CHAPTER 7
Next step: a home visit to Cherie Sykes and her daughter.
She lived in a studio apartment near Western and Hollywood, a five-hundred-square-foot share of a not-so-great ten-unit building in a marginal neighborhood.
She was ready at the door, beckoning me inside with a flourish. The air smelled of Lysol and I assumed she’d prepped for the appointment.
Not much to tidy. A foldout bed was covered by a thin white spread and dressed up by a couple of batik pillows that looked brand-new. Nearby stood a crib. A well-worn tweed love seat crowded the rest of the tiny room. A two-seater folding table straddled the kitchenette and the front room. Propped up against a space-saver fridge was a vacuum cleaner. In front of the sink was a plastic high chair.
Much of the floor was taken up by a neat stack of toys. A closet door left open revealed stacks of disposable diapers, jars of baby food and “beginner” toddler victuals, boxes of graham crackers and organic “healthy apple juice,” a collapsible stroller.
“Kid Central,” said Ree Sykes. The tremor in her voice would’ve done a Hammond organ proud. The drowsy child in her arms stirred.
I said, “Is she about to nap or just waking up?”
“Waking,” she said. “She does it slowly, never cries. Sometimes I wake up and she’s standing in her crib, just looking at me. I hold her for a while, let her blossom like a flower.”
She stroked dark, wavy hair. What I could see of Rambla Pacifico Sykes’s face was plump-cheeked, slumber-pink, dewy with sweat. She had on pink pajamas patterned with cats, polka-dot hats, and beach balls. The way she molded to her mother’s chest compressed her face, turning full lips into rosebuds.
I made mental notes. Pretty child. Average size. Well nourished. Relaxed.
Her tiny chest heaved as she sighed. One hand touched Ree Sykes’s chin. Ree kissed her fingers. Rambla’s eyes remained closed.
Ree said, “This is my heart.”
I sat on the tweed love seat and Ree perched near the edge of the foldout bed, Rambla still molded to her. The child’s breath quickened, then slowed, as she sank into deeper sleep.
“Guess she’s still tired,” said Ree. “She’s a great sleeper, made it through the night at two months.”
“That’s great. Any change when you picked her up from Connie?”
“You mean did she get worse being with Connie? I’d like to say yeah, but honestly no, she was fine. She was real happy to see me, she like jumped into my arms. Which I wasn’t sure would happen, you know like maybe she forgot me? But she didn’t.”
“She reconnected instantly.”
“Yup.” Her eyes shifted to the ceiling. “That’s not exactly true. She was quieter than usual. I’d try to kiss her and she’d turn her head. But that didn’t last long, maybe half a day and then she was herself.”
Medea Wright would probably use that to show Connie Sykes had done a great job of interim parenting. If Myron Ballister was smart, he’d skew it as evidence of the durable attachment between Ree and her child.
I’d note the facts and save interpretation for later.
Ree bit her lip. “I have to say this, Doctor. So you won’t think I’m crazy or crueclass="underline" I screwed up, okay? By leaving in the first place. By staying away that long. Connie kept telling me everything was fine, it was the first time we — me and Connie — ever did anything together, you know? I liked that. Not just was Rambla taken care of but me and Connie, we … whatever.”
“You felt Rambla had brought you and Connie closer.”
“I could hope. Because we never … she always made me feel stupid. I know she’s the smart one, but … I guess I coulda studied harder but it didn’t come easily. Reading, numbers. Everything. It was hard. I did my best but it was hard. Still, she didn’t have to make me feel stupid.”
Her eyes grew moist. She began rocking Rambla. A small hand grasped the braid and squeezed. “She loves it. My hair. Kind of a security thing, don’t you think?”
“I do.”
“Anyway …”
“You were hoping Connie and you could be closer.”
“Because she was acting different. I know now it was phony but how could I tell at the time? I’m a trusting person.”
“Different, how?”
“Paying attention to me, Dr. Delaware. Talking to me like I was a grown-up — like normal sisters. So when she offered to care for Rambla and then she’d always tell me when I called that Rambla was doing great, I deserved a vacation, just go have a good time — it was like she approved of me. For the first time in my life.”
“You were encouraged.”
“I’m not saying that excuses it. Staying away from my baby-love so long. And yeah, I wasn’t being totally honest with you, Rambla didn’t jump into my arms, at first she looked scared and my heart just dropped to my feet, like Girl, you really screwed up, this time. One thing in your life that you love and now you screwed it up. More like she accepted me but she was quiet. But it didn’t take long and she was like melting against me just like she’s doing now.”
Her eyes lowered to her shoulder. “Touching my braid just like she’s doing now. It’s like the flame needed to be turned on but once it was, it just kept burning.”
She kissed a plump cheek. “I just love you, I love love love you.”
Rambla stirred. Opened her eyes. Smiled lazily at her mother.
Spotting me, she gripped Ree tighter. Began whimpering.
Appropriate attachment. Expected separation anxiety for the age.
Ree said, “I usually give her a snack when she wakes up.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
I sat there and watched Rambla eat, keeping my distance, careful not to intrude. Ree broke the food up into tiny pieces while delivering an ongoing commentary. (“Organic, Dr. Delaware, no preservatives.”) Eventually, Rambla permitted herself several glances in my direction.
I smiled.
The fourth time she smiled back. I got up, crouched low within inches of her face.
She yelped and gripped her mother.
I retreated.
Ree Sykes said, “It’s okay, baby — I’m sorry, Dr. Delaware, she must be still half asleep.”
Appropriate, appropriate, appropriate.
The great yeah-sayer.
Rambla quieted but avoided eye contact.
Five minutes later, she allowed me to show her the picture I’d drawn. Smiling face, bright colors.
She beamed. Giggled. Snatched the paper and crumpled it and threw it to the floor and thought that was just hilarious.
For the next ten minutes, I sat next to her high chair and we giggled together.
When I got up, she waved.
I blew a kiss. She imitated.
I said, “Bye bye.”
“Bah bah.” Plump hand to mouth, flamboyant wave.
I headed toward the front room.
“Now what?” said Ree.
“Nothing,” I said, “I’ve seen enough.”
I gave her hand a squeeze and left.
That night I wrote my report. Shortest draft I’ve ever sent a judge.
The first sentence read, “This well-nourished, well-functioning sixteen-month-old female child is the object of a guardianship dispute between her birth mother and her maternal aunt.”
The final sentence read: “There appears to be no reason, based on either psychological factors or legal standards, to alter the child’s status. A strong recommendation is made to reject Dr. Constance Sykes’s request.”