That night, after each took long, reflective soaking baths, the baker and his wife split an Ambien and fell into troubled sleep.
Lest our chronicle lean too heavily upon the travails of a certain child of nail-bitten hand, a child who has already had her goodly share of sorrow, a quick and painless exegesis of that hapless girl’s travels will here be provided, though more painless for some than for others.
Needless to say, upon her fleeing the Boar’s Head attic, things didn’t go any better. Amaryllis, venerable and nearly Blessed, fell in with a coven of runaway skeevs who favored Promenade benches by day and the debris-strewn husk of a condemned mental-health center by night. Their style in clothing ran to Goth, but a strain neither Morris nor Ruskin would recognize. She spent two fun-filled nights in Skeevy Hollow before being chased down by policemen, one of whose legs was bitten so hard that she had to be concussed into releasing her jaws — and got a hairline fracture for her trouble. Convalescence occurred in the lockdown unit of a psychiatric hospital in Alhambra. Once she emerged from the torpor of head trauma, the fiercely combative girl was given enough meds to become a bona-fide member of Mrs. Woolery’s tribe; she peed and bled (for menses had come) with the best of them.
Inside of a week, news of her reappearance had in its own excruciatingly random, slipshod way devolved to the stalwart Lani Mott, she of the special-advocates’ office berthed just inside the lobby of children’s court. Mrs. Mott convened with her supervisor, and a stratagem was devised. It was agreed that a visit to the Alhambra hospital must be paid and the child’s physical and mental state assessed, in view to finding a suitable placement — if not a private home (which seemed an impossible goal), then, say, a ranch-like environment for wayward children — perhaps even one out of state. Lani put her boss to work, then got her briefcase in order.
She packed a blue wallet of special business cards with the CASA “heart” logo and made sure to carry a copy of the signed notice from the Superior Court of the State of California for the County of Los Angeles Juvenile Court identifying her as the child’s Guardian Ad Litem of record.
When she saw Amaryllis, she was sickened. The girl drooled and could barely keep her head up. There were deep scratches on the insides of her arms. “Did you make these?” asked Lani over and over. She couldn’t figure out whether the poor thing was nodding or shaking her head. “Amaryllis, do you know who I am?” Finally, Lani abandoned the interview and told a nurse that she wished to speak with the doctor.
After waiting more than forty minutes, she asked again and was confronted by a different attendant.
“What is it you want?”
“I’ve already told the woman.”
“What woman.”
“A nurse. I didn’t get her name.”
“Well I’m the one in charge. So you better talk to me.”
She took a breath, and girded herself for battle. “I would like to speak with the prescribing physician.”
“That isn’t possible.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“He isn’t here. Who are you again?”
“I am an officer of the court.”
“An officer of—”
“Of the court. I would like to speak to Amaryllis Kornfeld’s psychiatrist and I would like to speak to him now. If he is in this building and you’re not telling me that, then you are potentially in a world of trouble.”
“Don’t you threaten me. May I see some I.D.?”
Lani handed her the court order and her driver’s license.
“Do you work with that detective?”
“What detective is that?” Lani asked.
“The one who came to see her. Well, obviously you don’t,” she said disdainfully, “because otherwise you would know what I’m talking about. Just wait here please.”
The nurse walked off with the documents, but Lani stopped her and said the driver’s license would have to stay.
Lani assumed the bitch had been talking about Detective Dowling, and tried not to get angry at him for having left her in the dark. Though someone might have at least phoned the CASA office; he was probably just overwhelmed, like everybody else. But these were matters of life or death, and it would have been nice to have gotten a call.
Some moments later, the nurse returned Lani’s papers and told her the doctor would see her, but only for a moment, as he was “about to lead group.”
The psychiatrist then appeared. He was around fifty and looked as if he’d been napping. He wore tennis shoes, Dockers and a faded madras sport shirt.
“I’m Dr. Fishman. What can I do for you?”
“Dr. Fishman, I’m Lani Mott. I just met with one of your patients, Amaryllis Kornfeld—”
“Are you a relative?”
“No, I am not. And she looked like hell. What have you been giving her?”
The psychiatrist actually laughed in her face. She felt a mote of his spittle cool on her cheek but made no move to acknowledge it.
“That’s confidential information. If you’re not a relative, I can’t even talk to you.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s right. That’s a state law.”
“Are you going to tell me about the law?”
“Listen, I don’t know who you are, but—”
“The nurse didn’t tell you?”
“If you’re not a relative, you’re wasting your time. Even if you were a relative, there is certain information I can’t even legally share with a parent.”
“Let me tell you something about the law, all right, Doctor? Are you listening? I am a Court Appointed Special Advocate! Do you think I’m playing a game here? You may be playing a game, but I’m too old for that. You’ve never run into someone like me, have you? Now, I’m not accusing you of anything, Doctor, but that girl could barely speak! She was drooling, OK? Now, I want to know what she’s on and the reason she’s on it, OK?”
“When she was admitted,” he said, like a child about to tear the wing off a bug, “she was dysphoric and circumlocutory. Do you know what that means, Miss—”
“It’s Mrs. And I’m not here for a DSM symposium. I need you to tell me some things, Doctor. You can tell me now or you can tell me in the morning, when a marshal comes down to make an official demand. The judge will want to know why you were uncooperative — do you really want to be under that kind of scrutiny? Maybe you’d like to read this.” She thrust the order at him while reciting from memory. “ ‘WIC section 106: Upon presentation of this order, the CASA shall be permitted to inspect and copy any records of any agency, hospital, school, organization, division or department of the state, physician and surgeon, nurse, other health care provider, psychologist, psychiatrist [italics hers], police department or mental health clinic relating to the child in the above matter without the consent of the child or the child’s parent.’ Do you think they could have made it any clearer, Dr. Fishbein?”
“Fishman,” he said with a dyspeptic grin, while giving the papers a cursory glance. “I’ll have to go find the records.”
“I’ll need a copy.”
“If I can find them, I’ll make you one.”
“We’ll do this however you’d like.”
“Is this 60 Minutes?” He smirked again, but less convincingly.
“Joke all you like, Doctor. But if I don’t leave with a copy of those records, it won’t be a joke, I assure you. I hope for your sake they reflect a full physical examination of that child before she was given whatever drugs you so ‘confidentially’ prescribed. I hope for your sake you didn’t phone those drugs in from a steakhouse. And I hope when I come back tomorrow, she’s in better shape than she’s in now.”