Saving Meghan(50)

“I didn’t make my assessment based on you, Mrs. Gerard. I did it based on Meghan. That’s my job.”

“Please, please, call me Becky, and I understand. I honestly do. But now that we’re here, together, do I strike you as someone who’d harm my daughter for attention, or to fill up some dark hole in my soul? Yes, I have real knowledge of medicine, especially of Meghan’s illness, and I’ve made relationships with her doctors. And, yes, I’ve been intensely involved in her care, but I’m asking you—what mother wouldn’t?”

“I understand what you’re saying.”

Becky sensed a coming breakthrough. She pressed ahead. “I’ve studied the illness, Munchausen. I know that mothers with this sickness had an insecure or ambivalent relationship with their own parents—often the mother—and as a result had a hard time forming attachments. Then they’d overcompensate with their own children. That’s not me. That’s not me at all. I love my mother dearly. In fact, she’s dying of cancer, and I can’t fly to California to be with her because of Meghan’s illness and this situation we’re in.”

While it was true Cora was still alive, Becky doubted Levine would track down Sabrina to get the real story there.

“I didn’t grow up in a chaotic, unstable household,” Becky continued, referring to yet another characteristic commonly found in perpetrators of Munchausen by proxy. “I’m not a compulsive or controlling mother. I’m not suffering from some inconsolable grief that I’ve projected onto Meghan. I’m just extremely devoted to my daughter, my only child.”

That was it. Those were all the symptoms of Munchausen by proxy that Becky knew about. If Levine were a dogged detective, if he were to go digging, truly hunt, he could refute every claim she had made, checking every box for the condition markers in the process. Becky was counting on him not being all that thorough.

“I’m not in a position to do a psychological evaluation of you, Ms. Gerard,” Levine offered in response.

“Becky, please. I may be a good deal older than you, Doctor, but don’t make me feel it.”

“Becky, then.”

“Do I strike you as insecure?”

“Like I told you, I’m not here to do a clinical evaluation of you. I’m interested to know what you’ve heard about Amanda Nash.”

Becky knew it would come down to this.

“She has it out for Dr. Fisher. Do you know that? She thinks he sees cases of mito where there is no mito because of what happened to his son. That’s why she got it in her head that I was doing something to Meghan. No other explanation worked for her—certainly not the truth, of course, which is that Meghan has mito.”

“She doesn’t make the psychiatric diagnosis,” Dr. Levine replied. “I do.”

“Then you can undo it,” Becky said in a pleading voice. “Let’s exhaust all diagnostic possibilities before you accuse me.”

“That would go against my clinical judgment.”

Becky reached across the table and placed her hand over Dr. Levine’s. She sensed him slipping away. Time to switch tactics. His skin felt soft, new, and receptive to her touch. He did not pull away. He held her gaze. He was trying so hard to be a man—it was almost endearing. Would she do it? That was the question tumbling about her head. Would she sleep with this man to get her daughter back? All he had to do was change his clinical opinion. All she had to do was surrender her soul.

“You’re wrong,” Becky said. “Look at her again. Examine her again. Nash wanted this, not you, Peter. She’s got it out for Dr. Fisher. She and Knox Singer want Zach gone from White because his mito diagnoses are costing big bucks, and they’re using my daughter as the puppet to make that happen. They’re using you, same as they are using me. Don’t you see?”

Becky saw a flicker in Levine’s eyes. The shift was so slight, it was almost imperceptible, but it was there, a nascent fear bubbling below the surface that maybe, just maybe, she was right.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” Levine said. “I’m not a parent, but I can understand your struggles here. However, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to help. I firmly believe Meghan is where she needs to be. In fact, I think I’m going to take a pass on the coffee.” He started to rise. “It’s not right for us to be together.”

Becky reached across the table, taking hold of his arm, applying enough force to get him to sit back down. The sweet look in her eyes drained in a blink, replaced with something far darker and more sinister.

“Peter, listen to me, listen very carefully.” Becky’s voice turned low and strangely ominous. “I’m not someone you want to cross. Believe me when I tell you that.”

Dr. Levine jerked his arm away. He stood, his bravado retreating like the tide. He dropped a five-dollar bill on the table and left without saying goodbye.



* * *



THE LAW office of Leers and Hall was located on the second floor of a two-story brick building in Wellesley, Massachusetts. It was a tony town like Concord, populated with its fair share of rich people with secrets, but none like the kind Becky was carrying.

A sweet-faced young receptionist, who stole more than a couple of glances at Carl, escorted them to a meeting room off the main hall. Inside, Becky and Carl found a long mahogany table surrounded by plush leather chairs. Seated in one of those chairs was the attorney Andrea Leers, whom Becky had met only once before at yesterday’s brief get-to-know-you meeting. Thanks to a sidebar conversation Becky had with Leers it was not an inconsequential face-to-face either, as Carl was soon to find out.