When we finished I ordered a double espresso and he had his teapot refilled.

After finishing my coffee, I said, “Getting back to the genetic issue, are there any other children- from a previous marriage?”

“No. Though there was a previous marriage. For Mr. Dickinson. But no children.”

“What happened to the first Mrs. Dickinson?”

He looked annoyed. “She died of leukemia- a fine young woman. The marriage had only lasted two years. It was very difficult for Mr. Dickinson. That’s when he plunged himself more deeply into his art collection.”

“What did he collect?”

“Paintings, drawings and etchings, antiquities, tapestries. He had an exceptional eye for composition and color, sought out damaged masterpieces and had them restored. Some he restored himself- he’d learned the craft as a student. That was his true passion- restoration.”

I thought of him restoring his second wife. As if he’d read my mind, Dutchy gave me a sharp look.

“What else,” I said, “besides loud noises and bright lights, is Melissa afraid of?”

“The darkness. Being alone. And at times, nothing at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’ll throw a fit with no provocation.”

“What does “a fit’ look like?”

“Very similar to what I’ve already described. Crying, rapid breathing, running around screaming. Sometimes she’ll simply lie on the floor and kick her feet. Or clutch the nearest adult and hold on like a… a limpet.”

“Do these fits generally occur after she’s been refused something?”

“Not typically- there is that, of course. She doesn’t take kindly to being restricted. What child does?”

“So she has tantrums, but these fits go beyond that.”

“I’m referring to genuine fear, Doctor. Panic. It seems to come out of nowhere.”

“Does she ever say what’s scaring her?”

“Monsters. “Bad things.’ Sometimes she claims to hear noises. Or see and hear things.”

“Things no one else hears or sees?”

“Yes.” Tremble in his voice.

I said, “Does that bother you? More than the other symptoms?”

“One does wonder,” he said softly.

“If you’re worried about psychosis or some sort of thought disorder, don’t. Unless there’s something else going on that you haven’t told me. Like self-destructive behavior, or bizarre speech.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” he said. “I suppose it’s all part of her imagination?”

“That’s exactly what it is. She’s got a good one, but from what I’ve seen, she’s very much in touch with reality. Children her age typically see and hear things that adults don’t.”

He looked doubtful.

I said, “It’s all part of play. Play is fantasy. The theater of childhood. Kids compose dramas in their heads, talk to imaginary playmates. It’s a kind of self-hypnosis that’s necessary for healthy growth.”

He remained noncommittal, but was listening.

I said, “Fantasy can be therapeutic, Mr. Dutchy. Can actually reduce fears by giving children a sense of control over their lives. But for certain children- those who are high-strung, introverted, those living in stressful environments- that same ability to paint mental pictures can lead to anxiety. The pictures simply become too vivid. Once again, there may be a constitutional factor. You said her father was an excellent art restorer. Did he show any other sort of creativity?”

“Most definitely. He was an architect by trade and a gifted painter in his own right- when he was younger.”

“Why’d he stop?”

“He convinced himself he wasn’t good enough to justify devoting much time to it, destroyed all his work, never painted again, and began collecting. Traveling the world. His architecture degree was from the Sorbonne- he loved Europe. He built some lovely buildings before he invented the strut.”

“The strut?”

“Yes,” he said, as if explaining the ABC’s. “The Dickinson strut. It’s a process for strengthening steel, used extensively in construction.”

“What about Mrs. Dickinson?” I said. “She was an actress. Any other creative outlets there?”

“I have no idea, Doctor.”

“How long has she been agoraphobic- afraid to leave the house?”

“She leaves the house,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Yes, sir. She strolls the grounds.”

“Does she ever leave the grounds?”

“No.”

“How large are the grounds?”

“Six and three-quarter acres. Approximately.”

“Does she stroll them extensively- from corner to corner?”

Throat clear. Cheek chew. “She prefers to remain fairly close to the house. Is there anything else, Doctor?”

My initial question remained unanswered; he’d nit-picked his way out of giving a direct reply. “How long has she been that way- not leaving the grounds?”

“From the… beginning.”

“From the time of the attack?”

“Yes, yes. It’s quite logical, really, when one understands the chain of events. When Mr. Dickinson brought her home right after the wedding, she was in the midst of the surgical process. In great agony, still very frightened- traumatized by the… by what had been done to her. She never left her room, on Professor Montecino’s orders- she was ordered to lie still for hours at a time. The new flesh had to be kept extremely supple and clean. Special air filters were brought in to remove particles that might pollute her. Nurses hovered around the clock with treatments and injections and lotions and baths that made her cry out in terrible pain. She couldn’t have left even if she’d wanted to. Then, the pregnancy. She was restricted to total bed rest, bandaged and unbandaged constantly. Four months into the pregnancy, Mr. Dickinson… passed on, and she… It was a safe place for her. She couldn’t leave. Surely that’s obvious. So in a sense it’s completely logical, isn’t it? The way she is. She’s gravitated to her safe place. You see that, don’t you, Doctor?”

“I do. But the challenge now is to find out what’s safe for Melissa.”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.” Avoiding my glance.

I called the waiter over and ordered another espresso. When it arrived, along with more hot water for Dutchy, he wrapped his hands around his teacup but didn’t drink. As I took a sip he said, “Forgive my presumption, Doctor, but what, in your educated opinion, is the prognosis? For Melissa.”

“Given family cooperation, I’d say good. She’s motivated and bright and has a lot of insight for someone her age. But it’s going to take time.”

“Yes, of course. Doesn’t anything worthwhile?”

Suddenly he pressed forward, hands flapping, fingers wiggling. An odd bit of fluster for such a staid man. I smelled bay rum and shrimp. For a moment I thought he was going to grab my fingers. But he stopped himself abruptly, as if at an electrified fence.

“Please help her, Doctor. I pledge everything in my power to aid your treatment.”

His hands were still in the air. He noticed it and gave a look of chagrin. Ten fingers plummeted to the table like gun-shot ducks.

“You’re very devoted to this family,” I said.

He winced and looked away, as if I’d exposed some secret vice.

“As long as she comes in, I’ll treat her, Mr. Dutchy. What you can do to help is tell me everything I need to know.”

“Yes, of course. Is there something else?”

“McCloskey. What does she know about him?”

“Nothing!”

“She mentioned his name.”

“That’s all he is to her- a name. Children hear things.”

“Yes, they do. And she’s heard plenty- she knows he attacked her mother with acid because he didn’t like her. What else has she been told about him?”

“Nothing. Truly. As I said, children overhear- but he’s not a topic of conversation in our household.”

“Mr. Dutchy, in lieu of accurate information, children make up their own facts. It would be best for Melissa to understand what happened to her mother.”

His knuckles were white around the cup. “What are you suggesting, sir?”

“That someone sit down and talk with Melissa. Explain to her why McCloskey had Mrs. Dickinson attacked.”