It was a chance to finish lunch, preserve their dignity, and save a few bucks. They took it. In maybe a minute they were reseated, their plates were transferred, and they were eating again, though all of them glared occasionally at me and Rosie and Spike.
“Never fire Miranda,” I said to Spike.
“God no,” he said. “I’d put myself out of business in a month.”
We were quiet. Spike looked at me. Then he got up and came around and sat on the banquette beside me.
“Something bad is bothering you,” he said. “And I want to know what.”
4
I started to tear up again as I told him, and when I got through, he put his arms around me and pulled me against him. This made Rosie vaguely uneasy, until he scooped her in, too, and the three of us sat in close embrace while I cried a little.
After a while I stopped, and with my face still against his chest said, “I don’t know what to do.”
“ ‘Of course you don’t,” Spike said.
“I know we were divorced,” I said. “I know he slept with other people and God knows I did, too.”
“But sometimes you slept with each other,” Spike said softly, “even though you were divorced, and you still loved him, and you were pretty sure he loved you, and you sort of knew that someday it would work out, and you’d be together again, in some way or other.”
I nodded against his chest. It was like snuggling a sandbag.
“And now the sonovabitch is getting married and you can’t think that anymore.”
I nodded again.
“Even though you divorced him originally.”
“Yes.”
My voice sounded small and muffled against him. He didn’t say anything else, just kept his arm around me and patted my back gently. With his other hand, he gave Rosie a piece of her dinner roll. I got my breathing under control after a while, and he let me go and I sat up straight. Spike handed me a napkin and I blotted my eyes dry, trying not to make too much of a mess of my makeup.
“For what it’s worth,” Spike said, “this is as bad as it’s going to get. In a while it will get better.”
“It doesn’t feel that way.”
“It will get better,” Spike said.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” I said. “I can’t live with him, but when he finds somebody that can, I have a breakdown.”
“Because the first time you left him. Now he’s leaving you.”
“You think I’m that childish?”
“Sure,” Spike said.
“I can’t live with anyone,” I said.
“I know.”
“But why can’t I?”
“I don’t know.”
Rosie had settled in comfortably between us now that there was no more hugging and crying, and kept her eyes on the roll. Spike broke off another small piece and fed it to her.
“I don’t know, either,” I said. “That’s the awful thing.”
“Weren’t you seeing a shrink a while ago?”
“Dr. Copeland, yes, but that was business. I was consulting on that Melissa Joan Hall thing.”
“But didn’t you go see him for a while afterwards?”
“Just a couple of times,” I said. “I didn’t see any reason to go really.”
“ ’Cause Richie wasn’t getting married, and neither were you, so you and he could be whatever you and he were.”
I nodded.
“And, as I recall, you were bopping that guy from LA.”
“Spike!”
“Which made it easier to feel like you were happy,” Spike said. “Right now you feel badly alone.”
“Except for you,” I said.
“And as we both know, I’m gayer than three humming birds,” Spike said.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t love you,” I said.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t love you, either. But that’s not what we’re talking about.”
“What are we talking about?”
“You need to see a shrink.”
“Oh, God,” I said.
“We need to know what’s wrong with you.” He grinned at me. “I can only take you so far.”
“That seems so long a hill to climb.”
Spike nodded.
“I mean, do you think I’m crazy?”
“I think you need to know what’s making you unhappy.”
“Duh,” I said. “Richie’s marriage might have something to do with it.”
“I think you need to know why that’s making you so unhappy.”
“Because I love him, for crissake.”
“Then I think you need to know why you love him and can’t live with him.”
I was silent. Spike gave Rosie the final bite of roll. The ladies that Rosie had offended finished their free lunches and got up and left. They were careful not to notice me or Rosie.
“You bastard,” I said to Spike.
He smiled.
“Explain to me where I’m wrong,” he said.
“You’re not wrong. It’s why I called you a bastard.”
5
Barbara Stein had a law office on the second floor of the old Musgrove Building in downtown Andover, with a nice view of the town library. There was an outer office for her paralegal, two small offices for her and her husband, Jake Kaplan, and a modest conference room. Barbara, her client, and I were in the conference room.
The client’s name was Sarah Markham. She looked about twenty. She was taller than I was, and slim, with long, straight, dark hair, large brown eyes, and a lot of dark makeup. She wore low-slung pants and a cropped long-sleeved T-shirt that exposed her navel. She had rings on most of her fingers, including one on her left thumb, and her nails were painted black. It was a hideous fashion, and thankfully, I was just old enough that it was not required. Barbara had gray hair pulled back into a tight knot, and round, black-rimmed eyeglasses. Exposed navels were not an issue with her.
“I don’t look like anyone in my family,” Sarah told me.
“Eye color?” I said.
I had a dim sense, lingering from my science-requirement biology class, that two blue-eyed parents couldn’t produce a brown-eyed child.
“Except that,” she said. “But I don’t look anything like them.”
“What do your parents say?”
“They say I’m their biological child.”
“Barbara tells me they won’t allow DNA testing.”
“No,” Sarah said, “they won’t.”
“Because it’s demeaning?”
“Yes. They’re pretty phobic about doctors and things.”
“Things?” I said.
I was trying to focus. Trying to care about her problem.
“I think my mother has a religious thing about it.”
“About DNA testing.”
“I guess,” Sarah said. “They’re pretty phobic, you know?”
“Give me an example,” I said.
“Oh, I don’t know. They’re scared of everything?”
“Besides doctors and God, who are they scared of?” I said.
“Everyone,” she said. “What difference does it make. How is that helping me find my birth parents?”
Vague and impatient. What a lovely combination.
“They are not at ease with me,” Barbara said.
“Tell me again, how did Sarah get to you?” I said.
“I have done some general legal work for her family,” Barbara said.
“Have they always been ill at ease with you?”
“No, it’s more since I’ve been helping Sarah.”
“For God’s sake,” Sarah said. “You’re supposed to be a detective? Why don’t you detect something instead of asking all these dumb questions.”
“Asking a lot of dumb questions is
sort of how you do that,” I said. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Live at home?”
“I’m in college. I live in the dorm. I’m at home during vacations.”
“Where do you go?”
“I’m going into my senior year at Taft University,” Sarah said. “What difference does all that make?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “How will you pay my fee?”
“I have money from my grandfather.”
“Does he give it to you, or did you inherit?”
“He left me a trust fund, he started it when I was born.”
“Did you know your grandfather?”
“I don’t remember him.”
“Paternal or maternal?” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“Which of your parents did he father?” I said.
“He was my mother’s father.”
“Was he wealthy?”
Sarah gave me an it’s-none-of-your-business look. I bore up under it.
“I don’t know. He didn’t put so much in to start, but . . . have you heard of compound interest?”
“Only secondhand,” I said. “Can your parents control the fund?”
“Not now.”
“The money passed outright to Sarah,” Barbara said. “When she turned eighteen.”
“Besides appearance,” I said, “is there anything else that makes you think you’re not biologically related?”
Sarah breathed in deeply and looked even more annoyed, but she answered me.
“There’s a ton of clues,” she said. “They were always talking when I was little about how my mother couldn’t have kids . . . except of course you, Sarah. It was like they’d catch themselves.”
I nodded.
“What else?”
“They can’t find my birth certificate,” she said. “They don’t remember which hospital I was born in.”
“Where were you born?”
“Chicago, Illinois.”
“When did you move?”
“I don’t know. It was when I was a baby.”
“So what’s your earliest memory of where you lived?”
“Here.”
“Andover,” I said.
“Yes,” she answered, in a tone that suggested that I was very stupid. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
“What you said was ‘here.’ I was confirming that you meant Andover, and not simply Massachusetts.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Sarah said. “Do you want the job or not?”
“Sarah,” I said. “I know how to do this, and you do not. But I have to do it the way I know how. And I have to be able to stand the client. So far, I can’t.”
Sarah looked at me in astonishment and began to cry. Perfect. Maybe I could join her and we could both have a good cry and fall into each other’s arms. Barbara got up and patted Sarah’s shoulder.
“Sunny Randall is a very good detective. I know she can help you, but she has to ask questions. I know it seems clear to you. But Sunny’s just come aboard.”
Sarah sniffled and nodded. And sniffled and wiped her eyes and blew her nose on a Kleenex that Barbara gave her.
“Yes. Please. I’m sorry. I’ll tell you anything you need to know.”
“With less attitude?” I said. “I’ve not been having the best week of my life, either.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I didn’t mean to have attitude. Really, I’ll try to tell you everything.”
“That’ll be good,” I said. “Can you get me pictures of yourself, and of your mother and father?”
I knew she wanted to ask me why. And she knew it would annoy me. We looked at each other.
“It will help with the question of identity,” I said.
She shrugged.
“Sure,” she said.
“Good,” I said. “Shall we discuss my fee?”
6
Dr. Copeland was still a large, athletic-looking shrink. He was wearing a brown tweed jacket today, with a white Oxford shirt and maroon knit tie. His dark hair was still slicked straight back. He still wore big, round, black-rimmed glasses. He was still immaculate.
When I was seated across the desk from him in his office, he said, “It’s nice to see you again, Sunny.”
I felt sort of thrilled. He called me by my first name.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m glad to see you, too.”
I did not venture to call him Max. He smiled and sat back.
“Richie is getting married,” I said.
He nodded.
“You remember Richie,” I said.
“Your former husband,” Copeland said.
“Yes. Do you remember everything we talked about?”
“If I don’t, I’ll ask you to remind me,” Copeland said.
“Last time we talked, you said the bond between us was powerful, or something like that.”
“I remember,” he said.
“What do you think now?” I said.
“I also said I didn’t know where it would lead,” Copeland said.
“Covered yourself,” I said.
Copeland didn’t say anything.
“I guess I’m mad at you,” I said.
Copeland nodded.
“The hell of it is,” I said, “you were right. There is a strong bond between us.”
Copeland nodded.
“But I can’t live with him. I can’t live with anybody, really. And . . . Richie’s too . . . too traditional, I guess. He wants a wife and probably children.”
Copeland was leaning forward. He had his fingertips together in front of him and, with his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, he tapped his steepled forefingers against his chin softly as he listened.
“I’m thirty-seven,” I said. “If I’m going to have kids, I better do it now.”
Copeland smiled.
“You have a few years,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t be a wife and mother anyway.”
Copeland nodded just as if it were perfectly normal for a woman to reject marriage and children.
“I don’t know anyone like me,” I said.
“That doesn’t wish marriage and children?”
“Yes.”
“Believe me,” Copeland said. “There are many.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I said.
“What would you like to do,” Copeland said.
“I’d like to stop feeling like I’ve been shot in the stomach,” I said.
“I would think that some member of the Boston psychotherapy community could help you with that,” Copeland said.
“I want you to help me.”
He shook his head.
“Why not?” I said.
“I would like to work with you, Sunny, but I am retiring.”
“You’re not old enough to retire,” I said.
He nodded as if to acknowledge a compliment.
“I’m finishing up with my current patients and will be closing the office before the end of the year.”
I felt panicky.
“You too,” I said.
“Another rejection?” he said.
“I screwed up my courage and screwed up my courage to finally come here, and you are going to retire.”
“It is, of course, not personal,” Copeland said.
“Not to you,” I said.
“Well,” Copeland said, “in a sense it is. I am, after all, the one who’s retiring.”
“I know,” I said. “I know.”
“I can refer you to someone.”
“Like who?”
“I need to make some phone calls,” Copeland said. “To see who is currently t
aking new patients.”
“I was counting on you,” I said.
“I know. I’m sorry. But I can assure you that I will refer you to someone smart enough and”—he smiled a little—“tough enough to help you with this.”
“And you think I can be helped.”
“I’m sure,” Copeland said. “Generally, as you probably understand, what one needs in successful therapy is a good shrink, and a patient with the courage and brains to work on the issue. I can provide the good shrink. I know you have the rest.”
I felt short of breath, but I also felt reassured. I breathed in some air and let it out. I did that a couple times.
Then I said, “One request.”
Copeland bowed his head in a small encouraging gesture.
“Not Dr. Melvin,” I said.
“No,” Copeland said. “Not Dr. Melvin.”
7
Sarah’s parents lived on School Street, which branched off from Main Street opposite the Academy. Their house was down the hill a ways. It was a very large, white nineteenth-century house with a wide wraparound porch. Classes had started at Taft, and Sarah would be gone. It seemed as good a time as any to go visit her parents. It had to be done sometime.
Her mother answered my ring. She was a small, dark-haired woman with a furtive manner. She looked about fifty.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Sunny Randall.”
“Oh, Ms. Randall, thank you, please come in.”
The house was big and cluttered and full of costly furniture that didn’t go together very well. Mrs. Markham scuttled ahead of me, as if she was afraid someone would yell at her.
“Please, let’s go in the sunroom,” she said. “I hope you won’t find it too warm there.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” I said.
“George,” Mrs. Markham called. “Sunny Randall is here.”
George was on his feet when we went into the sunroom.
“Miss Randall,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”
He was tall enough, with a lot of bushy hair, wearing the kind of low-cut reading glasses you can buy at the drugstore. And he had the same stoop-shouldered bearing his wife had. They both looked as if they expected a scolding.
“Thanks for seeing me,” I said.
“Oh, no, no,” he said. “Our pleasure, really.”
He had a deep, hearty voice with very little accent. The boom of it was at odds with his tentative bearing.
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