“Except Professor Devane.”
“Except her. Yeah. I think that’s the only reason she brought it up to us—the professor had been killed, she was scared. I said, are you telling me you think the guy who . . . assaulted you mighta killed her? But she wouldn’t answer that, just kept saying the professor had believed her, treated her good and now she was dead, life sucked, the good die young, that kind of stuff. Then she said, I changed my mind about coming home, Daddy, I’m going back to the dorm. And she left. We let her go but we called her the next day and she didn’t answer. So we went over there and found her lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. All this food all around her—trays of food, but she hadn’t eaten any of it. She was just staring at the ceiling. We’d seen her that way, before. When she stopped taking her medicine.”
“What medicine is that?”
“Used to be Nardil, then Tofranil, then Prozac. Now she’s on something else—Sinequan? When she takes it, she does pretty good. Even with all the problems she’s still pulling B’s, which is amazing in my opinion. If she didn’t have problems, she’d be straight A’s. She’s a smart girl, always was. Maybe too smart, I don’t know.”
He held his hands out, palms up.
“So you found her in bed,” I said. “Not eating.”
“We checked her out of the dorm and took her home. She was only in two classes, anyway, ’cause her doctor didn’t want her to be pressured. We said why don’t you drop out for a quarter, you can always come back. She said, no, she wanted to keep going. And her doctor said that was a good sign—her being motivated. So we let her.”
He turned to me. “She’s enrolled but she doesn’t do nothing. No reading, no homework.”
“Does she still go to classes?”
“Sometimes. My wife drives her and picks her up. Sometimes she sleeps in and doesn’t go. We don’t like it but what can we do? You can’t watch ’em twenty-four hours. Even the psychiatrist says so.”
“So she’s still seeing a psychiatrist?”
“Not regularly but we still call him because he’s a nice guy, kept seeing her even after the money ran out. Dr. Emerson, out in Glendale. You want to talk to him, be my guest. Albert Emerson.” He recited a number that I copied.
“Did he ever give you a diagnosis?”
“Depression. He says she uses her imagination to protect herself.”
He rubbed his eyes and sighed.
“Rough,” I said.
“Them’s the breaks. My little boy’s great.”
“How old is he?”
“Be four next month—big for his age.”
“Any other children?”
“No, just the two. We weren’t sure we should have more ’cause of all the time we put into Tess. And she—my wife—has got a retarded brother, lives in an institution. So we didn’t know if there was something inbred or anything.”
He smiled. “Then we got surprised.”
“Nice surprise,” I said.
“Oh yeah. Robbie’s a great little guy, throws a ball like you wouldn’t believe. Being with him’s about the only thing that makes Tess happy. I let her baby-sit but I keep an eye out.”
“For what?”
“Her moods. He’s a happy kid and I want to keep it that way. Like when we were watching the news about that professor and Tess started to scream, it got Robbie really upset. That’s how I calmed her down. Telling her, honey, get a grip, look at Robbie. After that she was okay. After that she didn’t even want to talk about it. She’s calmed down, so far so good. But I keep my eye out.”
CHAPTER
18
I had him write me out permission to speak to Dr. Albert Emerson and drove home. Robin’s truck was gone and I found a note in the kitchen saying she’d left to do some emergency repair work for a country singer out in Simi Valley and would be back by seven or eight.
I called the psychiatrist, expecting a service or a receptionist, but he answered his own phone in an expectant, boyish voice—someone ready for adventure.