“Like your sister.”
Strong nod. “She’s always been like that — looking down on me, this is just more of the same.” She mouthed a silent obscenity. “She has no life so she tries to eat mine like a breakfast burrito.”
She stared at me. “Where did that come from? Breakfast burrito? I never do that — use those whatyacallit — metaphors.”
“You feel like Connie’s trying to devour you.”
“Yes! That’s exactly how I feel! You’re getting the picture, Dr. Delaware … cool name, is it Indian? I’ve got some Indian in me. Chippewa, or at least that was the story my mom told. You part Indian? You from the state — Delaware? That’s one place I’ve never been to, bet it’s pretty. What’s it like?”
“Let’s focus on you, Ree.”
Color left her face. Her bronze-colored makeup was too thick to allow a uniform fade but pale blotches broke out on her cheek and her chin and above one eye. “Sorry for being nosy.”
“No problem, Ree. If we stay on track we can get this done as quickly as possible.”
“Yeah, of course,” she said. “Quickly is good. I hope.”
I started with a developmental history. She knew the basics of Rambla’s physical and behavioral growth, volunteered little in the way of pride or insight. I’ve met mothers who seemed more in touch, others who knew less.
Her reports of the child’s sleep and appetite patterns were normal. So were Rambla’s milestones. That matched the brief report in the file by a pediatrician at a walk-in clinic in Silverlake. A single page using the kind of general language that suggested a fill-in-the-blanks template.
I said, “Is Dr. Keeler her regular doctor?”
More pallid spots. “Not exactly, we see whoever’s in that day. It’s no problem, all the docs there are good. And Rambla’s been totally healthy, she has all her shots, I don’t do that crazy stuff with no immunizations. No way, I keep her healthy and safe.”
Reaching into her bag, she produced a photo. Probably snipped from one of those four-for-a-buck deals you get at carnival booths.
Ree Sykes holding a good-sized, chubby, dark-haired toddler. Cute kid, cute smile, a tentatively waving hand. But for down-slanted dark eyes no obvious resemblance to her mother.
I said, “Adorable.”
“She’s my heart.” Her voice caught.
I returned the picture. “Describe a typical day for Rambla.”
“Like what?”
“What does she do after she wakes up?”
“I change her and feed her, we play.”
I waited.
She said, “Then … sometimes we just stay in the house and hang out.”
“What kind of toys does she like?”
“She’s not much into toys, I give her like empty cereal boxes, hair ribbons, that kind of thing — spoons, she’s really into spoons, likes to bang them on stuff, it’s real cute.”
I smiled. “So you guys tend to hang out.”
“We go out. I take her shopping. Or we just go for a walk. She’s a great walker, really gets off on using her little legs, doesn’t want any part of her stroller unless she gets super-tired — I got the safe one. The safe stroller. No recalls on that one. I got it secondhand but it was like in perfect condition except for a couple of little dents at the bottom.” She mentioned a brand. “That’s a good one, right?”
I nodded. “So you two hang out a lot together.”
“Like always. It’s just me and her, we’re like BFFs, she’s a really cool kid.” Her lips quivered. “She’s my heart,” she repeated, patting her chest.
She flung her braid back behind her head, as if tossing a mooring rope. “I love her so much and she loves me. The minute I found out I was carrying her, I … took care of myself. First thing I did, I got vitamins.”
“Prenatals.”
She looked to the left. “To be honest — and that’s the way I’m gonna be with you, period, Doc, always honest, always — at first it was just plain vitamins, I went straight to the store and bought regulars. ’Cause I didn’t know anything about … details. But then I went to a clinic. In Malibu, I was working in Malibu back then. Doing what, you probably wanna know. Cleaning rich folks’ houses, big places on the beach. Not that I was living on the beach, I was crash-renting in a mobile park, a little past Cross Creek — you familiar with Malibu?”
“I am.”
“So you know what I’m talking about. It’s mobile but it’s nice and clean, I had a good setup.” Inhaling, she sat back.
I said, “So you went to a clinic …”
“Oh, yeah. And they said — the clinic — I should use special prenatals so I threw out the regulars and bought prenatals. I took really good care of myself. Rambla was born big — eight pounds, eleven ounces.” She laughed. The girlish giggle I’d heard on her phone message. “Getting that out of me was an experience, I tell you.”
“Tough delivery?”
“It’s not something I’d do for fun, Doc, but it was over and I was fine and she was beautiful. Not that I’m saying I deserve an award, you know? For taking care of myself. It’s what you’re spose to do.”
“But not everyone does it.”
“Exactly! It was important to me. Being pregnant, having a healthy baby. I … I made sure.”
“Your life changed,” I said.
“You heard about that.”
“About what?”
“The things I did. Before. Sure, I won’t hide it, like I said this is total honesty. So, yeah, exactly, I made changes. Because she’s my heart and she’s always been my heart and I really don’t see why I have to prove it to some judge — what’s she like? The judge.”
“She seems reasonable.”
“Oh, man, I sure hope so — it’s so weird, someone I don’t know judging me.” Laughter. “Guess that’s why they call her a judge. You’d never catch me doing that. For a job.”
Her eyes moistened. I handed her a tissue. “It’s really hard, Dr. Delaware. I never did anything to start this. It’s all her.”
“Your sister.”
“Bitch,” she growled. “And I’m not going to say pardon my French because that’s how I righteously feel, she’s a bitch, always has been, jealous of everyone and everything. Can’t get a man of her own because she’s too damn busy making money and bossing everyone around so now she wants what’s mine!”
“You two never got along.”
“Never — no, that’s not true, sometimes when we were kids we were okay with each other. I mean it’s not like we were kissy-kiss or tight. But we let each other be. Never hit each other. Never really fought.”
“Constance is seven years older.”
“How’d you — oh, yeah, the files. That’s right, seven, almost eight so it’s not like we were hanging out. There’s our brother in between, even though he was a boy I hung out more with him. Not like Connie, she never hung around with anyone.”
“A loner.”
“Exactly! You hit it on the nose, Dr. Delaware, she’s a loner, doesn’t get people, doesn’t even like people, she’s totally more into numbers. Math, science, that kind of thing, she always had her head in the books when Daddy would let her.”
“Daddy didn’t like books?”
“Daddy didn’t like anything when he drank. One beer, he’s smiling, two, he’s still smiling. Three, he gets quiet. By the time six, seven, eight rolls around he’s all red in the face and his shoulders bunch up and you’d better not be in his pathway or you’re gonna get rolled over on. Like one of those things they use to flatten the tar when they build roads.”
“Steamroller.”
“Steamroller, exactly. Not hitting or anything but still looking scary and yelling and breaking stuff. Daddy gets to rolling, you stay out of his way. So, yeah, if Connie was concentrating on a library book and he happened to roll into our room and she was at the desk and he fixed it upon himself to not like that, that book would turn into confetti. And what makes it crazier is he liked to read.”