I’m Losing You (10 page)

When they got down the hill, she said she wanted to go see raccoons at the zoo.

“I'm not sure they're part of the repertoire.”

“Well,
of course
they have raccoons, it's a
zoo
.”

“Could be, could be. Maybe so.”

“You
are
funny.”

“Rocky Raccoon,”
he sang,
“went into his room
…”

A tear spilled to her cheek and she wiped it away with the quavering back of a hand. “I'm so worried, Simon.” It was the first time she had called him by name, and he felt a deep tug within. “I can smell the mother—I
know
she's unwell. What will happen to the babies, with the mother gone?”

They stopped at the park across from the pink hotel, to sit awhile. Serena didn't look well, and Simon was afraid she would die on him. She thought about Sy Krohn with a drowsy, bluesy yearning; every once in a while his voice keened on the radio of a passing car. She got loopy and asked Simon if “the old Jurgenson's still sold fumigants”—frankincense and myrrh—“anything to blot the smell.” Serena wanted to know if he'd ever been in love and Simon said he didn't know. Of course that meant he hadn't, she said. Simon felt an unbearable melancholy, like a weed killing his meager gardens. He remembered a boy in grammar school he thought he loved, and a girl too. The boy smelled like Zest soap and the girl, Jungle Gardenia—now, they were barely memories. Serena asked about his family and Simon said his father died long ago, a mythic figure distant as a king on the cover of a vintage comic. He thought of telling her more, but Serena was in pain and asked that he drive her home.

If they had stayed a while longer, Simon might have spoken of his father as a murdered man, a cantor. “His name was Sy Krohn,” he might have said. It can only be wondered whether Serena, already hemorrhaging, would have felt the impact of this rogue revelation and held it long enough to bony breast to declare the fallen idol as the very one she'd loved to near madness; how she had been with
him when he died and for years after wished to die herself. For better or worse, those details would remain under shifting sands, consigned to the Rub al Khali of memory for all time.

After a few sleepless nights, she called an old therapist friend. They met at a coffee shop, Calliope in her big dark glasses. Of course, she didn't name names. Her colleague said, “You must report this.” You are not an attorney, he said. Hence, certain things your client tells you are not privileged under California law. But if the child is indigent? Calliope heard herself asking, knowing it came out wrong. She meant it in a habeas corpus, not a class sense—the child would have to be submitted, no? But you told me they're with this person's friend, said the colleague. So they are not indigent. Aside from the actions of your client, which are criminal, this little girl is being put in harm's way by her mother—your client said the mother is feeding her pills. Not only is she negligent but her judgment is impaired. You'd better do some serious thinking, said the colleague. Because you have a serious problem on your hands.

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.