away.
“With you people it’s always games.”
“You people’ meaning psychologists?”
She folded her hands across her chest and muttered something.
Then she turned her back on me.
“Vicki?”
No answer.
“What this is all about,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even, “is
finding out what the hell’s going on with” She pretended to read the
bulletin board behind the desk.
“So much for our little truce,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” she said, turning quickly and facing me. Her voice had
risen, a sour reed solo superimposed on the Sacher-torte music.
“Don’t worry,” she repeated, “I won’t get in your way. You want
something, just ask. Cause you’re the doctor And I’ll do anything
that’ll help that poor little baby-contrary to what you think, I care
about her, okay? Fact is, I’ll even go down and get you coffee if that
impresses you and keeps your attention on her, where it should be.
I’m not one of those feminists think it’s a sin to do something other
than push meds. But don’t pretend to be my friend, okay? Let’s both
of us just do our jobs without talky-talk, and go about our merry ways,
okay? And in answer to your question, I was out at the house exactly
two times-months ago. Okay?”
She walked to the opposite end of the station, found another form,
picked it up and began reading. Squinting, she held it at arm’s
length. She needed reading glasses. The smug smile returned.
I said, “Are you doing something to her, Vicki?”
Her hands jerked and the paper dropped. She bent to pick it up and her
cap fell off. Bowing a second time, she retrieved it and stood up
rigidly. She was wearing a lot of mascara and a couple of specks had
come loose below one eye.
I didn’t budge.
“No!” A whisper with lots of force behind it.
Footsteps turned both of our heads. The maintenance man came out into
the hall, pulling his vacuum. He was middle-aged and Hispanic, with
old eyes and a Cantinflas mustache.
“Sumtin’ else?” he said.
“No,” said Vicki. “Go.”
He looked at her, raised an eyebrow, then yanked on the machine and
towed it toward the teak doors. Vicki watched him, hands clenched.
When he was gone, she said, “That was a horrible question! Why do you
have to think such ugly thoughts why does anyone have to be doing
anything to her? She’s sick!”
All her symptoms are some sort of mystery illness?”
“Why not?” she said. “Why not? This is a hospital. That’s what we
get here-sick kids. That’s what real doctors do. Treat sick kids.”
I maintained my silence.
Her arms began to rise and she fought to keep them down, like a subject
resisting a hypnotist. Where the cap had been, her stiff hair had
bunched in a hat-sized dome.
I said, “The real doctors aren t having much luck, are they?”
She exhaled through her nose.
“Games,” she said, whispering again. Always games with you people.”
“You seem to know a lot about us people.”
She looked startled and swiped at her eyes. Her mascara had started to
run and the knuckles came away gray but she didn’t notice them; her
glare was fixed on me.
I met it, absorbed it.
The smug smile came back on her face. “Is there anything else you
want, sir?” She pulled bobby pins out of her hair and used them to
fasten the wedge of white starch.
“Have you told the Joneses your feelings about therapists?” I said.
“I keep my feelings to myself. I’m a professional.”
“Have you told them someone suspects foul play?”
“Of course not. Like I said, I’m a professional!”
A professional,” I said. “You just don’t like therapists. Bunch of
quacks who promise to help but don’t come through.”
Her head jerked back. The hat bobbled and one hand shot up to keep it
in place.
“You don’t know me,” she said. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“That’s true,” I lied. And that’s become a problem for Cassie.”
“That’s” “Your behaviors getting in the way of her care, Vicki. Let’s
not discuss it out here anymore.” I pointed to the nurse’s room behind