For the perfect end to the perfect day, I needed to make yet another trip to Dr. Gomez. Due to my injuries from the explosion, I had missed my last appointment and I didn’t dare miss this one. Appearing uncooperative—well, at least more uncooperative than ususal—could get my license pulled.
No license, no Desert Investigations.
Gomez had the grace to look concerned as I limped through the door. “I read about the explosion,” she said, watching me fuss with my crutches. “Your actions were extraordinary.”
Her praise made me uncomfortable. “Well, I couldn’t exactly let the woman burn to death, could I?” All I need is another nightmare to add to my collection. Balancing the crutches against the sofa, I lowered my backside, only to find the cushion lumpier than usual.
Or maybe my ass was scrawnier than usual.
Gomez tapped her pencil on her desk, a sign she was impatient with her patient. “Many people would have let the woman die, Lena. You were already injured, yourself.”
“So?” I didn’t understand what she was getting at. Although I was no longer on the force, I had been trained as a police officer. Serve and protect. That’s what cops did.
But when I reminded her of this, the pencil-tapping intensified. “Lena, you haven’t been a police officer in two years. Why is it still so important for you to save other people, even at the risk of your own life?”
I frowned. “It’s instinct, that’s all.”
She stared at me for a moment, saying nothing. Then she put the pencil down and leaned back in her chair. “Tell me about the foster homes.”
I looked over at the window, but saw no flying geese today, no herons. Nothing but the cloudless Arizona sky.
“Lena?”
I reached down and rubbed my feet, although they hardly hurt at all anymore. Anything to escape Gomez’ stare.
“Lena, you need to cooperate.”
What a pointless remark. “I’m here, aren’t I? That’s cooperation.”
Gomez cleared her throat and leaned forward, the same expression on her face that I had frequently seen on Captain Kryzinski’s when I’d done something to annoy him.
“Lena, stop fooling around. It’s obvious to me that you don’t understand anything about yourself, that you’re a troubled, angry woman who acts without thinking, sometimes violently. Yes, you’re brave, and yes, you saved Ms. Alden-Taylor’s life. But you’ve done damage, too. You’re licensed to carry a concealed weapon, and that worries me. How long will it be before you do even more damage to someone than you did to the woman you saw beating her child? You are simply going to have to get your anger under control, and you can’t do that unless you start opening up. Beginning now.”
This was what it had come down to, then. Me spilling my guts under court order. After one last, hopeful look out the window, I asked, “What do you want to know?”
“For starters, how many foster homes were there?”
Good question, Gomez. I wasn’t sure myself, but I could give it a try. I started counting on my fingers. “I don’t remember the name of the first couple, because I was only there for a couple of months. But I seem to remember, vaguely, that they were nice enough. Then I was sent to.…”
She broke in. “Why were you taken away from the first couple?”
I shrugged. “Why does CPS do anything? The next place I don’t remember much about, either, which is probably good, but I stayed there until I was around six. They went back East, so I moved again.” I continued on, counting off the five foster homes I’d lived in before I reached the age of nine.
Then I stopped. Another desperate look out the window. Still no geese. No herons. Where the hell were they when I needed them?
“Go on, Lena,” Gomez said, her voice now a purr. “You’re doing very well.”
“Well, uh, after the sixth home, I, uh, wound up at the Giblins. He was a minister, his wife taught Sunday school. They had a lot of foster kids and took us camping all the time. But then Mrs. Giblin had a stroke and died, so I was sent to the Johnsons, foster home number eight. They took in foster kids for the money. God knows they didn’t care anything about us. And then came the artist, she was home number nine. She and.…”
The smell of turpentine, linseed oil, White Lilac cologne. “You’re my own sweet girl, Lena, my own sweet little girl.”
I took care that my voice didn’t waver. “…and her husband were going to adopt me, but then she developed breast cancer, so CPS moved me again. Let’s see, foster home number ten, that was.…”
Gomez broke in. “Go back to foster home number six.”
“Uh, why?”
“Because it’s the only home you haven’t described at all.”
I looked up at the ceiling. Recessed fluorescent lighting. I hate that stuff. Makes everyone look green. “That’s because, uh, there wasn’t much to tell.”
The monster in the closet.
No. I refused to revisit that nightmare.
Gomez’ voice was firm. “Humor me.”
Oh, hell. “They had a nice house. Big. And a dog. His name was Sandy, which I now realize was pretty funny because of that play about Little Orphan Annie. Annie’s dog was named Sandy, too.”
“What happened to Sandy?”
I looked at Gomez in surprise. “Little Orphan Annie’s dog?”
“No, Lena.”
“Oh. Well, nothing happened to my, uh, foster home number six’ Sandy. Why do you ask?”
“Because your voice shook when you mentioned him.”
Impossible. If I could control myself when talking about the artist who had almost adopted me, why would I waver when talking about some damned dog? Maybe I’d been hanging around Megan and her strays too long.
Jesus. That three-legged dog.
“Oh, you’re right. I forgot. Sandy disappeared one day. Didn’t come back. Which made me sad. Then I went to the next foster home, the Rev, and.…”
“No, Lena, we’re not through with foster home number six. Tell me about the people. What were they like?”
The monster in the closet.
“The people? Oh, they were ordinary people. Nothing special.” I had to give Gomez something, though. Otherwise, she would never ease up. “Listen, Gomez. I started having problems at home number nine, the home of the artist I was telling you about. That’s when I began stealing.”
No lie there. I still had the satin pillow I’d stolen from the artist’s husband. Welcome to the Philippines was embroidered on it.
Gomez’ eyes flickered. “We can talk about the artist during your next visit, but right now, I want to hear more about home number six. What were the people’s names?”
I drew in a deep breath. “Uh, Wycoff. Norma and Brian Wycoff.”
“Tell me what they were like.”
The air in the room closed in on me like a living thing, like the air in Patriot’s Blood while it burned. Suddenly, I could not catch my breath or see through the red film that edged my vision. Even the roaring that had plagued my ears after the explosion was back.
From a distance I could hear Gomez shouting. “Lena! Put your head between your knees!”
For once I did what I was told. In a few minutes, the breathing eased and the darkness slid away. But I couldn’t lift up my head. It was too heavy.
“Lena, are you all right now?”
I wondered where the geese were, the heron. Fishing, probably, in Eldorado Park. I hoped the water wasn’t too polluted. We can’t have three-legged herons, can we? Just three-legged dogs no one loved.
But that was wrong. I loved him.
No, Megan loved him. Not me. I didn’t have a dog. Never did. Foster children weren’t allowed to have pets. Too much baggage.
No dogs.
Never.
Ever.
Gomez’ voice, as if from miles away. “I’m getting you some water.”
I heard Gomez’ small refrigerator open, the clink of ice against glass, water pouring.
“Drink this.” Cool glass in my hand.
I drank. The roaring in my ears faded, the remaining blackness vanished.
“I pushed you too hard too soon.” Her voice sounded oddly tender. I wasn’t used to that. From anybody.
“Too…too soon?” My voice had returned. “What, are you nuts? I’m still, um, having some physical problems from the fire. Look, it has to be around time for me to go, right? I’m obviously not feeling well and I need to lie down.”
“You need help, Lena, that’s what you need.”
I managed a laugh and grabbed my crutches. “These are all the help I need.” I lurched to my feet. “I’m outta here.”
She opened her appointment book. Now her voice held no inflection at all. “Same time next week, Lena. You still have five appointments left before you fulfill the Court’s requirements.”
The monster in the closet.
Ignoring that old nightmare, I limped to the door. “I can’t. I just can’t.”
“If you want to keep your private investigator’s license you will.”
I stood in the doorway for a second, trying not to scream. I couldn’t take this. But I had to. Like I had taken so much for so many years. And lived through it all. “Okay, Gomez. See you next week.”
“I’m looking forward to it, Lena.”
The only thing I was looking forward to was getting back to my apartment and falling into bed.
I prayed I wouldn’t dream.