When she finally asked about Herke, he said it was short for Hercules. That had never occurred to her, and she thought it touching because at that moment he really did seem to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders. He told her he was happy that she was living with the Dunsmores. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he said. Becca said, “You don’t have to worry.” She was going to ask if he’d been sleeping with Elaine Jordache all the time they’d been seeing each other and if it was true he really did kill a man and if it was true what she heard that he was related to that man by blood and why was it only three years ago that he’d first seen his mom and she wanted to tell him that she still loved him and that maybe they would make a QuestraWorld movie of his whole life and saga and write to each other every day until he got out as long as it was true that he still loved her — but in the end, none of it seemed to matter. She recounted the very last part to her mom, trying to sound hardened and nonchalant and mature, but when Dixie replied, “Honey, everything matters,” Becca burst into tears.
And that was the last time she saw him, in the flesh anyway.
Blackout
MATTIE WAS CONCERNED about Lisanne, as were Reggie Marck and the Loewensteins. Since the episode on the jet, she’d been going downhill.
When she stopped by his office to deliver that deranged soliloquy, Reggie got seriously spooked. She left before he could take any action — not that he knew what that action would have been, though he kicked himself for not having “detained” her. He was worried that Lisanne might potentially harm herself or the baby. He phoned Roslynn, and they tried to sort things out. Reggie asked about the boyfriend, but Roslynn said he was out of his league when it came to her troubles; Philip had grown too dependent on Lisanne to be objective. The sister, she said, was the one with the head on her shoulders.
Reggie and Roslynn initiated a conference call with Calliope Krohn-Markowitz to discuss some sort of intervention. (Lisanne saw the psychiatrist for a few sessions, but had since gone AWOL.) The Muskinghams were also on the line. Calliope asked if there were any new developments. Mattie said that Lisanne had been spending a lot of time in the “yoga cabin” and appeared withdrawn. Also, there was a “growing diminution in personal hygiene.” Roslynn spoke of what she felt to be a “continued inappropriate response” to the plight of the actor Kit Lightfoot. Impatient with the pussyfooting, Reggie circled back to the astonishing office visit. “That was a crazy person,” he said. “That was a deeply disturbed woman who either needs to be taking medication or should be locked up. Probably both. Period.” There was a pause. “Frankly, I’m very concerned for the welfare of that baby. I don’t think we can in all good conscience sit by while there’s a tragedy in the making.” Calliope asked Philip about his thoughts — he was, after all, the one closest to Lisanne in a number of ways — but he said she seemed fine. Reggie said, sotto, “He’s got to be kidding.” In her role as mediator, Calliope reiterated Reggie’s concern about the well-being of Siddhama, and Philip said the nannies hadn’t noticed anything strange. Not that they’d talk about it if they had, said Mattie sardonically. And why is that? asked the doctor. Because, said Mattie, one of Lisanne’s eccentricities was, she was always giving them cash on the side. Roslynn wanted to know how much cash. Philip said there was a daily limit on the ATM. Reggie said, “What is it? Three hundred? Four hundred? That’s a lot of money to be giving a nanny.” “Is that ‘hush money’?” wondered Roslynn. “I mean, what’s she doing? Money for what?” “It’s just misplaced largesse,” said Mattie. “She has a big heart,” said Philip. “That’s all very well and good,” said Reggie, in hard-nosed attorney mode. “But I think we really need to be in reality regarding this woman. This is a damaged lady. Look, I’ve known her a lot of years now, and I am telling you this is someone who needs to be hospitalized. And I think we should take that step. Because we don’t want a tragedy on our hands. Hey, maybe it’s something that only needs a few days — or a week — or whatever. Great. Maybe it’s strictly a medication thing. I don’t know, Doctor, could having a child have brought this on? I mean, the whole concealing of the pregnancy… is this a postpartum psychosis thing?” “It may be,” said Calliope, with caution. “Of course that needs to be ruled out. But I can’t rule out anything if I’m not able to meet with the patient.” “Maybe Phil can help with that,” said Roslynn, knowing that his sister would chime in. “Yes,” agreed Mattie. “Phil and I can definitely talk to her about coming in for another session. Don’t you think, Philip?” “Uh huh,” said her brother. “And if not,” said Mattie, “we can talk about something more definitive. We’re actually all going out tonight for an event.” “Great,” said Roslynn. “Maybe that would be a good time for discussion,” said Calliope. “But I think it’s important you use your own judgment. If that’s a conversation you think would be better suited to have at home, then wait until you get home.” It was agreed all around that Lisanne wouldn’t be left alone with Siddhama. Reggie said, “Won’t that be difficult?” Philip said Lisanne was rarely alone with the baby anyway. Mattie said she would have a talk with the nannies, and Roslynn said that Philip should take her ATM card away. He assented. Calliope told Mattie and Philip to check in with her as soon as they spoke to Lisanne, even if it were late tonight.
After everyone had hung up, Reggie called Roslynn back and said that he couldn’t understand why the call hadn’t ended with more of a concrete plan. Roslynn contradicted him. She definitely got the feeling things were “coming to a head” and that hospitalization was imminent. “I missed that,” said Reggie skeptically. “I guess I zoned.”
• • •
IT RAINED HARD that night.
Months ago, Philip had got tickets to see the Dalai Lama at UCLA. He engaged a driver, but when his sister arrived at Rustic Canyon, Mattie said, “I refuse to take a chauffeur-driven Mercedes to see the Dalai Lama.”
Their seats were up close. As they arrived, tantric monks gargled timeless liturgies from the foot of the stage. Ushers handed out pamphlets that told the story of a little boy who had been recognized by His Holiness as the eleventh Panchen Lama of Tibet. He had been kidnapped by the Chinese government, who then replaced him with a Panchen pretender.
It made Lisanne think of her own Siddhama. Since she’d given away the Supreme Bliss-Wheel Integration Buddha, whenever she looked in her baby’s eyes it seemed as if he wasn’t there. As a mother, she could no longer recognize his energy; the bond had been swiftly, elegantly severed. She cursed herself for being on her period when Kit came inside her. She’d been too hasty — she should have waited until she was ovulating. Now her fate was sealed. Craving estrus, the flies of all those souls awaiting human rebirth had been repelled by her blood’s brackish, viscous, tarry rejection of the “liquid gold” of H.H. the venerable Kit Clearlightfoot’s semen. In that very instant, she had slammed the door on the Buddha, his teachings, and the holy community, forever.
Philip discreetly pointed, alerting Lisanne and his sister that Viv Wembley was just a few rows away. How perfect! The succubus was with Alf Lanier. Both had dressed down in a ridiculous attempt at self-effacement, so shabbily casual as to almost backfire, evincing disrespect, shallow, wicked, radiant poseurs come to gawk at His Holiness as high society once did the Elephant Man. Anyone with two eyes could see that Alf had replaced Kit in her life the same way the Panchen pretender had supplanted the true lama, wherein Lisanne saw an even more sinister motive for their attendance at the arena. Because Viv was an actress, Lisanne knew that she needed to be loved above all else, begging exoneration for her abandonment of Kit (and subsequent flagrant transgressions). The miscarriage and all-around fickle public sympathies were not enough to salve an ego of her proportion. Lisanne was certain the Together star was of a mind that merely being seen in the Dalai Lama’s presence with copper petals humbly spread, ready to receive the nectar of atonement, would by necessity gather great merit, as sure as the wealthy sinner once obtained indulgences by the pressing of exculpatory lucre into the hand of the Pope. Still, she admired Viv’s cunning, her élan, her pirate’s nature, and with a twinge in the womb, admonished herself: Viv Wembley would never have gone over there while menstruating. Viv Wembley would have waited until she was in heat. She was so angry because she had bested that rich and famous woman — Viv Wembley’s cervical loss had been Lisanne McCadden’s magical gain — but the executive assistant had choked at the moment of truth. And now her baby, her Siddhama, was abducted and unknown to her, as unknown as the child Viv had coldly flushed away.