Strangers

him go to the woodchuck's party."
        "That's right."
        "Fibbing's bad," Marcie said softly. "Nobody likes fibbers - 'specially not woodchucks and squirrels."
        Disarmed, Jorja had to bite back a laugh and struggle to keep a stern tone in her voice. "Nobody likes fibbers."
        They stopped at a red traffic light, but Marcie still looked straight ahead, refusing to meet Jorja's eyes. The girl said, "It's 'specially bad to fib to your mommy or your daddy."
        "Or to anyone who cares about you. And making up stories to scare Kara - that's the same as fibbing."
        "Wasn't tryin' to scare her," Marcie said.
        "Trying to get sympathy, then. You were never in a hospital."
        "Was."
        "Oh, yeah?" Marcie nodded vigorously, and Jorja said, "When?"
        "Don't 'member when."
        "You don't remember, huh?"
        "Almost."
        "Almost isn't good enough. Where was this hospital?"
        "I'm not sure. Sometimes… I 'member it better than other times. Sometimes I can hardly 'member it at all, and sometimes I 'member it real good, and then I… I get scared."
        "Right now you don't remember too well, huh?"
        "Nope. But today I 'membered real good… and scared myself."
        The traffic light changed, and Jorja drove in silence, wondering how best to handle the situation. She had no notion what to make of it. It was foolish ever to believe that you understood your child. Marcie had always been able to surprise Jorja with actions, statements, big ideas, musings, and questions that seemed not to have come from within herself but which it seemed she had carefully selected from some secret book of startling behavior that was known to all kids but not to adults, some cosmic volume perhaps titled Keeping Mom and Dad Off-Balance.
        As if she had just dipped into that book again, Marcie said, "Why were all Santa Claus's kids deformed?"
        "What?"
        "Well, see, Santa and Mrs. Claus had a whole bunch of kids, but all of them was elves."
        "The elves aren't their children. They work for Santa."
        "Really? How much does he pay 'em?"
        "He doesn't pay them anything, honey."
        "How do they buy food, then?"
        "They don't have to buy anything. Santa gives them all they need." This was certainly the last Christmas that Marcie would believe in Santa; nearly all of her classmates were already doubters. Recently, she had been asking these probing questions. Jorja would be sorry to see the fantasy disproved, the magic lost. "The elves are part of his family, honey, and they work with him simply for the love of it."
        "You mean the elves are adopted? So Santa doesn't have real kids of his own? That's sad."
        "No, 'cause he's got all the elves to love."
        God, I love this kid, Jorja thought. Thank you, God. Thank you for this kid, even if I did have to get tied up with Alan Rykoff to get her. Dark clouds and silver linings.
        She turned into the two-lane driveway that encircled Las Huevos Apartments and parked the Chevette in the fourth carport. Las Huevos. The Eggs. After five years in the place, she still couldn't understand why anyone would name an apartment complex The Eggs.
        The instant the car stopped, Marcie was out of it with the poster from the coloring book and the plate of cookies, dashing up the walkway to their entrance. The girl had deftly changed the subject just long enough to finish the ride and escape from the confines of the car.
        Jorja wondered if she should press the issue farther. It was Christmas Eve, and she had no desire to spoil the holiday. Marcie was a good kid, better than most, and this business about being hurt by doctors was an extremely rare instance of fabrication. Jorja had made the point that fibbing was not acceptable, and Marcie had understood (even if she had persisted a bit with her medical fantasy), and her sudden change of subject had probably been an admission of wrongdoing. So it was an aberration. Nothing would be gained by harping on it, especially not at the risk of ruining Christmas.
        Jorja was confident she would hear no more about it.
        

    5.
        

    Laguna Beach, California
        
        During the afternoon, Dominick Corvaisis must have read the unsigned typewritten note a hundred times: The sleepwalker would be well-advised to search the past for the source of his problem. That is where the