Bruce Wagner - I’m Losing You

Calliope went to bed, where she remained for three days. How could this have happened? If the esteemed psychiatrist acted according to law and contacted authorities, her assiduously cultivated practice might easily topple; the legal nuances of confidentiality were not an issue her paranoid, illustrious clientele cared to grapple with. Anyhow, it was Oberon’s word against hers. The claims might be thrown from court, and Calliope left with libelous egg on her face — Obie could even countersue. The psychiatrist would become tabloid-fodder.

She lay there sweating and channel-surfing. One moment, she was reaching for the phone to make the Call; the next, freeloading on Big Star’s twisted reasoning, wondering if, in fact, there really was a crime…if the girl truly had no knowledge of what transpired — she groaned, seized by a wave of self-revulsion. What is wrong with me? Yet what was the alternative? She’d talk to Oberon and share her dilemma, that might help her decide. Describe the hard-and-fast legal obligations of a California therapist — frighten Obie to death. I want you to think carefully about what I’ve told you, Oberon. And I want you to tell me…whether what you said happened with that child was the fantasy of an actress preparing a role — or was it real? Pause, while the actress took in the full import; answers it was “fantasy.” Good. That’s what I thought. I’d like to know: did the drugs have anything to do with this active fantasizing? Pause. Says yes, “Yes, they did.” Drugs. Good . Very good. It’s good to be honest. Now, I want you to enter a drug treatment program — today. Do you understand, Oberon? Somber nodding of the head, along with expiatory tears. Calliope would make it clear that when she got out of detox, they’d get to the bottom of this perverse, imagined act — the tough-love therapist wasn’t about to let her off the hook. They would face Big Star demons together. She would help Obie because that’s what Calliope did , that’s how she’d built her practice — helping and healing, not destroying clients’ lives. Or wreaking havoc on her own. If the Obie thing broke, the famed cottage (therapeutic oratory, refuge and sacrarium, Brentwood’s own confessional Taliesin of above-the-line tears, fears and renewal) would be the sudden locus of Hard Copy helicopters, Vanity Fair layouts and O.J.ish lookie-loos. No one should be subjected to that.

Calliope reached for the phone, wondering why she’d ever faltered. She left a message for Obie that it was imperative she didn’t miss her next appointment.

The carnival-themed Children with AIDS benefit was on the Twentieth Century — Fox backlot. Everyone wore baseball caps that said HERO — even the agents. Dustin and Goldie and Meryl manned the booths. Tom Hanks got dunked by Bob Zemeckis, Roseanne worked a Hula Hoop and Oliver Stone demonstrated a ring toss. There were lots of children and rich wives, paparazzi and studio heads and an army of people with the lean, mean walking-stick look of waning T cells. As Mitch and Calliope snaked through the crowd, the therapist rehearsed her attitude should she bump into Hassan. They’d only had one session since the Sony incident; he had been understanding, but she couldn’t control who the television star would tell. Somewhere down the line, more scandal awaited.

They found themselves on line for a hot dog behind Oberon and Dr. Trott. A little girl stood on his shoes. He introduced her as Tiffany, and the child extended a hand for Calliope to shake. Calliope asked Obie if she’d gotten her message. Obie said she hadn’t. They were joined by Donny Ribkin and Ursula, Tiffany’s mother. Les made a joke about therapist gridlock, then Donny said seeing Mitch and Calliope in public was like walking in on your parents while they were doing it. Phylliss Wolfe came over and said they almost had enough for a minyan. Ursula asked what a minyan was and Phylliss said it was “Yiddish for encounter group.”

Only on the ride home did Calliope realize the mother and child she met were the players in Obie’s hellish home-movie, with Donny Ribkin as co-star. She shivered, recalling the hairless white arm and the girl’s tender grip, limp as a rag doll’s.

The Dead Pet Detective had a job in Laurel Canyon; Fluffy was in the cellar, party-heartying with the larvae. It was strictly a BYOL scene — bring your own Lysol — and before you could say yech , the little wrigglers were doing the Top Ramen tango. After, he stopped at the Canyon Mart and impulsively bought flowers and sandalwood incense for Serena.

There were police cars in the driveway. The front door was open and Simon stepped inside. Men in suits were questioning the new nurse, who was near hysteria. Seconds later, Donny Ribkin barreled from the kitchen.

“This is insanity ! How could this fucking happen ?” He locked eyes with Simon. “What are you doing here?”

“I just stopped to give these to Serena.”

“Thank you, but you’re going to have to leave. I’m sorry.”

“Is she okay?”

“Look, you have to leave, okay? Thank you very much.”

He jostled Simon out without even taking the flowers. Had Serena died? She’d been sick enough that her death shouldn’t have aroused such mayhem. What did Donny’s words in the hall mean? The mood of the house seemed more interrogatory then postmortem. Might she have been killed by a burglar? That was too farfetched…maybe the old woman took an overdose and that’s why the nurse was being grilled. Yes — that made most sense. Or maybe she wasn’t dead at all. But if that were true, where was the ambulance? And if she was already at the hospital, what was the son doing here? If she was dead, who were these people? Where was the coroner? It felt like something had just happened: they never rushed a body out of a house like that.

His car was parked curbside. Simon tossed flowers and incense onto the front seat through the open window. A policeman left the front porch of the home across the way. A woman in a bathrobe covered her mouth with a hand, stricken.

“Do you think she’s wandering the streets somewhere?”

“If she is, I would hope someone will take her in and give us a call.”

“Poor darling! She’s been so ill.”

Simon ran to the side of the house.

He could smell her as he shimmied through the access. She was ten yards in, sitting against a post. He whispered “Serena” and hunchbacked toward her. The eyes were open. A horde of disorganized ants in the superheated throes of discovery laid claim to the darkening ground beneath the bloody, blown-out engine room of her bowel. They would say it was delirium, but Simon knew why she had come. He choked back tears, wondering what to do next. She looked so perfect there, timeless and untroubled — Serena. He would keep her from the maggots.

Above came the querulous footsteps of the son and the men, and Simon wished this house could lift off, basement jettisoned, to find its lonesome orbit somewhere near the Fellcrum Outback. The Dead Animal Guy in Space would petition the Vorbalidian Elders for mercy and they would grudgingly comply, resuscitating her with the proviso she could never return to Earth. Together, they’d cross the firmament of the cellars of eternity, performing obsequies over the dead.

On the eve of burying Serena, the agent had a massage. He got a name from Laura Dern’s chore whore. The masseuse spent a lot of time moving her hands over his body without touching—“dispelling dark energy,” she said. Someone must have blabbed about his mom dying. It was lovely being rubbed out there on the patio. He got sleepy. The fountain tinkled and the hill rustled with scavengers. The girl said she saw a big raccoon.