Private Eyes

7

After he left I sat down to write. For no apparent reason it went more smoothly than ever before, and noon arrived quickly, heralded by the second doorbell ring of the day.

This time I squinted through the peephole. What looked back at me was the face of a stranger, but not foreign: remnants of the child I’d once known merging with a photo from a twenty-year-old newspaper clipping. I realized that at the time of the attack her mother hadn’t been that much older than Melissa was now.

I opened the door and said, “Hello, Melissa.”

She seemed startled, then smiled. “Dr. Delaware! You haven’t changed at all!”

We shook hands.

“Come on in.”

She entered the house and stood with her hands folded in front of her.

The transition from girl to woman appeared nearly complete, and the evidence pointed to a graceful process. She had fashion-model cheekbones that asserted themselves through flawless lightly tanned skin. Her hair had darkened to a sun-streaked light brown and it hung, poker-straight and gleaming, to her waist. The straight-edge bangs had given way to a side part and flip. Below naturally arched brows her gray-green eyes were huge and wide-set. A young Grace Kelly.

A miniature Grace Kelly. She was barely five feet tall, with a cinch-waist and tiny bones. Big gold hoop earrings dangled from each shell-like ear. She carried a small lambskin handbag, wore a blue pinpoint button-down shirt, a denim skirt that ended an inch above her knees, and maroon penny loafers without socks. Maybe Preppy still ruled in San Labrador.

I showed her to a chair in the living room. She sat, crossed her legs at the ankles, hugged her knees, and looked around. “You have a very nice home, Dr. Delaware.”

I wondered what my eighteen-hundred square feet of redwood and glass really looked like to her. The castle she’d grown up in probably had rooms bigger. Thanking her, I took a seat and said, “It’s good to see you, Melissa.”

“Good to see you, too, Dr. Delaware. And thanks so much for doing it on short notice.”

“My pleasure. Any trouble finding the address?”

“No. I used my Thomas Guide- I just learned about Thomas Guides. They’re terrific.”

“Yes, they are.”

“Amazing how so much information can go in one book, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.”

“I’ve never really been up to these canyons. It’s quite pretty.”

Smile. Shy, but poised. Proper. A proper young lady. Was it for my benefit? Did she metamorphose into something giggly and ill-mannered when she and her friends hit the mall?

Did she go to the mall?

Did she have friends?

The ignorance born of nine years struck home.

Starting from scratch.

I smiled back and, trying not to be obviously analytic, studied her.

Posture straight, maybe a little stiff. Understandable, considering the circumstances. But no obvious signs of anxiety. Her hands remained motionless around her knees. No kneading, no evidence of chafing.

I said, “Well. It’s been a long time.”

“Nine years,” she said. “Pretty unbelievable, huh?”

“Sure is. I don’t expect you to sum up all nine of them. But I am kind of curious about what you’ve been up to.”

“Just the usual,” she said, shrugging. “School, mostly.”

She bent forward, straightened her arms, and hugged her knees tighter. A sheet of hair fell across one eye. She brushed it aside and checked out the room again.

I said, “Congratulations on graduating.”

“Thanks. I got accepted to Harvard.”

“Fantastic. Double congratulations.”

“I was surprised they took me.”

“I’ll bet there was never any doubt in their minds.”

“That’s nice of you to say, Dr. Delaware, but I think I was pretty lucky.”

I said, “Straight A’s or close to it?”

Return of the shy smile. Her hands remained clamped on her knees. “Not in gym.”

“Well, shame on you, young lady.”

The smile widened, but maintaining it seemed to take effort. She kept looking around the room, as if searching for something.

I said, “So when do you leave for Boston?”

“I don’t know… They want me to notify them within two weeks if I’m coming. So I guess I’d better decide.”

“That mean you’re thinking of not going?”

She licked her lips and nodded and brought her gaze to rest, meeting mine. “That’s what- that’s the problem I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Whether or not to go to Harvard?”

“What going to Harvard means. In terms of Mother.” She licked her lips again, coughed, and began rocking, very gently. Then she freed her hands, picked up a cut-crystal paperweight from the coffee table, and peered through it, squinting. Studying the refraction of the gold-dusted southern light streaming in through the dining room windows.

I said, “Is your mother opposed to your going away?”

“No, she’s- She says she wants me to. She hasn’t objected at all- as a matter of fact, she’s been very encouraging. Says she really wants me to go.”

“But you’re worried about her anyway.”

She put down the paperweight, moved to the edge of her chair, and held out her hands, palms up. “I’m not sure she can handle it, Dr. Delaware.”

“Being away from you?”

“Yes. She’s… It’s…” Shrug. She began wringing her hands. That saddened me more than it should have.

I said, “Is she still- Is her situation the same? In terms of her fears?”

“No. I mean, she still has it. The agoraphobia. But she’s better. Because of her treatment. I finally convinced her to get treatment and it’s helped.”

“Good.”

“Yes. It is good.”

“But you’re not sure treatment’s helped her enough to cope with being separated from you.”

“I don’t know. I mean, how can I be sure…?” She shook her head with a weariness that made her seem very old. Lowered her head and opened her bag. After fumbling for a few moments she drew out a newspaper article and handed it to me.

February of last year. A “Lifestyles” piece entitled “New Hope for Victims of Fears: Husband and Wife Team Fight Debilitating Phobias.”

She lifted the paperweight and began toying with it again. I read on.

The article was a profile of Leo Gabney, a Pasadena-based clinical psychologist, formerly of Harvard University, and his psychiatrist wife, Ursula Cunningham-Gabney, alumna and former staff member of that august institution. An accompanying photograph showed the two therapists sitting side by side at a table, facing a female patient. Only the back of the patient’s head was visible. Gabney’s mouth was open, in speech. His wife seemed to be looking at him out of the corner of her eye. Both doctors wore expressions of extreme earnestness. The caption read: DRS. LEO AND URSULA GABNEY COMBINE THEIR SKILLS TO WORK INTENSIVELY WITH “MARY,” A SEVERE AGORAPHOBIC. The last word had been circled in red.

I studied the picture. I knew Leo Gabney by reputation, had read everything he’d written, but had never met the man. The camera revealed him to be sixty or close to it, with bushy white hair, narrow shoulders, dark, drooping eyes behind heavy black-framed glasses, and a round, smallish face. He wore a white shirt and dark tie, had rolled his sleeves up to the elbow. His forearms were thin and bony- almost womanish. My mental image had been something more Herculean.

His wife was brunette and good-looking in a severe way; Hollywood would have cast her as the repressed spinster, ripe for awakening. She was dressed in a cowl-neck knit top with a paisley kerchief draped over one shoulder. A short perm fit nicely around her face. Glasses hung from a chain around her neck. She was young enough to be Leo Gabney’s daughter.

I looked up. Melissa was still turning the crystal. Pretending to be enthralled with the facets.

The knickknack defense.

I’d totally forgotten this particular knickknack. Antique French. A real find, rescued from the back shelves of a tiny curio shop in Leucadia. Robin and me… the amnesia defense.

I resumed reading. The article had the self-consciously laudatory tone of a p.r. release striving to sound like journalism. It recounted Leo Gabney’s pioneering work in the research and treatment of anxiety disorders. Cited his “landmark success treating Korean War G.I.’s for combat trauma when clinical psychology was still an infant science, pioneering research in frustration and human learning,” and tracing his career through three decades of animal and human studies at Harvard. Thirty years of prolific scientific writing.

No blockaroo for him.

Ursula Cunningham-Gabney was described as a former student of her husband’s and possessor of both a Ph.D. in psychology and an M.D.

“We joke,” said her husband, “that she’s a paradox.”

Both Gabneys had been tenured members of the staff of Harvard Medical School before relocating to southern California two years previously and establishing the Gabney Clinic. Leo Gabney explained the relocation as “a quest for a more relaxed life-style, as well as the chance to bring to the private sector our combined body of research and clinical skills.”

He went on to describe the collaborative nature of the Gabney approach:

“My wife’s medical training is especially useful in terms of detecting physical disorders, such as hyperthyroidism, that present symptoms similar to those of anxiety disorders. She’s also in a unique position to evaluate and prescribe some of the more recent- and superior- anti-anxiety drugs that have come along.”

“Several of the new medications look promising,” Ursula Cunningham-Gabney elaborated, “but none is sufficient in and of itself. Many physicians tend to view medication as a magic bullet and prescribe without carefully weighing cost-effectiveness. Our research has shown that the treatment of choice in debilitating anxiety disorders is clearly a combination of behavior and carefully monitored medication.”

“Unfortunately,” her husband added, “the typical psychologist is ignorant about drugs and, even if knowledgeable, unable to prescribe them. And the typical psychiatrist has little or no training in behavior therapy.”

Leo Gabney claims this has led to bickering between the professions and inadequate treatment for many patients with incapacitating conditions such as agoraphobia- a morbid fear of open spaces.

“Agoraphobics need treatment that is multimodal as well as creative. We don’t limit ourselves to the office. Go into the home, the workplace, wherever reality beckons.”

More red circles, around agoraphobia and the home.

The rest consisted of pseudonymous case histories, which I skimmed.

“Finished.”

Melissa put down the paperweight. “Have you heard of them?”

“I’ve heard of Leo Gabney. He’s very well known- has done a lot of very important research.”

I held out the clipping. She took it and put it back in her bag.

“When I saw this,” she said, “it just sounded right for Mother. I’d been looking for something- we’d started talking, Mother and I. About how she should do something about… her problem. Actually, we talked for years. I started bringing it up when I was fifteen- old enough to realize how much it was affecting her. I mean, I always knew she was… different. But when you grow up with someone, and the way they are is the only way you know, you get used to them.”

“True,” I said.

“But as I got older, started to read more psychology and understand more about people, I began to realize how hard it must be for her- that she was really suffering. And if I loved her, my obligation was to help her. So I started talking to her about it. At first she wouldn’t talk back, tried to change the subject. Then she insisted she was okay- I should just take care of myself. But I just kept at it, in small doses. Like after I’d done something good- gotten a really good grade or brought home an academic award- I’d bring it up. Letting her know I deserved to be taken seriously. Finally, she started to really talk. About how hard it was for her, how bad she felt not being a normal mother- how she’d always wanted to be like all the other mothers but that every time she tried to leave, the anxiety just got to her. More than just psychologically. Physical attacks. Not being able to breathe. Feeling as if she were going to die. How it trapped her, made her feel helpless and useless and guilty for not taking care of me.”

She gripped her knees again, rocked, stared at the paperweight, then back at me. “I told her that was ridiculous. She’d been a terrific mother. She cried and said she knew she hadn’t but that I’d turned out wonderful anyway. Despite her, not because of her. It hurt me to hear that and I started to cry, too. We held each other. She kept telling me over and over how sorry she was, and how glad she was that I was so much better than she was. That I would have a good life, get out and see things she’d never seen, do things she’d never done.”

She stopped, sucked in breath.

I said, “It must have been so hard for you. Hearing that. Seeing her pain.”

“Yes,” she said, letting loose a rush of tears.

I reached over, pulled a tissue out of the box. Handed it to her and waited until she composed herself.

“I told her,” she said, sniffling, “that I wasn’t better than she was, in any way whatsoever. That I was out in the world because I’d gotten help. From you. Because she’d cared enough about me to get me help.”

I thought of a child’s voice on a crisis line tape. Scented brush-off letters, calls unanswered.

“… that I cared about her and wanted her to get help. She said she knew she needed it but that she was beyond treatment, doubted anyone could help her. Then she started crying harder and said doctors scared her- she knew that was stupid and babyish, but her fear was overpowering. That she never even talked to you on the phone. That I really had gotten better despite her. Because I was strong and she was weak. I told her strength isn’t something you just have. It’s something you learn. That she was strong, too, in her own way. Living through everything she’d been through and still ending up a beautiful, kind person- because she is, Dr. Delaware! Even though she never got out and did the things other mothers did, I never cared. Because she was better than the other mothers. Nicer, kinder.”

I nodded and waited.

She said, “She feels so guilty, but really she was wonderful. Patient. Never grumpy. She never raised her voice. When I was little and couldn’t sleep- before you cured me- she’d hold me and kiss me and tell me over and over that I was wonderful and beautiful, the best little girl in the world, and that the future was my golden apple. Even if I kept her up all night. Even if I wet the bed and soaked her sheets, she’d just hold me. In the wet sheets. And tell me she loved me, that everything would be okay. That’s the kind of person she is and I wanted to help her- to give some of that kindness back.”

She buried her face in the tissue. It turned into a sodden lump and I gave her another.

After a while she dried her eyes and looked up. “Finally, after months of talking, after we’d both cried ourselves dry, I got her to agree that if I found the right doctor, she’d try. A doctor who would come to the house. But I didn’t do anything for a while because I had no idea where to find a doctor like that. I made a few calls, but the ones who phoned me back said they didn’t do house calls. I got the feeling they weren’t taking me seriously, because of my age. I even thought of calling you.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was embarrassed. Pretty foolish, huh?”

“Not at all.”

“Anyway, then I read the article. It sounded perfect. I called their clinic and spoke to her- the wife. She said yes, they could help, but that I couldn’t arrange treatment for someone else. The patients themselves had to call to set it up. That they insisted upon that, only accepted patients who were motivated. She made it sound like applying to college- as if they got tons of applications but only took a few. So I talked to Mother, told her I’d found someone, gave her the number and told her to call. She got really scared- started to have one of her attacks.”

“What’s that like?”

“She turns pale and grabs her chest and begins breathing really hard and fast. Gasping, as if she can’t get any breath in. Sometimes she faints.”

“Pretty scary.”

“I guess,” she said. “For someone seeing it for the first time. But like I said, I’d grown up with it, so I knew she wasn’t in any danger. That probably sounds cruel but that’s the way it is.”

I said, “No, it doesn’t. You understood what was happening. Could put it in context.”

“Yes. Exactly. So I just waited until the attack was over- they usually don’t last more than a few minutes and then she gets really tired and goes to sleep for a couple of hours. But I wouldn’t let her sleep this time. I held her and kissed her and started talking to her, very quietly and calmly. About how the attacks were terrible, how I knew she felt terrible, but didn’t she want to try to get rid of them? Not to feel like that anymore? She started crying. And saying yes, she did want that. Yes, she would try, she promised, but not right now, she was too weak. So I let her off the hook, and nothing happened for weeks. Finally, my patience ran out. I went up to her room, dialed the number in front of her, asked for Dr. Ursula, and handed her the phone. And stood over her. Like this.”

Rising, she folded both arms over her chest and put on a stern look.

“I guess I caught her off guard, because she took the phone, began talking to Dr. Ursula. Doing a lot of listening and nodding, mostly, but at the end of it she’d made an appointment.”

She let her arms drop and sat back down.

“Anyway, that’s how it happened, and it seems to be helping her.”

“How long’s she been in treatment?”

“About a year- it’ll be a year this month.”

“Does she see both Gabneys?”

“At first they both came to the house. With a black bag and all sorts of equipment- I guess they were giving her a physical. Then only Dr. Ursula came, and all she brought was a notebook and a pen. She and Mother spent hours together up in Mother’s room- every day, even weekends. For weeks. Then finally they came downstairs, walked around the house. Talking. Like friends.”

Punctuating friends with just a hint of frown.

“What they talked about I couldn’t tell you, because she- Dr. Ursula- was always careful to keep Mother away from everyone- the staff, me. Not by actually coming out and saying it- she just has a way of looking at you that lets you know you’re not supposed to be there.”

Another frown.

“Finally, after about a month, they went outside. To the grounds. Strolling. Did that for a long time- months- with no progress that I could see. Mother had always been able to do that by herself. Without treatment. That phase seemed to be going on forever and no one was telling me anything about what was going on. I began to wonder if they- if she knew what she was doing. If I’d done the right thing by bringing her into our home. The one time I tried to ask about it was pretty unpleasant.”

She stopped, wrung her hands.

I said, “What happened?”

“I caught up with Dr. Ursula at the end of a session, just as she was getting into her car, and asked her how Mother was doing. She just smiled and told me everything was going well. Clearly letting me know it was none of my business. Then she asked me if anything was troubling me- but not as if she cared. Not the way you’d say it. I felt she was putting me down- analyzing me. It was creepy. I couldn’t wait to get away from her!”

She’d raised her voice, was nearly shouting. Realized it and blushed and covered her mouth.

I gave a reassuring smile.

“But then afterward,” she said, “I could understand it. I guess. The need for confidentiality. I started to think back and remembered how it had been with my therapy. I was always asking you all those questions- about other kids- just to see if you’d break the secret. Testing you. And then I felt very good, very comforted, when you didn’t give in.” She smiled. “That was terrible, wasn’t it? Testing you like that.”

“A hundred percent normal,” I said.

She laughed. “Well, you passed the test, Dr. Delaware.” The blush deepened. She turned away. “You helped me a lot.”

“I’m glad, Melissa. Thanks for saying so.”

“Must be a pleasant job,” she said, “being a therapist. Getting to tell people they’re okay all the time. Not having to cause pain, like other doctors.”

“Sometimes it does get painful, but overall you’re right. It is a great job.”

“Then how come you don’t do it anymo- I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “No topic’s off limits here, as long as you can tolerate not always getting an answer.”

She laughed. “There you go, doing it again. Telling me I’m okay.”

“You are okay.”

She touched a finger to the paperweight, then retracted it. “Thank you. For everything you did for me. Not only did you get rid of my fears, you also showed me people can change- they can win. It’s hard to see that sometimes, when you’re stuck in the middle of something. I’ve thought of studying psychology myself. Maybe becoming a therapist.”

“You’d make a good one.”

“Do you really think so?” she said, facing me and brightening.

“Yes, I do. You’re smart. You care about people. And you’re patient- from what you’ve told me about getting your mother help, you have tremendous patience.”

“Well,” she said, “I love her. I don’t know if I’d be patient with someone else.”

“It would probably be easier, Melissa.”

“Yes, I guess that’s true. ’Cause to tell the truth, I didn’t feel patient while it was happening- all her resistance and stalling. There were times I even wanted to scream at her, tell her to just get up and change. But I couldn’t. She’s my mother. She’s always been wonderful to me.”

I said, “But now, after going to all the trouble of getting her into treatment, you have to watch her and Dr. Ursula stroll the grounds for months. With nothing happening. That really tries your patience.”

“It did! I was really starting to get skeptical. Then all of a sudden, things started to happen. Dr. Ursula got her outside the front gate. Just a few steps, down to the curb, and she had an attack when she got there. But it was the first time she’d been outside the walls since… the first time I’d ever seen her do it. And Dr. Ursula didn’t pull her back in because of the attack. She gave her some kind of medicine- in an inhaler, like they use for asthma- and made her stay out there until she’d calmed down. Then they did it again the next day, and again, and she kept having attacks- it was really hard to watch. But finally Mother was able to stand at the curb and be okay. After that, they started walking around the block. Arm in arm. Finally, a couple of months ago, Dr. Ursula got her to drive. In her favorite car- it’s this little Rolls-Royce Silver Dawn, a ’54, but in perfect condition. Coachbuilt- custom-made. My father had it built to his specifications when he was in England. One of the first to have power steering. And tinted windows. Then he gave it to her. She’s always loved it. Sometimes she sat in it after it had been washed, with the engine off. But she never drove it. She must have said something to Dr. Ursula about its being her favorite, because the next thing I knew, the two of them were tooling around in it. Down the drive and right out the gates. She’s at the point where she can drive with someone else in the car. She drives to the clinic with Dr. Ursula or someone else with her- it’s not far, over in Pasadena. Maybe that wouldn’t sound too impressive. But when you think of where she was a year ago, it’s pretty fantastic, don’t you think?”

“I do. How often does she go to the clinic?”

“Twice a week. Monday and Thursday, for group therapy. With other women who have the same problem.”

She sat back, dry-eyed, smiling. “I’m so proud of her, Dr. Delaware. I don’t want to mess it up.”

“By going to Harvard?”

“By doing anything that would mess it up. I mean, I think of Mother as being on a scale- one of those balance scales. Fear on one side, happiness on the other. Right now it’s tipping toward happiness, but I can’t help thinking that any little thing could knock it the other way.”

“You see your mom as pretty fragile.”

“She is fragile! Everything she’s been through has made her fragile.”

“Have you talked to Dr. Ursula about the impact of your going away?”

“No,” she said, suddenly grim. “No, I haven’t.”

“I get the feeling,” I said, “that even though Dr. Ursula has helped your mother a lot, she’s still not your favorite person.”

“That’s true. She’s a very- she’s cold.”

“Is there anything else about her that bothers you?”

“Just what I said. About her analyzing me… I don’t think she likes me.”

“Why’s that?”

She shook her head. One of her earrings caught the light and flashed. “It’s just the… vibrations she gives off. I know that sounds… imprecise- but she just makes me feel uncomfortable. The way she was able to tell me to butt out without having to say it. So how can I approach her about something personal? All she’d do is put me down- I feel she wants to shut me out.”

“Have you tried to talk to your mother about this?”

“I talked to her about therapy a couple of times. She said Dr. Ursula was taking her through steps and she was climbing them slowly. That she was grateful to me for getting her into treatment but that now she had to be a big girl and do things for herself. I didn’t argue, didn’t want to do anything that would… ruin it.”

Wringing. Flipping her hair.

I said, “Melissa, are you feeling a little left out? By the treatment?”

“No, it’s not that at all. Sure, I’d like to know more- especially because of my interest in psychology. But that’s not what’s important to me. If that’s what it takes to work- all that secrecy- then I’m happy. Even if this is as far as it goes, it’s still major progress.”

“Do you have doubts it will go further?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “On a day-to-day basis it seems to go so slowly.” She smiled. “You see, Dr. Delaware, I’m not patient at all.”

“So even though your mother’s come a long way, you’re not convinced she’s gone far enough for you to be able to leave her.”

“Exactly.”

“And you feel frustrated not knowing more about her prognosis because of the way Dr. Ursula treats you.”

“Very frustrated.”

“What about Dr. Leo Gabney? Would you be more comfortable talking to him?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t know him at all. Like I said, he only showed up at the beginning, a real scientist type- walking very fast, writing things down, ordering his wife around. He’s the boss in that relationship.”

Following that insight with a smile.

I said, “Even though your mother says she wants you to go to Harvard, you’re not sure she can handle it. And you feel you can’t talk to anyone to find out if she can.”

She shook her head and gave a weak smile. “A quandary, I guess. Pretty dumb, huh?”

“Not at all.”

“There you go again,” she said. “Telling me I’m okay.”

Both of us smiled.

I said, “Who else is around to take care of your mother?”

“There’s the staff. And Don, I guess- that’s her husband.”

Dropping that nugget into the bucket, then draping it with a look of innocence.

But I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice. “When did she get married?”

“Just a few months ago.”

The hands began kneading.

“A few months,” I repeated.

She squirmed and said, “Six.”

Silence.

I said, “Want to tell me about it?”

She looked as if she didn’t. But she said, “His name is Don Ramp. He used to be an actor- never a big one, just a bit player. Cowboys and soldiers, that kind of thing. He owns a restaurant now. In Pasadena, not San Lab, because in San Lab you’re not allowed to sell liquor and he serves all kinds of beers and ales. That’s his specialty. Imported beers. And meat. Prime rib. Tankard and Blade, it’s called. Armor and swords all over the place. Like in old England. Kind of silly, actually, but for San Labrador it’s exotic.”

“How’d he and your mother meet?”

“You mean because she never leaves the house?”

“Yes.”

The hands kneaded faster. “That was my- I introduced them. I was at the Tankard with some friends, a school thing for some seniors. Don was there, greeting people, and when he found out who I was, he sat down and told me he’d known Mother. Years ago. Back in her days at the studio. The two of them had been on contract at the same time. He started asking these questions- about how she was doing. Talking on and on about what a wonderful person she’d been, so beautiful and talented. Telling me I was beautiful, too.” She snorted.

“You don’t think you’re beautiful?”

“Let’s be real, Dr. Delaware! Anyway, he seemed so nice and he was the first person I’d met who’d actually known Mother before, back in her Hollywood days. I mean, people in San Labrador don’t usually come from an entertainment background. At least they don’t admit it. One time another actor- a real star, Brett Raymond- wanted to move in, buy an old house and tear it down to build a new one, and there was all this talk about his money being dirty money because the movies were a Jewish business and Jewish money was dirty money, and Brett Raymond himself was really Jewish and tried to hide it- which I don’t even know if it’s true or not. Anyway, they- the zoning board- made his life so miserable with hearings and restrictions and whatever that he changed his mind and moved to Beverly Hills. And people said good, that’s where he belonged. So you can see how I wouldn’t meet too many movie people, and when Don started talking about the old days, I thought it was great. It was like finding a link to the past.”

I said, “It’s a bit of a leap from that to marriage.”

She gave a sour smile. “I invited him over- as a surprise for Mother. This was before she was getting treatment. I was looking for anything to get her going. Get her to socialize. And when he arrived he had three dozen red roses and a big bottle of Taittinger’s. I should have known then he had… plans. I mean, roses and champagne. One thing led to another. He started coming over more often. In the afternoon, before the Tankard opened. Bringing her steaks and more flowers and whatever. It became a regular thing- I just kind of got used to it. Then six months ago, just around the time she started to be able to leave the grounds, they announced they were getting married. Just like that. Brought in a judge and did it, at the house.”

“So he was seeing her when you were trying to persuade her to get treatment.”

“Yes.”

“How’d he relate to that? And to treatment?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I never asked him.”

“But he didn’t fight it.”

“No. Don’s not a fighter.”

“What is he?”

“A charmer. Everyone likes him,” she said, with distaste.

“How do you feel about him?”

She gave me an irritated look, brushed her hair from her forehead. “How do I feel? He doesn’t get in my way.”

“Do you think he’s insincere?”

“I think he’s… shallow. Pure Hollywood.”

Echoing the prejudices she’d just decried. She realized it and said, “I know that sounds very San Labrador, but you’d have to meet him to understand. He’s tan in the winter, lives for tennis and skiing, always smiling even when there’s nothing to smile about. Father was a man of depth. Mother deserves more. If I’d known it would get this far, I’d never have started it.”

“Does he have any children of his own?”

“No. He was never married. Not until now.”

The way she emphasized “now” made me ask, “Are you concerned that he married your mother for her money?”

“The thought has occurred to me- Don’s not exactly poor, but he’s not in Mother’s league.”

She gave a wave of her hand, so choppy and awkward that it made me take note.

I said, “Is part of your conflict about Harvard a worry that she needs protection from him?”

“No, but I can’t see him being able to take care of her. Why she married him I still can’t figure out.”

“What about the staff- in terms of taking care of her?”

“They’re nice,” she said, “but she needs more.”

“What about Jacob Dutchy?”

“Jacob,” she said, with a tremor in her voice. “Jacob… died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Just last year,” she said. “He developed some kind of cancer and it took him quickly. He left the house right after the diagnosis and went to a place- some sort of rest home. But he wouldn’t tell us where. Didn’t want anyone to see him sick. After he… Afterwards, the home called Mother and told her he was… There wasn’t even any funeral, just cremation. It really hurt me- not being able to help him. But Mother said we’d helped by letting him do it his way.”

More tears. More tissues.

I said, “I remember him as being a strong-willed gentleman.”

She bowed her head. “At least it was quick.”

I waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, I said, “So much has been happening to you. It’s got to feel overwhelming. I can see why it’s hard for you to know what to do.”

“Oh, Dr. Delaware!” she said, getting up and coming forward and throwing her arms around my neck. She’d put on perfume for the appointment. Something heavy and floral and much too old for her. Something a maiden aunt might wear. I thought of her making her own way through life. The trials and errors.

It made me ache for her. I could feel her hands grip my back. Her tears moistened my jacket.

I uttered words of comfort that seemed as substantial as the gilded light. When she’d stopped crying for a full minute, I pulled away gently.

She moved away quickly, sat back down, looking shamefaced. Wringing her hands.

I said, “It’s all right, Melissa. You don’t always have to be strong.”

Shrink’s reflex. Another yea-say.

The right thing to say. But in this case, was it the truth?

She began pacing the room. “I can’t believe I’m falling apart like this. It’s so… I planned for this to be so… businesslike. A consultation, not…”

“Not therapy?”

“Yes. This was for her. I really thought I was okay, didn’t need therapy. I wanted to show you I was okay.”

“You really are okay, Melissa. This is an incredibly stressful time for you. All the changes in your mother’s life. Losing Jacob.”

“Yes,” she said absently. “He was a dear.”

I waited several moments before continuing. “And now the Harvard thing. That’s a major decision. It would be foolish not to take it seriously.”

She sighed.

I said, “Let me ask you this: If everything else was calm, would you want to go?”

“Well… I know it’s a great opportunity- my golden apple. But I have to- I need to feel right about it.”

“What could help you feel right about it?”

She shook her head and threw up her hands. “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

She looked at me. I smiled and pointed at the couch. She returned to her seat.

I said, “What could really convince you your mother will be okay?”

“Her being okay! Normal! Like anyone else. That sounds terrible- as if I’m ashamed of her. I’m not. I’m just worried.”

“You want to be sure she can take care of herself.”

“That’s the thing, she can. Up in her room. It’s her domain. It’s just the outside world… Now that she’s going out- trying to change- it’s scary.”

“Of course it is.”

Silence.

I said, “I suppose I’d be wasting my breath to remind you that you can’t go on taking responsibility for your mother forever. Being a parent to your parent. That it will get in the way of your own life and do her no good.”

“Yes, I know. That’s what N- of course that’s true.”

“Has someone else been telling you the same thing?”

She bit her lip. “Just Noel. Noel Drucker. He’s a friend- not a boyfriend, just a boy who’s a friend. I mean, he likes me as more than a friend, but I’m not sure how I feel about him. But I do respect him. He’s an exceptionally good person.”

“How old is Noel?”

“A year older than me. He got accepted to Harvard last year, took time off to work and save up money. His family doesn’t have any money- it’s just him and his mother. He’s been working his whole life and is very mature for his age. But when he talks about Mother, I just want to tell him to… stop.”

“Ever let him know how you feel?”

“No. He’s very sensitive. I don’t want to hurt him. And I know he means well- he’s thinking of me.”

“Boy,” I said, blowing out breath. “You’re taking care of lots of people.”

“Guess so.” Smile.

“Who’s taking care of Melissa?”

“I can take care of myself.” Stating it with a defiance that pulled me back nine years.

“I know you can, Melissa. But even caretakers need to be cared for, once in a while.”

“Noel tries to take care of me. But I won’t let him. That’s terrible, isn’t it? Frustrating him like that. But I’ve got to do things my way. And he just doesn’t understand the way it is with Mother. No one does.”

“Do Noel and your mother get along?”

“The little they have to do with each other, they do. She thinks he’s a nice boy. Which he is. Everyone thinks that- if you knew him you’d understand why. And he likes her well enough. But he says I’m doing her more harm than good by protecting her. That she’ll get better when she really has to- as if it’s her choice.”

Melissa got up and walked around the room again. Letting her hands settle on things, touching, examining. Feigning sudden fascination with the pictures on the walls.

I said, “How can I best help you, Melissa?”

She pivoted on one foot and faced me. “I thought maybe if you could talk to Mother. Tell me what you think.”

“You want me to evaluate her? Give you a professional opinion as to whether she really can cope with your going to Harvard?”

She bit her lip a couple of times, touched one of her earrings, flipped her hair. “I trust your judgment, Dr. Delaware. What you did for me, how you helped me change- it was like… magic. If you tell me it’s okay to leave her, then I will. I’ll just do it.”

Years ago I’d seen her as the magician. But letting her know that, now, would be terrifying.

I said, “We were a good team, Melissa. You showed strength and courage back then, just like you’re showing now.”

“Thank you. So would you…?”

“I’d be happy to talk with your mother. If she consents. And if it’s okay with the Gabneys.”

She frowned. “Why them?”

“I need to make sure I don’t disrupt their treatment plan.”

“Okay,” she said. “I just hope she doesn’t give you problems.”

“Dr. Ursula?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Any reason you think she might?”

“No. She’s just… She likes to be in charge of everything. I can’t help thinking she wants Mother to keep secrets. That have nothing to do with therapy.”

“What kind of secrets?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “That’s the thing: I’ve got nothing to back me up- just a feeling. I know it sounds weird. Noel says I’m being paranoid.”

“It’s not paranoia,” I said. “You care deeply about your mother. You’ve been taking care of her for years. It wouldn’t be natural for you to just-”

Her tension dissipated. She smiled.

I said, “There I go again, huh?”

She started to giggle, stopped, embarrassed.

I said, “I’ll call Dr. Ursula today, and we’ll take it from there. Okay?”

“Okay.” She took a couple of steps closer, wrote down the number at the clinic for me.

I said, “Hang in there, Melissa. We’ll get through this.”

“I sure hope so. You can call me on my private line- that’s the number you reached me at yesterday.”

She walked back to the coffee table, hastily picked up her purse, and held it in front of her, waist-high.

The accessory defense.

I said, “Is there anything else?”

“No,” she said, glancing at the door. “Guess we’ve covered plenty, haven’t we?”

“We had plenty to catch up on.”

We walked to the door.

She turned the knob and said, “Well, thanks again, Dr. Delaware.”

Tight voice. Tight shoulders. More tense than when she’d come in.

I said, “Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to talk about, Melissa? There’s no rush. I’ve got plenty of time.”

She stared at me. Then her eyes slammed shut like security shutters and her shoulders dropped.

“It’s him,” she said, in a very small voice. “McCloskey. He’s back- in L.A. Totally free and I don’t know what he’ll do!”