Rogue

“Christ, I don't know how you do it. I'd be in a psych ward if I did what you do every day.” He knew she always took it hard when one of her patients died, which given the nature of her work, they sometimes did.

“It gets to me,” she admitted, “but it happens sometimes. I feel so sorry for the parents, she's an only child. I think it would kill me if anything ever happened to ours.” She had seen that special kind of grief too often, the loss of a child. It was what she feared most in life, the one thing she prayed would never happen to them.

“That's awful.” He worried about her. In spite of how well she handled it, he knew she didn't have an easy life, in part thanks to him. And he wanted to do whatever he could for her now. But there was nothing much he could do. And Hilary was her patient, not her child.

“I think I need a day off,” she said with a sigh. “I'll enjoy seeing you and the kids more tomorrow.” He was taking them to the opening of a play that night, and they were all going out to dinner the next night. “Besides, you should have time alone with them, without me tagging along.” She was always considerate about that.

“I like it when you tag along,” he said, smiling, although he loved being alone with his children too. He always came up with fun things for them to do. He was planning to take them skating the next day, and she said she might do that with them. But today, since the children were busy and in good hands, she wanted to be alone. Blake said to call if she changed her mind, and she promised she would. It was nice having him in town, to give her a breather for a change.

She went for a walk in the park and then hung around the house for the rest of the afternoon, and made herself some soup for dinner.

Sam called her before they went to the play, and he was excited about seeing it with his father.

“Have fun with Daddy tonight, and I'll come skating with you tomorrow,” she promised. She was actually looking forward to it, and felt better, although every time she thought of the Andersons and their overwhelming loss, her heart ached for them. She was thinking of them, as she ate her soup in the kitchen, and Zelda walked in.

“Is everything okay?” Zelda looked at her with worried eyes. She knew her well.

“Yeah, fine. Thanks, Zellie.”

“You look like someone died.”

“Actually, one of my patients did. A fifteen-year-old. It was very sad.”

“I hate what you do,” Zelda said fiercely. “It depresses me. I don't know how you do it. Why can't you do something cheerful like deliver babies?” Maxine smiled at what she said.

“I like being a shrink, and I actually manage to keep them alive sometimes.”

“That's a good thing,” Zelda said, and sat down next to her at the kitchen table. Maxine looked as though she needed company, and Zelda wasn't entirely wrong. She had good instincts about when to talk to her, and when to leave her alone. “How are the kids doing with their dad?”

“Fine. He took them on a helicopter ride, shopping, out to lunch and dinner, and the opening of a play tonight.”

“He's more like Santa Claus than a dad,” Zelda said accurately, and Maxine nodded as she finished her soup.

“He has to be, to make up for all the times he's not around,” she said matter-of-factly. It wasn't a criticism, it was a fact.

“You can't make up for that with a helicopter ride,” Zelda said wisely.

“It's the best he can do. He doesn't have it in him to stick around, for anyone. He was like that even before he made all that money. He just got worse once he had the means to indulge it. There have always been men like him in the world. In the old days, they became sea captains, adventurers, explorers. Christopher Columbus probably left a bunch of kids at home too. Some guys just aren't made to hang around and be normal husbands and dads.”

“My father was kind of like that,” Zelda admitted. “He walked out on my mom when I was three. He joined the merchant marine and disappeared. Years later she found out he had another wife and four kids in San Francisco. He had never bothered to divorce her, or even write to her. He just took off, and walked out on her, my brother and me.”

“Did you ever see him, later, I mean?” Maxine asked with interest. Zelda had never previously shared this part of her history. She was fairly private about her own life, and respectful of theirs.

“No, he died before I could. I meant to go out to California and meet him. My brother did. He wasn't too impressed. Our mom died of a broken heart. She drank herself to death when I was fifteen. I went to live with my aunt, and she died when I was eighteen. I've been a nanny ever since.” It explained why she had found her place working in families. They offered the stability and love she had never had as a child growing up. Maxine knew that her brother had died in a motorcycle accident years before. Zelda was essentially alone, except for the family she worked for, and the other nannies she had befriended over the years.