The Venus Fix

Fifty-Nine

Nina came by my office to say good-night, took one look at me and asked what was wrong. I told her about Alan Leightman and the confession he had probably already made to the police. We sat and talked for a few minutes, and then she suggested we leave the office and have drinks.

Usually we went to Bemelman’s Bar at the Carlyle. It was a twelve-block walk that we normally enjoyed, but the narrow pathways carved out of packed snow were uninviting, so Nina and I pulled up our coat collars and walked to the small French bistro four doors down.

It was about fifteen degrees out but felt even colder because of the brutal wind that whipped around us. We were all getting tired of the weather. Everyone was talking about it constantly. Every night now, news shows did special segments on coping with it. More of my patients were depressed than usual. There was an epidemic of SAD-Seasonal Affective Disorder.

The waiter came and took our order-a vodka and tonic with lime for her, a dirty martini on the rocks for me-after which we continued talking about Alan. I explained how ludicrous it was and why I was so certain he wasn’t the killer that he claimed to be.

“He’s going to need help, but it can’t be you. You know that. You can’t treat him anymore,” Nina said.

“Why?”

“You need to ask?”

“You mean because of Noah?”

“Of course.”

The waiter brought our drinks. Nina was watching me. I knew what she was thinking. “I’m not seeing Noah anymore.”

The waiter returned with a terra-cotta pot of black and green olives, glistening with oil, and I took one.

“Since when?”

I told her what had happened with Dulcie, how I’d reacted, what Mitch had said, and ended with the fight I’d had with Noah. I went through it all, trying to be as objective as I could and not be defensive, but it was difficult since Nina’s facial expressions were speaking volumes: There wasn’t much she liked about what she heard.

“You’re so good at denial, Morgan. But you can’t expect me to believe that you think this whole plan will solve anything, can you?”

She sat back and refolded the cuffs on her camel-colored cashmere sweater.

“Why not? I loved Mitch. I never wanted the marriage to end.”

“Nope, you didn’t. But it did end. And you met someone else.” She reached out and took my hand. “What’s really going on?”

I shrugged.

“Do you even know what you’re afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid.” My voice was only slightly above a whisper.

“Yes, you are.”

“You’re going to make me do this the hard way.”

“I don’t ever make you do anything.”

I laughed. “No. But you never let up if you think I’m taking the easy way out of something.” I drank some more of the martini, noticing for the first time that it was cold and good.

“Morgan, do you know why you are considering going back to Mitch?”

“Because he was my husband and I was happy with him, and our daughter would be better off if we were together.”

She shook her head.

“What then?” I asked.

“You’re smarter than that.”

“I want to give Mitch a chance. I want my daughter home.”

“Of course you want Dulcie home. But you are also damn afraid of getting involved-no, let’s call this as it really is- so damn afraid of getting intimate with Noah and having him disappoint you that you would rather run away from him than face up to it and work on it.”

I took another sip of my drink. And then another. I tried to keep quiet until the moment had passed and I felt able to carry on a civilized conversation without shouting.

“Why the hell can’t you just get mad at me?” Nina was leaning over the table, whispering.

“Why can’t you let me do what I have to do to get my daughter back? This is about Dulcie.”

“Okay, let’s talk about Dulcie. This is what’s supposed to happen to her at this age. Rebelling is healthy for her. You know that.”

“I know it intellectually.”

“Good. At least we can start there. And you know being a teenager is rough. By the very nature of what she is going through developmentally, she is supposed to fight you for what she wants. It’s the last stage in her self-individuation, and it’s not only important but critical that she go through it. Without a mother to fight…you know how not rebelling hurt you. You need to allow her to fight you now. Nothing that you do or don’t do with Mitch will prevent that process. And you don’t want to. It’s not healthy to.”

I looked at my watch. Nina frowned. “Sure, tell me it’s late and that you have to go. Good response to confrontation.” Nina glared at me. “Don’t bother. I’ll get the check.”

She waved the waiter over, and while she waited for him she pulled out her wallet and opened it to get a credit card. I saw the picture of Dulcie and me that she kept there.

My father had known me longer than Nina, but no one knew me better than she did, and she was right. I hadn’t rebelled. I’d been too timid as a teenager, followed the rules, emulated the adults. I emulated Nina by going to both her undergrad and grad alma maters. I’d married relatively early- someone my father knew and liked. All that time, I’d never stopped to examine why it was all so effortless for me and so difficult for all my friends.

The result of my not rebelling was that I didn’t always connect to my self-to my innermost thoughts or to my physical self. I had worked on that in therapy when I got out of college and during grad school, but I’d never quite resolved it. My feelings were there but buried deep down and I didn’t always have the energy to dig for them.

Only with Dulcie had love come to the surface with ease. I held my baby in my arms and did not have to search for emotional connections. And yet, even with Dulcie, the problem manifested itself in its own way. Maybe because she was one of the very few people I did connect to, my feelings for her were magnified. The way I felt pain that she experienced. The way I woke even before I heard her stirring. It was not psychic so much as it was inevitable, with all of my attention focused on her.

Together Nina and I walked out the door and into the street. The wind blew our coats around our legs and pushed at us. Tiny pinpricks of snow hit my face. It had started up again. Not lush, fat flakes that landed gently and made the world into a soft winter scene. This was an icy attack of pellets of snow mixed with freezing water. We walked the half block to Madison Avenue, and by the time we reached the corner, my cheeks were already stinging. I took Nina’s arm to help her across the street, knowing that there were patches of ice hidden under this fresh layer of snow, the argument forgotten for the moment.

We turned north and went another half block and then I spotted a taxi discharging a woman. At the same time, across the street under the light of the street lamp, a man was watching us. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Terry Meziac. Alan’s bodyguard.

What was he doing here?

I shivered, and it wasn’t from the cold. Noah had warned me that what I knew about Leightman could put me in danger, and I’d shrugged it off.

The snow was falling. It was dark. The taxi was going to pull away.

Maybe it wasn’t Meziac.

I forced myself to look away from the man, to focus on catching the cab. I called out “Taxi!” and quickened my step, and that’s when I slid.

Letting go of Nina’s arm-somehow knowing better than to drag her down with me-I fell forward, fast, put out my right hand, felt the cold ice on my palm, felt my legs fold, felt the cold all around me. Hard, stinging cold.