“I don’t think she will. She’s antsy, but seemed to really love the kid. The guilt helps us there- think how inadequate she must feel, the kid calling in like that. She knows this isn’t the right way to raise a child but can’t break out of her own pathology. It’s got to feel horrible for her. The way I see it, this is the right time to harness the guilt. If the kid gets better, maybe Mom’ll see the light, get some help for herself.”

“Is there a father in the picture?”

“No, she’s a widow. It happened when Melissa was a baby. Heart attack. I got the impression he was a much older man.”

“Sounds like you learned a lot from a brief visit.”

Her cheeks colored. “One tries. Listen, I don’t expect you to disrupt your life and drive out there on a regular basis. But getting a referral closer to home wouldn’t make any difference. Mom never leaves to go anywhere. For her, half a mile might as well be Mars. And if they do try therapy and it doesn’t work, they may never try it again. So I want somebody competent. After listening to you I’m convinced you’re right for the case. I’d greatly appreciate it if you could accept less than optimal. I’ll make it up to you with some solid referrals in the future. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I know I sound overinvolved and maybe I am- but the whole idea of a seven-year-old calling in like that… And that house.” She raised her eyebrows. “Besides, I figure it won’t be long before my practice really gets crazy and I don’t have the time to give anyone this kind of individual attention. So I might as well enjoy it while I can, right?”

Another reach into the Gladstone. “Anyway, here’s the relevant data.” She handed me a piece of note paper topped with the logo of a pharmaceutical company. On it she’d printed:

Pt: Melissa Dickinson, DOB 6/21/71.

Mom: Gina Dickinson.

And a phone number.