Dead Time Read online

  As the words left my mouth, I recalled the doodles on the cover of the bound book of Sudoku puzzles in Lisa’s limited-stay apartment in Morningside Heights.

  One of the scribbles had been YOUTUBE.

  “Really? What’s the YouTube link? Never mind. Just forward the clip you have to me,” Merideth said. “I can capture the link that way.”

  I hesitated while I stared at my phone. Forwarding wasn’t an intuitive process. While I tried to apply the schema schema, Merideth recognized my digital dyslexia. With surprising patience, she walked me through the simple process of forwarding the clip to her so she could capture the YouTube URL.

  I waited to receive the enhanced version of the clip from her while she waited to receive the YouTube address from me. She won. I wasn’t surprised. I was operating with a pretty high handicap.

  After about thirty seconds she said, “Okay, I have the YouTube version on my Mac. It’s playing now. It’s not enhanced. But the effing thing is really posted on effing YouTube. Forty-seven views so far. It’s been up for, let’s see…almost a month.”

  “I’m not…YouTube conversant, Meri. Could you translate?”

  “Somebody uploaded—you know what that means, yes?—the clip to YouTube about a month ago. It’s called ‘Grand Canyon Floor: HEAD and shoulders, KNEES and toes.’ ‘Head’ and ‘knees’ are in caps. Cute. It’s been viewed forty-seven different times. Forty-seven views is nothing in YouTube land. Nothing. There’re only a couple of viewer ratings. They suck. Given the quality, that’s not too surprising. There are three comments…not kind. One complains about the resolution and the light. A couple more ask what it’s supposed to be.”

  “Who posted it? Is there a name?”

  “The user name is ‘g-g-i-f-t-t-m.’” Lowercase, all one word. I’ll get one of my people on it, see if we can find the originating ISP or maybe even track down a locator for the machine that uploaded the file. That might lead us to Lisa.”

  I wasn’t sure what any of that meant, but I could guess. Merideth was looking for electronic evidence of the original source of the clip.

  “We can talk in the morning after your people do their checking,” I said.

  “It’s not just this one, Alan. There is a series on YouTube from the same user name. A lot.”

  “Can you play them?” I asked.

  She grew quiet. I stayed quiet.

  “This will take some time,” she said finally.

  My mobile phone was in my lap. It buzzed. I read the screen. Amy.

  Merideth said, “It’s—”

  “Hold on, Meri. Just a second.” I covered the microphone on the landline, and flipped open my cell. “Hi,” I said to Amy.

  “We need your help. Did you go to the house? Do you know what happened?”

  “I went. I couldn’t find you. I heard some things, but I don’t know if—”

  “We’re with Kanyn. They said she’d tried to…hurt herself. They took her to the hospital for evaluation. Then they released her from the ER. Just like that. She told them what happened at the house was an accident and they let her out, Alan. We asked them to keep her overnight. They wouldn’t. We don’t think she’s in great shape.”

  I recalled my earlier discussion with Amy about Kanyn’s apparent mood disorder. “Has she tried to hurt herself before tonight?” I asked.

  “Sure. Yes. A few times. Not serious. Mel said to tell you she’s a cutter.”

  Shit. Cutting could mean a few different things that ranged from concerning to awful. Added to the dysthymia and trichotillomania, though, it was an alarming sign. From my view as a psychologist the only reliable data for predicting future behavior is past behavior. A history of recent suicidal ideation plus a legacy of previous self-mutilating acts equals nothing but trouble.

  “The ER discharged her?”

  “They thought she’d be okay with me and Mel. That’s what they said.”

  I said, “I assume she doesn’t have insurance.”

  “Of course not.”

  The bar for inpatient admission for mental-health problems—especially for patients without insurance—had risen higher and higher during the years I’d been in practice. The bar had become so high that friends and family members were often required to do a terrifying job—suicide watch—that should only ever be handled by clinical professionals in controlled settings.

  “Where are you right now?” I asked.

  “Mel’s car, on the 101. We’re going to Tarzana. We can’t go home. The fire department says it’s not safe. With the gas thing.”

  “Is Kanyn…stable right now?”

  “Yes, that’s right. She’s with us in the car. I think she just woke up.”

  “You’re telling me that you can’t talk freely in front of her?”

  “That’s probably right.”

  “But you’re worried she might be a danger to herself?”

  “That’s a good description. Not too much traffic.”

  “Does Kanyn have family close by? Anyone you can call?”

  “Chicago. We talked to her dad. Didn’t go well. They don’t get along.”

  I heard another voice through the phone.

  Amy said, “That was Mel. She thinks it would be great for you to come to Tarzana. We could really use your help, Alan.”

  My phone buzzed in my hand. I looked at the screen. OUT OF AREA. Lauren, I thought. I considered trying to use call waiting. I rejected the option immediately. I knew I couldn’t juggle three phone calls. Reluctantly, I let Lauren slide to voice mail.

  “Now?” I said to Amy. I knew the answer.

  Amy said, “I’ll send you a map to the house, okay? In Tarzana. To your phone.”

  “Why don’t you just give me an address? I do better with GPS. I’ll find it. Can you hold a second?” I switched phones. “Merideth?”

  “Where have you been?”

  “I have an emergency here. I need to go.”

  “I have one here, Alan.”

  I could hear the offense in her voice. “This may be part of yours. Can we continue this in the morning? Then you can tell me what’s on those clips. What your people were able to learn…about that stuff they’re checking for you.”

  I didn’t wait for her to begin her counterargument. I hung up the landline and grabbed a pen. “I’m ready for that address,” I said to Amy.

  She gave me the address in Tarzana and added some details.

  I said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I closed my cell.

  I hadn’t told Merideth about Eric.

  I retrieved Lauren’s voice mail. It was sweet and warm. She was hopeful she would meet her daughter soon. She said she was almost ready to come home.

  I sat in the empty room, trying to find some energy. If I were in Ottavia’s apartment, I would have strolled to Times Square for an infusion. I wondered if there was an L.A. counterpart. If there was such a place, I didn’t know it.

  I played the enhanced version of the clip on my phone. Oh God, I thought. Oh God. I had to guess who was who.

  The building creaked. I held my breath. Earthquake.

  The sound repeated itself.

  I exhaled in a little laugh. It turned out that Sam snored. Loudly. I hadn’t known that.

  I scribbled out a note so he would know what I was up to and left it on the counter.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Traffic cooperated. Chloe knew the way to Tarzana. She was so confident in her directions that I began adding some backstory to her bio: She had a brother who was living in Tarzana. He’d lost a leg to an IED north of Baghdad. She visited him all the time. He suffered from PTSD, but he was doing the best he could.

  My final turn was from Ventura Boulevard to Topeka Drive.

  Without Chloe’s help, my unfinished adolescent business might have drawn me to the other side of the Valley, and left me prowling the dark lanes of Hidden Hills for the first Amy, the one on the white horse.

  The Tarzana landmarks were pedestrian. I wa
s disappointed. I’d expected some Edgar Rice Burroughs influence in the burg’s street names. Cheetah Lane. Jane Way. Or better still, Jane Lane. Instead I was going to end up on a street—Topeka Drive—apparently honoring the capital of Kansas, an appellation that would have been acceptable for a town commemorating L. Frank Baum for The Wizard of Oz, but not for recognizing Edgar Rice Burroughs for Tarzan of the Apes.

  Tarzana, I thought, deserved better.

  My short drive down Topeka Drive started beside a large LDS center—I guessed it was a stake; it looked too big to be a ward, but a tad too modest to be a temple. Just beyond the Mormon edifice, the neighborhood transitioned into a lush residential lane lined with houses that were large enough to garrison troops if we were planning to invade Mexico. Amy had warned me on the phone that the street address I was looking for was set far back from the road, was unmarked, and that it was difficult to spot the driveway if you didn’t know where to look. She instructed me to park my car on a wide part of the shoulder not too far past the building on the corner and then call her on her cell. She would find me and lead me in.

  Although it was out of character, I did what I was told. Must have been Chloe’s influence.

  The tree canopy on Topeka Drive was lush, and the landscaping near where I parked the Camry was more thicket than manicure. The houses sat on big lots and were set back from the road. The façades mostly disappeared behind greenery.

  Moments after I called, Amy appeared out of nowhere. Mel was with her. I wondered whom that left inside with Kanyn.

  Both girls looked as tired as I felt. “Long night,” I said. I knew from experience what it was like to be in the immediate vicinity of someone whose suicidal risk was high. Minutes passed slowly, like time spent waiting for an ambulance. Once fatigue set in, the only thing that kept the caretakers awake was terror about what might happen if they slept.

  Mel waved, stuffed her hands into the pockets of her shorts—they were short indeed—and sighed.

  Amy said, “Kanyn’s a mess. She sounds paranoid. She said there was someone in the house. She says that she didn’t touch the gas line in the wall heater, that he did—whoever it was. I’ve never seen her paranoid before.”

  Delusions? I thought. I’m out of my league.

  Mel wasn’t quite as surprised by Kanyn’s mental state. Mel’s voice was weary with physical fatigue and something more fundamental. She said, “She’s been like this before. And there might have been someone in the house. We don’t know.”

  “Is she alone?” I asked, praying the answer was negative.

  Amy started to speak, but Mel interrupted. “Jules is with her.”

  So, I was about to meet Jules. “I’m sorry you guys have to go through this. Is Kanyn awake?”

  Mel nodded.

  “Did they medicate her?”

  “No.”

  I asked, “She’s okay physically?”

  Amy said, “Has some burns on her legs. Not serious.”

  “After I spend some time around her I’ll tell you what I think,” I said. “But I can’t do much. I’m not her therapist. I’m not licensed to practice in California. You understand?”

  They both nodded.

  I knew they didn’t understand. “If she’s still a danger to herself, you’ll have to take her to another ER. I can tell you what to say when you get there, but that’s about it.”

  “Then what?” Mel asked.

  “Pray, if you’re so inclined,” I said. I stuffed my hands in my pockets. The night air had a little chill. “Let’s go do it.”

  Neither of them moved. Mel said, “I need to tell you something first.” Amy moved from the glow of the streetlight into the shadows. If I were on my game, I would have recognized that Amy knew what was coming. But I was so tired that I missed the poignancy of Mel’s overture—my pulse didn’t register the slightest blip at her words. I said, “Sure, I’m ready.”

  “This is my…boyfriend’s house. The one I was at this afternoon when we were supposed to meet?”

  I glanced toward Amy. She wasn’t looking at me. I said, “Yeah? So?”

  Mel’s eyes were pointed at my feet. She said, “No one actually lives here. It’s a…vacant house—the old barn from the Edgar Rice Burroughs ranch.” She looked up and—accurately—read confusion in my face. But she mistakenly guessed I was confused about Burroughs and Tarzan and the apparent barn/house continuum problem.

  “Burroughs is the guy who wrote the original Tarzan book,” she explained. I nodded to let her know I was still with her. I was hoping she would skip to the good part. “His old barn was converted into a house in the forties. The grandparents moved to a nursing home. They held on to the barn hoping, you know…Anyway, when they finally died they left it to their grandkids. The kids can’t agree what to do with it. One wants to keep it. The others want to sell it. But it’s been empty for, like, ever. Since the fifties, maybe. Or sixties. Inside, it’s…like a museum from back then.”

  “Okay,” I said. I was hearing much more house history than I wanted.

  Whatever Mel was saying through her anxiety was lost on me. I forced myself to adopt therapy ears, which meant assuming there was a point to the story. I couldn’t find the point. I wasn’t processing well.

  I said, “No judgments about the house. The barn. Whatever. I promise.” I raised my right hand to cement the oath. “It’s just a barn to me. Everything else is gravy. Let’s go in.”

  I took a step. Neither of the girls moved to join me. I turned to Mel.

  Mel said, “I haven’t been honest with you.”

  Who is? I thought. Then: Sam. Sam is honest with me.

  I suspected that some more barn/house history was coming from Mel. If that was the direction we were heading, I was hoping for some facts related to the jungle. Without some fascinating Cheetah or Jane anecdotes to prime my neural pump, I knew I would have to take some notes if I were going to remember any of this in the morning.

  “I wasn’t here before. This afternoon. That was a lie. I was with Jules.”

  “Jules?” I asked.

  Mel said, “I’m a lesbian, Alan.”

  My first thought was, Well, then, what the hell are you doing with a boyfriend in Tarzana?

  It took me a couple of additional moments to recognize that I’d just been granted the gift of a profound revelation. I was too tired to choose the right words. I said, “You’ve known…for a while?”

  She grinned. “Yes. A few years.”

  “Okay,” I said as I continued to gather my wits. “So Jules is your…girlfriend?”

  Mel nodded.

  “This is her place?”

  “With her brothers. Jules lives in Westwood. The part about her brothers and what to do with the house, that’s all true.”

  I considered saying something quasi-therapeutic and profound, or at least profound-sounding. But I recalled how fine-tuned Mel’s radar was for therapy-speak. I said, “I’m looking forward to meeting Jules. Can we go in now?”

  She shook her head. She wasn’t done with her revelations. Mel said, “My dad doesn’t like gay…people.”

  Ah, so that’s why I’m here, I thought. Because Wallace doesn’t like gay people.

  The way Mel said that her father didn’t like gay people carried all the presumed disappointment—of children about themselves, and of sons and daughters about their parents—that children are able to stuff into simple-sounding but explosive-laden parental appraisals like, “My parents really wanted a son.” Or “My dad wanted me to play football.”

  I said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Mel.” I hadn’t been aware of Wallace’s bias against homosexuals. I got lost for a moment wondering how a therapist in Boulder could be as successful as Wallace with that particular prejudice. I also wondered whether everyone else in town knew. Was I the last?

  Is that why Wallace didn’t come to Adrienne’s service?

  “Does he know you’re gay?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so. He’d say something
. You know my dad.”

  The crossword finally began to take form—16 Down was a seven-letter word for “uncomfortable.” Awkward. “That must make things hard for you. With your family.”

  “I don’t go home much. I don’t like him to visit here. It’s pretty weird.”

  “You keep that boyfriend handy in the Valley just in case?”

  “I do.” She smiled. “For a long time my dad thought I was seeing Jack. Jack’s gay, but he can do straight.”

  I stepped forward into the light of the streetlamp and made my eyes as warm as I could. I didn’t want to pretend to Mel that I was in any position to repair whatever damage had already taken place between her and Wallace. “Can we go in now?”

  She nodded, but she didn’t take a step.

  I thought she had been expecting some additional drama from her disclosure. What kind? I didn’t know. It had taken a monumental effort for her to tell me she was lesbian. I thought it was important for her to know that for me it wasn’t monumental news.

  “Dr. A—Adrienne—your friend? The one who was killed? She’s the first person I ever told how I was feeling.”

  “Adrienne was a sweetheart,” I said. “Good choice on your part.”

  She kicked at the dirt. “Are you going to tell him?” she asked.

  The wrinkle. “Your father? God no. No more than I would tell him that I came to L.A. and discovered that you’re straight. My friends’ kids’ sex lives don’t come up in conversation very often.” I thought about it for a moment to make certain that exhaustion wasn’t poisoning my appraisal. “Nope, doesn’t usually happen.”

  My babbling hadn’t convinced her. She said, “That means no?”

  “That means no.” I paused until she seemed to notice I was pausing. Then I said, “Would you like me to tell him?”

  She inhaled quickly. She said, “Therapist question.” Then she laughed.

  I laughed, too. She was right—it had been a therapist question.

  She said, “I’m not ready.”

  “Your mom knows?”

  “She’s cool.”

  “I’m glad. For you. That Cassandra’s cool. That’s something.”

  Mel had been prepared for a reaction from me that was apocalyptic. That was transference. Once she finally accepted the fact that her sexual orientation wasn’t monumental news to me—that was reality—she was ready to move on.