CHAPTER 33

I copied down Leticia Hollings’s phone number in Temecula and Milo got Elisabeth Mia Scoggins’s last-known address from the DMV in Santa Monica; it matched a phone book listing for Scoggins, E.

Chucking his beer bottle, he saw himself out.

Beth Scoggins lived in an apartment on Twentieth Street near Pico. Low-rent section of the beach city, but the thought that she’d achieved some sort of independence was encouraging.

It was seven-fifteen p.m. Allison’s office was on Montana, the high-rent north end of Santa Monica. I knew she was booked with patients until nine but her usual dinner break was at eight. If I managed to set up a meeting with Beth Scoggins, maybe I’d have time to drop in later…

Mr. Halo.

A young woman picked up the phone, sounding wary.

“Ms. Scoggins?”

“This is Beth.”

I gave her my name and my title, asked if she’d be willing to talk about her experiences in foster care.

“How’d you find me?” she said.

Panic in her voice made me want to back down. But that might scare her more. “I’m doing research- ”

“Is this… is this some kind of rip-off?”

“No, I really am a psychol- ”

“What research? What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry if- ”

“What research?”

“The stresses of foster care.”

Silence.

“I consult to the police and a young woman who was cared for by the same people who cared for you was found- ”

“Cared for? Is that what you said? Cared for? What’s your name?”

I told her.

Scratching sounds; copying it down.

“Ms. Scog- ”

“You shouldn’t be calling me. This is wrong.”

Click.

I sat there feeling dirty. Plenty of time to drop in on Allison now, but I was in no mood to be social. Logging onto my med school computer account, I ran an Ovid search on suicide and foster care, found no objective studies, only suggestions that kids taken out of their homes were at risk for all kinds of problems.

Gee thanks, academia.

I thought of calling Beth Scoggins back. Couldn’t see any way that wouldn’t make things worse. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after. Give her time to consider…

By eight I was starting to feel the need to eat. Not hunger, more like an obligation to keep my blood sugar up. Maybe I’d be useful to someone.

As I was contemplating canned soup versus tuna, Robin called.

The sound of her voice tightened my scalp.

“Hey,” I said. Eloquent.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all.”

“Okay,” she said. “There’s no easy way to tell you this, Alex, but I felt it was the right thing to do. Spike’s not doing so great.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Age. He’s got arthritis in his hind legs- you remember the left one was always a little dysplastic? Now it’s really weak. Also, his thyroid function’s low and his energy level’s flagging, I have to put medicine in his eyes, and his night vision’s just about gone. All the other tests are normal except for a slight enlargement of his heart. The vet says it’s understandable, given his age. For a Frenchie, he’s a real old guy.”

The last time I’d seen Spike, he’d hurled his twenty-six pounds three feet in the air and come down insouciant. “Poor little guy.”

“He’s not the same dog you’d remember, Alex. Lies around most of the day and he’s gotten pretty passive. With everyone, even strange men.”

“That’s a switch.”

“I just thought you should know. He’s getting good care, but… no buts. That’s it. I thought you should know.”

“Appreciate it,” I said. “Glad you found a good vet up there.”

“I’m talking about Dr. Rich.”

“You’re back in L.A.?”

“Have been,” she said. “For a month.”

“Permanently?”

“Maybe… I don’t want to get into that. I can’t honestly say how much longer Spike’s got. This seems better than calling you one day with bad news and have you not prepared.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I mean it.”

“If you’d like, you can come see him. Or I can bring him over sometime.” Pause. “If Allison doesn’t mind.”

“Allison wouldn’t mind.”

“No, she’s sweet.”

“How are you doing?” I said.

“Not great.” A beat. “Tim and I are over.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s for the best,” she said. “But this really isn’t about that, it’s about Spike, so if you do want to see him…”

“I’d like to if you think it would be helpful for him. Last time I dropped by he was pretty eager to have you to himself.”

“That was ages ago, Alex. He’s really not the same dog. And deep down he loves you. I think competing with you for my attention gave him a reason to get up in the morning. The challenge of another alpha male.”

“That and food,” I said.

“I wish he still stuffed his face. Now I have to coax him… the funny thing is, he never paid much attention to Tim one way or the other… no hostility, just ignored him. Anyway…”

“I’ll get by soon,” I said. “Where are you living?”

“Same place,” she said. “In the physical sense. Bye, Alex. Be well.”

Eeny meeny miny mo made it canned soup. Chicken noodle. The decision shouldn’t have taken fifteen minutes. I was opening the can when the phone rang.

Allison said, “Hi, it’s me. Got a problem.”

“Busy? I was thinking we could get together, but tomorrow’s fine.”

“We have to get together,” she said. “Now. That’s the problem.”

I was at her waiting room twenty minutes later. The space was empty and softly lit. I pushed the red button next to the sign that said Dr. Gwynn and she emerged.

No hug, no kiss, no smile- and I knew why. Her hair was tied up and the day had eaten most of her makeup. She ushered me to the small side office usually occupied by her assistant.

Perching on the edge of the desk, she twisted a gold bracelet. “She says she’s ready.”

“Your patient,” I said. “I still can’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” she said. “Five months of therapy.”

“Can you tell me how she came to you?”

“I can tell you everything,” she said. “She gave me carte blanche. Not that I’ll use it, because in her present state she can’t be trusted to make optimal decisions.”

“I’m sorry, Ali- ”

“She was referred by one of the volunteer counselors at the Holy Grace Tabernacle. She’d been searching for therapy, took some wrong turns, finally found someone with the good sense to refer out. She’s a resilient kid and on the surface she’s been doing okay. A research study would rate her as doing great because there’s no substance abuse and she’s gainfully employed- works at The Gap. She owns a fifteen-year-old clunker that usually starts and shares a one-bedroom apartment with three other girls.”

“You see her pro bono?”

“There’s no such thing as free,” she said. “I don’t sell delusions.”

Allison volunteered once a week at a hospice. Was one of the few busy Westside therapists who saw patients at deep discount.

That, I supposed, made Beth Scoggins’s presence a bit more than coincidence.

“The first three months were spent earning her trust. Then we started dancing around the issues. The history of abandonment was obviously crucial but she was resistant. Wouldn’t talk about foster care either, other than to say it hadn’t been fun. I’d gotten more directive the last few weeks but it’s been a drawn-out process. Her next appointment wasn’t for four days but an hour ago she put in an emergency call. Agitated, crying, I’ve never heard her like that, she’s always been a restrained girl. When I finally calmed her down, she told me someone claiming to be a psychologist had called her out of the blue, a research project on foster care. It confused her and scared her, she didn’t know what to think. Then she told me the caller’s name.”