I said, “What’s in the briefcase?”
“The chronicle of a lifetime spent with my sister. May I summarize?”
“Please do.”
“I was close to eight when she was born. Soon it became apparent that she wasn’t up to Connor and myself intellectually.”
“Not as smart as her sibs.”
“No doubt you think my remark was unkind. But the facts back it up. I was a straight-A student, graduated as high school salutatorian, and the only reason they didn’t make me valedictorian was I hadn’t accumulated enough ‘social points.’ Whatever that means. I attended Occidental College on a full scholarship, graduated with a four point oh, Phi Beta Kappa, summa cum laude, departmental honors in chemistry, advanced to medical school at UC San Francisco, where I also served my internship and my residency in pathology.”
“You were always academically gifted.”
“Quite. After residency I enjoyed a stint at Harbor General Hospital, then I obtained an executive position with a private lab. Ten years ago, I began my own lab and experienced immediate and consistent success. Currently, I specialize in the analysis of esoteric tropical diseases as well as immune disorders, including but not limited to HIV. My referrals emanate from private physicians and institutions as well as several governmental agencies secure in the knowledge of my total discretion. Since completing my residency, I’ve earned six figures consistently, have invested wisely, and I enjoy a comfortable lifestyle, including ownership of my own thirty-five-hundred-square-foot house in Westwood. I am able to provide anything a child could possibly desire. A fact my sister was well aware of when she abdicated the care of her child to me for three months while she went gallivanting across the country with Melandrano and Chamberlain and engaged in who-knows-what. It was only after she returned and apparently experienced some feeble variant of maternal pangs that she changed her mind and began making a fuss.”
She put her glasses back on, sat back.
Long speech and an obvious invitation for me to ask more about the details of the “fuss.”
I said, “Tell me about your brother.”
“Connor was also an excellent student. Not at my level, but solid A’s and B’s. He attended Cal State Northridge, obtained a degree in accounting. With honors … I’m not certain if it was magna or just cum, but definitely honors, I distinctly remember the asterisk next to his name in his graduation program — a ceremony that my sister did not attend, because, apparently, she had better things to do. More like worse things … in any event, Connor was always a solid boy.”
“He’s an accountant?”
“Much better, Doctor. He’s an executive at a firm up in Palo Alto. Very successful. So you see.”
“You and Connor,” I said. “Then there’s Ree.”
“She was never close to our level and I’m certain the discrepancy affected her. No doubt that’s why she ran away. When she was fifteen. Did she mention that?”
“What led her to run away?”
“You’d have to ask her.” Sly smile. “If you already haven’t. No, won’t fall into that trap, Doctor. Giving you unsubstantiated information — innuendo, rumor. I want you to be certain that when I say something it’s based on fact. Why did she run away? Obviously, she was unhappy.”
“With family life.”
“We had a fine family. If my sister was a poor fit, all the pity for her. But a child shouldn’t be made to suffer.”
“Tell me about your parents.”
“Fine people. Working people.”
“What kind of work?”
“Father was a teamster, Mother did bookkeeping.”
“You all got along pretty well.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve heard different?”
“Tell me how you remember family life.”
Her arms clamped across her chest. One foot pushed the briefcase farther to the side. She said, “Fine, but that’s no excuse for her behavior. There were three of us, only one turned out immoral.”
“What’s no excuse?”
“Drinking. They both drank. Not during the day, it never impeded their work, they supported us in fine form during our entire childhoods. We had food on the table, clean clothes, the home was beautifully kept. Mother was a first-rate homemaker. Back when that meant something.”
“They drank recreationally.”
“They drank to wind down after long, grueling workdays. Yes, it was excessive. No, it doesn’t excuse her lifestyle choices. I grew up in the same environment and I am a teetotaler. Furthermore, I’ve never seen Connor indulge in more than a single beer, cocktail, or glass of wine. He says so, explicitly, when waiters attempt to peddle a refill. ‘I’m a one-drink guy.’ So don’t let her avoid responsibility by blaming Mother and Father.”
“Did your parents’ behavior change when they drank?”
“Not really,” she said.
I said nothing.
“I’m telling you, there were no drastic changes, Doctor. Not in a way one would consider unexpected.”
“The change was predictable.”
“She went to sleep. He did, as well.” Tug on a hair wave. “Except for those very few times when his mood got the best of him. In any event, that’s not relevant to the current issue: my sister’s fitness. Or lack thereof.”
I pictured her, sitting at her desk, trying to study. Wondering if tonight books would get turned into confetti.
I’d lived through worse, could well understand wanting to block that out. If she hadn’t decided to wrest her sister’s child away, she’d never have been forced to confront the past.
But …
I said, “Your father’s moods changed when he drank.”
“Wouldn’t anybody’s?” she said. “All right, he could get a bit … surly. But never violent. No matter what you’ve heard.”
“No child abuse.”
“Not one instance. Did she claim that?”
“Still,” I said, “that kind of unpredictability can be frightening to a child.”
“It wasn’t unpredictable, Doctor. One knew that when he drank there was a distinct possibility of some sort of mood upset.”
Now her lips did cooperate and she flashed me a wide, engaging smile.
“In fact,” she said, “the entire issue made me curious. The precise rate of mood upsets. I decided to approach the question scientifically. Began keeping records and attained a result. Thirty-two point five percent of the time he’d grow surly.”
“About a third of the time.”
“Not about, Doctor. Precisely thirty-two point five. My data collection was meticulous. I went over it, trying to see if I could find a pattern. Day of the week, time of day, any other variable. I came up with nothing and I believe it was at that point that I decided to devote myself to science on a cellular level rather than deal with anything as imprecise as human behavior. So you see, Father did me a favor. By directing me to what has turned out to be a rewarding career path, he proved extremely helpful.”
“Lemons into lemonade.”
“Now contrast that, Doctor, with her. Blaming everyone but herself for her deficiencies. It’s fortunate that we’re talking about this because it allows you to delineate the difference between myself and my sister: I face reality, she escapes. Well, this is one time she’s not going to find that quite so easy, eh? Now, what else can I help clarify?”
“Nothing,” I said.
She flinched. Smiled. “I’ve given you more facts than you expected? Well, that’s fine. And here’s a written record of all the background material I’ve just presented verbally, so you can take your time, study carefully, really educate yourself.”
A black-bound folder emerged from the briefcase. She placed it next to my appointment book, squaring the volume’s edges with those of the desk. “This has been a very profitable hour. Good day.”