Beyond the sitting room was another living area, slightly larger, more casual. TV, easy chairs, a spinet piano, three walls of bookshelves filled with hardbacks and family photos. The fourth was bisected by an arched door that Josh opened.
"Hello?" Josh said, sticking his head through. The cat fussed and he let it down. It studied me, finally disappeared behind a sofa.
The sound of another door opening. Josh stepped back as a black woman in a white nurse's uniform came out. In her forties, she had a round face, a stocky but shapely figure, and bright eyes.
"Hello, Mr. Rosenblatt." West Indian accent.
"Selena," he said, taking her hand. "How is she?"
"Everything is perfect. She had a generous breakfast and a nice long nap. Robbie was here at ten, and they did almost the full hour of exercise."
"Good. Is she up now?"
"Yes." The nurse's eyes shifted to me. "She's been waiting for you."
"This is Dr. Delaware."
"Hello, doctor. Selena Limberton."
"Hello." We shook hands. Josh said, "Have you had your lunch break yet?"
"No," said the nurse.
"Now would be a good time."
They talked a bit more, about medicines and exercises, and I studied the family portraits, settling on one that showed Harvey Rosenblatt in a dark three-piece suit, beaming in the midst of his brood. Josh around eighteen, with long, unruly hair, a fuzzy mustache, and black-rimmed eyeglasses. Next to him, a beautiful girl with a long, graceful face and sculpted cheekbones, maybe two or three years older. The same dark eyes as her brother. The oldest child was a young man in his midtwenties who resembled Josh, but thick necked and heavier, with cruder features, curly hair, and a full, dark beard that mimicked his father's.
Shirley Rosenblatt was tiny, fair, and blue-eyed, her blond hair cut very short, her smile full but frail even in health. Her shoulders weren't much wider than those of a child. It was hard to imagine her birthing the robust trio.
Mrs. Limberton said, "All righty, then, I'll be back in an hour- where's Leo?"
Josh looked around.
I said, "I think he's hiding behind the couch."
The nurse went over, bent, and lifted the cat. His body was limp. Nuzzling him, she said, "I'll bring you back some chicken if you behave." The cat blinked. She set him down on the couch and he curled up, eyes open and watchful.
Josh said, "Did you feed the fish?"
She smiled. "Yes. Everything's taken care of. Now you don't worry yourself about any more details, she's going to be fine. Nice meeting you, doctor. Bye-bye."
The door closed. Josh frowned.
"Don't worry?" he said. "I went to school to learn how to worry."
27
Another small room, this one yellow, the windows misted by lace curtains.
Shirley Rosenblatt looked better than I had expected, propped up in a hospital bed and covered to the waist with a white comforter. Her hair was still blond, though dyed lighter, and she'd grown it out a little. Her delicate face had remained pretty.
A wicker bed tray was pushed into one corner. To one side of the bed was a cane chair and a pine dresser topped by perfume bottles. Opposite that stood a large saltwater aquarium on a teakwood base. The water bubbled silently. Gorgeous fish glided through a miniature coral reef.
Josh kissed his mother's forehead. She smiled and took hold of his hand. Her fingers barely stretched the width. The comforter dropped a couple of inches. She was wearing a flannel nightgown, buttoned to the neck and fastened with a bow. On her nightstand was a collection of pill bottles, a stack of magazines, and a coil-spring hand-grip exerciser.
Josh held onto her hand. She smiled up at him, then turned the smile on me. Gentle blue eyes. None of her children had gotten them.
Josh said, "Here's the mail. Want me to open it?"
She shook her head and reached out. He put the stack on her lap, but she left it there and continued to look at me.
"This is Dr. Delaware," he said.
I said, "Alex Delaware." But I didn't hold out my hand because I didn't want to dislodge his. "Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Rosenblatt."
"Shirley." Her voice was very weak and talking seemed a great effort, but the word came out clearly. She blinked a couple of times. Her right shoulder was lower than her left and her right eyelid bagged a bit.
She kissed Joshua's hand. Slowly, she said, "You can go, hon."
He looked at me, then back at her. "Sure?"
Nod.
"Okay, but I'm coming back in half an hour. I already let Mrs. Limberton go to lunch and I don't want you alone for too long."
"It's okay. She doesn't eat long."
"I'll make sure she stays all afternoon until I get here- probably not before seven-thirty. I have paperwork. Is that okay, or do you want to eat earlier?"
"Seven-thirty is fine, honey."
"Chinese?"
She nodded and smiled, let go of his hand.
"I can also get Thai if you want," he said. "That place on Fifty-sixth."
"Anything," she said. "As long as it's with you." She reached up with both hands and he bent for a hug.
After he straightened, she said, "Bye, sweets."
"Bye. Take care of yourself."
One final look at me, and then he was gone.
She pushed a button and propped herself up higher. Took a breath and said, "I'm blessed. Working with kids… my own turned out great."
"I'm sure it wasn't an accident."
She shrugged. The higher shoulder made it all the way through the gesture. "I don't know… so much is chance."
She pointed to the cane chair.
I pulled it up close and sat down.
"You're a child therapist, too?"
I nodded.
She took a long time to touch her lip. Another while to tap her brow. "I think I've seen your name on articles… anxiety?"
"Years ago."
"Nice to meet you." Her voice faded. I leaned closer.
"Stroke," she said and tried to shrug again.
I said, "Josh told me."
She looked surprised, then amused. "He hasn't told many people. Protecting me. Sweet. All my kids are. But Josh lives at home, we see more of each other…"
"Where are the others?"
"Sarah's in Boston. Teaches pediatrics at Tufts. David's a biologist at the National Cancer Institute in Washington."
"Three for three," I said.
She smiled and looked at the fish tank. "Batting a thousand… Harvey liked baseball. You only met him once?"
"Yes." I told her where and when.
"Harvey," she said, savoring the word, "was the nicest man I've ever known. My mother used to say don't marry for looks or money, both can disappear fast, so marry for nice."
"Good advice."
"Are you married?"
"Not yet."
"Do you have someone?"
"Yes. And she's very nice."
"Good." She began laughing. Very little sound came out, but her face was animated. Managing to raise one hand, she touched her chest. "Forget the Ph.D. I'm just a Jewish mother."
"Maybe the two aren't all that different."
"No. They are. Therapists don't judge, right? Or at least we pretend we don't. Mothers are always judging."
She tried to lift an envelope from the mail stack. Got hold of a corner and fumbled.
"Tell me," she said, letting go, "about my husband."
I began, including the other murders but leaving out the savagery. When I reached the part about "bad love" and my revenge theory, her eyes started blinking rapidly and I was afraid I'd caused some sort of stress reaction. But when I paused, she said, "Go on," and as I did, she seemed to sit up straighter and taller, and a cool, analytic light sharpened her eyes.
The therapist in her driving out the patient.
I'd been there. Now I was on the couch, opening myself up to this tiny, crippled woman.
When I was finished, she looked at the dresser and said, "Open that middle drawer and take out the file."
I found a black-and-white marbled box with a snap latch resting atop neatly folded sweaters. As I started to hand it to her, she said, "Open it."