Wonders Never Cease (10 page)

Leah made a roll of her eyes that said, “Are you just figuring that out?”

“I'd like to ask a few questions if you don't mind,” Armantrout said.

Leah replied with a bored shrug, and Natalie wished she could kick her without being spotted.

“How long have you been seeing angels?”

“I only saw one,” Leah said. “It's not like they're everywhere.”

“Do you see any now?”

“Do you?”

“Why just the other day, Leah? Why do you suppose you saw the angel then?”

Leah glared at him. “'Cause that's when he was there.”

Armantrout nodded and scribbled something on a legal pad. He looked up again and asked, “Leah, what is it like for you at home?”

“Excuse me,” Natalie said. “What exactly are you asking?”

Armantrout ignored her. “Leah, do you feel loved? Accepted? Would you say that you feel—safe?”

“Hold it a minute,” Natalie said. “Leah, would you mind stepping out in the hallway for a moment? I'd like a chance to speak to Mr. Armantrout alone.”

When Leah left the room Natalie turned to the counselor. “What are you doing?”

“I'm just trying to understand Leah better.”

“You ask my daughter if she feels loved in front of me? Don't you think that's putting her on the spot a little? What's she supposed to tell you?”

“Are you afraid of what she might say?”

Natalie narrowed her eyes. “Look—my daughter
feels loved
, okay? Nobody loves her daughter more than I do.”

“And your husband?”

“I'm not married.”

“Divorced?”

“Yes.”

“Was the divorce amicable?”

Natalie glared at him. “Do you know what a divorce is?”

“What was the experience like for your daughter?”

Natalie paused. She didn't mind the questions as much as his manner of asking them; he casually tossed them off as though he were reading from a grocery list. “It was difficult for her, okay?”

“Tell me, had Leah formed an attachment bond with her father?”

An “attachment bond
”? “As much as he would let her.”

“And after the divorce, did she experience a sense of loss? Of upheaval?”

“Her parents split up. We moved. He disappeared. What do you think?”

“And what about now? Do you live alone?”

Natalie gritted her teeth. “Would you mind telling me where you're going with all this?”

“I'm simply trying to understand Leah's home environment, that's all.”

“I have a boyfriend,” she said. “We live together.”

“And how long has this relationship been going on? How long have you shared a household?”

“We met at work not long after the divorce. We've been living together for almost a year.”

“Would you say Leah has bonded with this man?”

Natalie stopped. “Look, these are very personal questions—
too
personal. I don't see why you need to know all this.”

“Ms. Pelton, your daughter claims to have seen an angel. Doesn't that concern you?”

“My daughter has a very vivid imagination.”

“But this is more than just an imaginative story. Leah insists that she has actually seen an angel. She seems quite convinced.”

“I just don't see the harm,” Natalie said.

“Your daughter has apparently suffered a psychotic episode.”

“Whoa,” she said. “A
psychotic episode
? What in the world are you talking about?”

Armantrout turned and took a dictionary from his bookshelf. “Let me read you something: ‘
Psychosis
: A severe mental disorder, with or without organic damage, characterized by derangement of personality and loss of contact with reality and causing deterioration of normal social functioning.'”

“
Derangement of personality
?” Natalie said incredulously. “You have to be joking.”

“Let me draw your attention to the phrase ‘loss of contact with reality.' That's what concerns me here. I'm also concerned by the phrase ‘causing deterioration of normal social functioning.' Leah is possibly in the early stages of psychosis; we need to determine whether her condition is likely to deteriorate, and whether she could become a danger to others.”

“A
danger
? I don't understand you people. It's not like she saw the devil or something. Leah thinks she saw an angel—one
of the good guys, remember? Isn't this an Episcopal school?”

Armantrout smiled. “We're not all so medieval around here, Ms. Pelton. Some of us are trained in the sciences. There has to be a naturalistic explanation for what your daughter saw, and that explanation is probably psychological or emotional in nature. I don't mean to pry into your personal life, but it's quite possible that Leah's home environment has triggered this episode.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Leah has suffered a trauma: the breakup of her family; the absence of her father; the loss of the safe and secure world of her early childhood. She suddenly finds herself living in a new place with a man she doesn't even know. Tell me, Ms. Pelton, does Leah feel safe around your boyfriend?”

“What? Of course she does!”

“It's quite possible that Leah is projecting an angelic being as a kind of defense mechanism. An angel is a powerful mythical being—strong, protective, someone that Leah hopes can watch over her and keep her safe from harm.”

Natalie stood up. “I've had enough of this.”

“Ms. Pelton, please—”

“Tell me something, Mr. Armantrout. Are you actually a licensed psychologist, or is this just an armchair diagnosis? Because I don't appreciate your making accusations about Leah's ‘home environment' or suggesting that she doesn't feel safe. My daughter is safe and secure—and loved. I don't know what she saw or why she thinks it was an angel, but if you think this is a
psychotic episode
then I think
you're
psychotic.”

Armantrout held up both hands. “We're all simply trying to understand Leah.”

“No, that's what
you're
trying to do. I'm just trying to satisfy this school's ridiculous requirements so my daughter can go back to class where she belongs.”

Armantrout picked up his pen. “I'm recommending that Leah have a full psychiatric evaluation.”

“What? Are you out of your mind?”

“And possibly an MRI.”

“An MRI? What in the world for?”

Armantrout referred again to the open dictionary. “‘
Psychosis
: A severe mental disorder, with or without organic damage . . .' There are abnormalities in the brain that have been known to produce hallucinations, Ms. Pelton. An MRI would rule out the possibility of any organic damage. I think it would be a good precaution.”

Natalie was so furious that her hands were trembling, but she did her best to control her rage. “Okay,” she said evenly. “First I talked to the teacher and now I've seen the school counselor—I've done what everyone's asked of me. Thank you for your suggestions, Mr. Armantrout; I'll consider them. Is there anything else, or can Leah go back to class now?”

Armantrout looked at her. “I think it's safe for Leah to return to class—but we'll have to keep an eye on her, Ms. Pelton. After all, we owe it to the other children.”

11

Y
ou gotta be kidding,” Biederman said.

Kemp smiled. “Do I sound like I'm kidding?”

Biederman turned and looked at Wes Kalamar. “You're a respectable businessman. Do you think this thing is possible?”

“I know how it sounds,” Kalamar said. “I thought the same thing myself at first, but I think Kemp might be on to something here.”

The three men sat in upholstered chairs arranged in a horseshoe configuration in the West Lobby of Century Plaza Towers, the twin forty-four-story skyscrapers that provide premium office space to those in the investment, technology, and entertainment industries—including talent agents like Mort Biederman. The lobby was bustling with people, walking and talking and chatting on cell phones, their shoes clicking loudly on the Mesabi granite floor—providing the perfect sound mask for a delicate discussion.

“Let me get this straight,” Biederman said. “At night, while nobody's looking, you bring Olivia out of her coma—”

“Halfway out,” Kemp corrected. “Just enough to bring her to a semiconscious state.”

“Okay, halfway out—then you dress up like an angel and you give her a message from God. Right so far?”

Kemp nodded.

“Then, when the doctors bring her out of the coma for good, Olivia thinks she just had an out-of-body experience.”

“A near-death experience.”

“Whatever. And you say she'll remember it. She'll actually believe it.”

“Why wouldn't she? It will seem perfectly real to her—because it
was
real.”

“No offense, my friend, but you don't look like any angel I've ever seen—not that I've seen any.”

Kemp shrugged. “A blinding light, fuzzy vision, a slight buzz from the propofol—her mind will fill in the rest.”

“And my part would be to encourage her to write a book about her experience.” He nodded to Wes. “A book that his company will publish.”

Kalamar leaned closer. “She doesn't even have to write the thing—I can write it. Shoot, I can write the book in advance because we already know what the ‘message' is going to be. We'll do some interviews with her—make her think she's dictating the whole thing—but we can have the book practically ready to go. We can get it to press in no time. How good is that?”

“You sound like a man in a hurry,” Biederman said.

“Who isn't in a hurry to make money?”

Biederman nodded. “You have a point. And when the book comes out, we split thirds—is that the basic deal?”

“That's the offer.”

“So?” Kemp said. “What do you think, Mr. Biederman?”

Biederman stared at each of the men in turn. “I'll tell you what I think, gentlemen. Olivia Hayden is like a daughter to me—the daughter I never had. I think the two of you are asking me to take advantage of her—to exploit her terrible misfortune for profit. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that's something I cannot do—not for a measly third.”

Kemp shook his head. “Forget it, Biederman. Straight thirds—that's the deal, take it or leave it. You've got the smallest part of this operation, and you stand to take a bigger cut than either one of us. You're her agent—if you broker this deal with Kalamar, won't you take a percentage of Hayden's earnings too? And as for exploiting ‘poor Olivia,' who are you kidding? Let's not forget the twenty percent she'll walk away with—that's worth millions. Aren't you her agent? Isn't it your job to find profitable deals for her? Can you think of a deal more profitable than this one? Think it over, Biederman—in this deal everybody wins and nobody loses.”

Biederman paused. “And absolutely no danger to Olivia?”

“I'm a nurse and a trained anesthesiologist,” Kemp said.

“If you're an anesthesiologist, how come you're a nurse?”

“Long story,” Kemp said. “The point is, she'll be in a hospital and I'll be with her from seven p.m. to seven a.m. every night. Ordinarily I only work three or four nights in a row, but I can work something out with the other night nurses. I can arrange to be her nurse every night the entire time she's there. There'll be no danger to your client.”

Biederman finally nodded. “Okay. We split thirds of the publisher's earnings.”

“
Net
earnings,” Kalamar corrected. “After production and promotional expenses.”

“Which will be itemized—in writing.”

“Of course.”

“And what about foreign language editions? Book clubs? Subsidiary and affiliate editions? What about—”

“I hate to interrupt you
businessmen
,” Kemp said, “but we can work out all these details later. We've got something a lot more important to take care of right now, and we need to do it fast.”

“What's that?”

“Hayden will only be in that coma for the next few days. We need to get this thing rolling immediately—even tonight—but I need something to say. What's this ‘message from God' going to be?”

“He's right,” Kalamar said. “We need a story.”

Biederman shook his head. “What we need is a script.”

“Who's going to write it?”

The three men looked at one another.

“I should do it,” Kalamar said. “I work with stories every day.”

Biederman looked at him doubtfully. “And every busboy in L.A. has a screenplay.”

“I'm serious. You show me a publisher and I'll show you a frustrated writer.”

“Frustration I got—we need good material. Besides, a story is not what we need here.”

“Why not?”

“Because McAvoy can't just open a book and read it to her: ‘Once upon a time there was an angel.' He has to talk to her—he needs dialogue—he needs a script.”

“I don't have time to memorize a script,” Kemp said.

“You don't have to. You can prop it up in front of you. Just keep it off-camera—Liv does it all the time. Little notes, little reminders. Did you see
Ashes of Desire
? Big love scene with Johnny Depp and Liv kept forgetting her line: ‘What is love, but a peculiar form of blindness?' Even I can remember it, but she kept drawing a blank. She finally had to stick a Post-it on his forehead.”

“I still say we need a story,” Kalamar said. “It needs structure—a lead, an objective, a confrontation, a knockout ending. It needs transcendence.”

Biederman groaned. “What it needs is a decent setup and a third act that doesn't put the audience to sleep. I should write it. I've been reviewing scripts for Olivia for twenty years.”