“So what I’m thinking is we go for homeschooling. I already applied and it was no big deal. Basically we get books and lesson plans and do it ourselves. I went to college, got a degree from Cal State, so I figure I can handle fourth-, fifth-grade material, even math, though I kind of taper off at algebra. What do you think?”
Books and being alone; it sounded like heaven. Unable to believe it, Grace said, “I just read?”
“A lot of it will be reading but you’ll also have to do exercises and take tests just like if you were in a real school and I have to grade everything. I’m not going to cheat, you get what you earn. You up for that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I figure it’ll be easy once I know your level. To do that, I’m bringing in an expert to test you. A kind of doctor, but not the kind who gives shots or touches your body or anything like that, he’ll just ask you questions.”
“A psychologist.”
Ramona’s white eyebrows rose, clouds lofted by a breeze. “You know about psychologists?”
Grace nodded.
“Might I ask how?”
“Sometimes kids would have problems — in the other fosters — and they’d get sent to the psychologist.”
“You’re making it sound like punishment.”
The kids who’d talked about it made it sound that way.
Grace was silent.
Ramona said, “Other kids.”
Grace knew what she was getting at. “I never got sent.”
“You have any other notions about psychologists?”
“No.”
“Well this one, he’s not going to be like punishment. I’m not talking through my hat, I know him as a person, not just a doctor. He’s my husband’s baby brother but that’s not why I picked him. He’s a professor, Grace. That means he teaches people to be psychologists, so we’re talking a top-of-the-line expert.”
Ramona waited.
Grace nodded.
“His name is Dr. Malcolm Bluestone, Ph.D., and let me tell you, he’s smart.”
Ramona flashed another easy smile. “Maybe even as smart as you, young lady.”
Soon after she’d finished her toast, Grace met the two boys who shared one room. Both were black and she knew they were five years old because Ramona had told her.
“They look alike but they’re cousins, not brothers, have had hard lives, you don’t want to know, I’m hoping their adoption goes through.”
Grace couldn’t see any resemblance between the boys. Rollo was much taller than DeShawn and his skin was lighter. Both entered the kitchen appearing sleepy. Rollo held on to a ragged blue blanket. DeShawn looked as if he would’ve liked something to hold.
“Rise and shine, troopers,” said Ramona. She made the introductions. The cousins nodded absently at Grace and took chairs at the table. DeShawn managed a shy smile and Grace pretended she hadn’t seen it.
The boys spread napkins on their laps and waited as Ramona set out scrambled eggs, sausage patties and links. They ate silently, began to wake up.
Ramona said, “You three are okay down here, right? Time to see how Bobby’s doing.”
The mention of Bobby’s name caused Rollo and DeShawn to exchange a quick, nervous look. Ramona left and the kitchen turned silent. Grace had nothing to do so she just sat there. The boys ignored her and continued to eat, slowly but without pause, like robots. The eggs looked stiff and rubbery and Grace already knew what Ramona’s toast tasted like. None of that gave the cousins pause and Grace wondered if they’d never gotten over feeling hungry.
It had been a while since she’d been hungry but you didn’t forget that kind of thing.
She turned away from the cousins and looked up through the kitchen window over the sink. One of those roundish trees with the small leaves stood a few feet away from the glass.
Grace got up to have a closer look.
To her back, Ramona’s voice, “California oak, water them too much, they die.”
She hadn’t heard the old woman enter, felt as if she’d been caught doing something wrong.
Turning, she saw Ramona holding the hand of a different-looking boy.
Small — no taller than DeShawn — he had the face of an older child, maybe even a teenager, with pimples and a large jaw and a shelf-like forehead that shadowed squinty eyes set crookedly, one a good quarter inch higher than the other. Curly red hair was thin in spots, like that of an old man. His mouth hung open in some kind of smile but Grace wasn’t sure that meant he was happy. Widely spaced yellow teeth were separated by an oversized tongue. His body — sunken and bowed — swayed, as if he needed to move to stop from falling. Even though Ramona held his hand tightly.
Grace realized she was staring. Realized the cousins weren’t.
She looked away, too.
The new boy — Bobby — gave a raspy laugh. Once again, it was hard to call that happy.
Ramona Stage said, “Bobby, this is Grace, she’s eight and a half, so you’re still the oldest.” She patted Bobby’s head. He smiled again, swayed more violently, let out a single loud cough, then bent double as a coughing fit overtook him.
Rollo and DeShawn stared down at their plates.
Ramona said, “Poor Bobby had a rough night, even with the oxygen.”
Rollo said something.
“What’s that, dear?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For...”
“Him being sick.”
“Well, that’s kind of you, darling. And gentlemanly, Rollo, I’m extremely proud of you.”
Rollo bobbed his head.
Grace thought of the hiss when Ramona had peeked in on Bobby. Oxygen. So he had some kind of breathing problem, but he looked like that wasn’t all of his problems.
She studied Bobby’s eyes. His irises were a strange yellow-brown and they seemed coated with something waxy.
She smiled.
He smiled back. This time, he seemed kind of happy.
Chapter 15
Seventy-three minutes after her phone call from Detective Elaine Henke, the green light in the therapy room lit up.
Grace waited a couple of minutes before cracking the waiting room door. She kept an assortment of periodicals in a wall rack, covering topics from fashion to home renovation and she found it interesting, sometimes instructive, to note what patients chose to read.
The woman in the corner armchair had opted for Car and Driver. The new Corvettes.
“Doctor? Eileen Henke.” She got up and placed the magazine in the rack. Firm dry handshake.
Forty-five or so, the detective was short and wide, packed tight like a gymnast easing into middle age. Her complexion was clear, a rosy backdrop for unremarkable features. An ash-blond bob did a decent job of firming her jawbone, lending a roundish face some definition. Her pantsuit was beige, her shoes were black, her purse a patchwork of both those colors.
A gold badge was clipped to the breast pocket of her jacket. The garment had been tailored loosely, probably to hide the bulge of the gun holstered near her left breast. Nice try but not quite. Or maybe cops liked reminding you they were armed.
Too-curious almost-hazel brown eyes pretended not to surveil; Grace knew when she was being x-rayed.
“Please come in, Detective.”
“Elaine’s really okay.”
Only if we’re buddies. I don’t have buddies.
Henke said, “Never been in a psychologist’s office before.”
She’d settled in the chair facing Grace’s desk, was taking in Grace’s degrees and certificates.
“Always a first time, Detective.”
Henke chuckled. “Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice.”
“Of course. This is a terrible thing. Do you have any idea who killed Mr. Toner?”