,” he muttered. “For the animals.” Frowning. “Pretend there’s animals.”

I said, “What kind?”

He looked up, frowned. “What do you like?”

“I like dogs.”

“Uh-uh. Dogs don’t live in barns.”

“Good point,” I said. “How about horses?”

“Maybe a camel,” he said. “They spit and they’re mean.” Slowly spreading smile. “If they spit, they need to be kept in a barn.”

For the next half hour, I sat and he built. Terrific attention span, increasing need for order and detail. And complexity.

He removed all the unused tiles from the box and created three piles, organized by shape. When he’d used them up, he said, “Should I knock it down or just stop?”

“Up to you, Ovid.”

“That’s what she says.”

“Karen?”

“Mom. She lets me do what I want as long as I listen to her.”

“Listen about what?”

He began ticking small fingers. “Brush the teeth, use mouthwash, take a bath, go to school, and don’t make problems.”

“You like school?”

“It’s okay. Mostly I know everything.”

“Ready to move on to first grade.”

“I guess.”

“Not sure about first grade?”

“I could also know everything there.”

“You find school boring.”

“It’s okay — when’s Mom coming home?”

“I don’t know yet, Ovid.”

“You will?”

“I’ll make sure her doctor tells me as soon as she’s ready and I’ll tell you.”

“What’s his name?”

“Dr. Sherman.”

“Does he give shots?”

I said, “Not usually.”

“But sometimes?”

“Rarely. I don’t think your mom’s going to be getting shots.”

“Then what?”

“Pills, maybe.”

“To make her happy.”

“To make her feel better, in general.”

“She takes good care of me.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“When I met her I could tell she loves you and cares about you.”

Turning back toward his construction, he sliced at a roof, demolished a tower. Swiped again and razed the heart of the castle.

“Now,” he said, “I have to start again.”

On each of the five days Zelda Chase lived at the Beverly Hills Hotel, I spent time with her son.

On the fourth day, Ovid looked weary. It took an hour and a half of Magna-tile work for him to say that he missed his mother and was “really, really ready for her to come back.” I went outside and phoned Lou Sherman and told him that was okay with me if Zelda was capable.

He said, “Matter of fact, I was thinking tomorrow, possibly the next day, good results from Haldol. I still don’t have a firm diagnosis but a moderate dose smooths her out. Do you have time to discuss discharge planning — even tomorrow, for dinner, maybe nine, maybe the Valley if you can make it over? My wife’s out, one of her meetings, the studio’s still picking up the tab so I’ll find us somewhere expensive.”

“Sounds good, Lou. So I can tell Ovid she’s coming home in a day or two?”

“Unless something changes radically — yeah, sure, tell him, anything happens I’ll ease up the dose or find something else. No sense keeping her away from him if you think it’s okay, she’s clearly over the moon about the kid. How’s he coping?”

“Optimally,” I said. “Smart, well-put-together boy, good internal resources.”

“Well, that’s reassuring. What kind of resources?”

“Artistic, not a lot of anxiety, good attention span — I’ll fill you in if dinner costs enough.”

He laughed. “Resources. He’ll need them.”

—

The fifth day, I told Ovid the good news.

He said, “Okay,” and continued building.

Then he smiled and began working faster. A few minutes later, he stood and circled his newest masterpiece — something Frank Gehry might’ve designed in grad school.

Rolling toward me, he shook my hand. “Congratulations.”

“For what?”

“You were here when I did my best building.”

The arrangement was finalized over dinner at the Bistro Garden. I’d be available as needed and Lou would continue to treat Zelda, monitoring her anti-psychotic medication, eventually trying to ease in some psychotherapy.

“Maybe talking will add something; frankly, I’ve learned nothing about her, Alex. Not even her basic family structure — she won’t talk about it other than to say her mother went missing and is probably dead. Then she clams up or changes the subject. Is it relevant? Who knows? The main thing is she doesn’t go bonkers and blow everything.”

The plans for Ovid’s caretaking were clear, as well: Karen Gallardo, always frazzled when I saw her, would return to her production job and through an agency I recommended, Lou would arrange a babysitter with childcare experience to be at the house when Zelda was at work.

I suggested a night-shifter sleeping in, if there was money to pay for it.

“In case she goes trespassing again? Makes sense, I’ll make sure there’s money for it. Plenty of incentive, season three will start taping soon. You ever catch the show?”

“Not yet.”

“Smart, you’re better off listening to Bach or the Doors or whoever. And here’s your check.”

He handed me an envelope. “Take a look, make sure it’s okay.”

Twice what I’d expected. I said, “It’s more than okay, Lou.”

“Well, keep that to yourself, Dalai Lama, the studio thinks they’re getting a bargain. Besides, you earned it. We both did. And I’ll make sure to get in touch, like you said.”

What I’d said was I’d be available if the situation changed but that right now Ovid didn’t need treatment because he was bright, creative, and adaptable. His preschool teacher termed him “Sharp as a tack, kind of brilliant, really, especially with building stuff. He tends to play by himself but I see that in artistic kids.”

Most important, near the end of the fifth session, hours before his mother’s return, I’d asked him if he wanted me to come back and he’d shuffled tiles and tilted his body away from me and said, “You didn’t give me any shots and you let me do what I want.”

“That was the deal.”

“Now I believe you.” He looked down. “Please let me build. I’m okay.”