Likewise, she certainly had tried to find excuses not to work in her dad's vegetable garden this summer (and everyone did seem to view it as Dad's Vegetable Garden), but if she revealed this to her psychiatrist, would the woman presume she was so angry with her dad on a subconscious level that she'd shot him on purpose just so she could escape a little weeding? That was ridiculous. But she'd heard enough from her New York friends who were in therapy to know that grown-ups seemed to love to blame the subconscious and were thrilled when it could take the fall for their kids' misbehavior.
And, she had to admit, she had no idea herself just how murky her subconscious might be when it came to her dad. Who could say what sort of ooze was deep in there, what kind of roiling animosity was festering in the gray matter behind her eyes? She loved the way he was there for her now--this week, this month--but this serious interest in her life was a new phenomenon.
No doubt about it: This conversation was a tightrope. She thought she had managed to keep her balance so far. Thank God, Dr. Warwick hadn't ushered her over to the corner of the room with the dolls and the blocks and the trucks and subjected her to toy therapy. If this nightmare had occurred two or three years earlier, Charlotte guessed, she and the shrink might be on the floor right now dressing Barbies.
"Do you want to talk about what happened in New Hampshire?" the doctor was asking. Her voice was silken, soft. It reminded her of a female hypnotist she had once seen interviewed on the Discovery Channel.
"Sure."
"Do you think about it often?"
"Every time I see my dad I think about it."
"Because of his sling?"
"And his beard."
"He didn't use to have a beard?"
"No. It's really hard for him to shave now, so he just stopped. His beard isn't in all the way yet. But it's getting there. It's mostly black, but it's got some white and some red in it, too. The red is really surprising, because he doesn't have any red in his hair."
"What do you think about when you see him?"
She considered this for a moment and didn't say a word. Unlike many adults, silence didn't seem to disturb Dr. Warwick. She just sat there and waited.
"Well, I think about how much he must hurt," she said finally, both because she did think about the pain he was enduring and because this response seemed appropriate. She guessed it was what she was supposed to say.
"What else?"
"I think about how his life has changed. All the stuff he can't do."
"Is there a lot?"
"Oh, yeah. Tons. He's right-handed. He can barely open a bottle of ketchup these days."
The doctor rested her chin in her hand and smiled. Charlotte suddenly detected a trace of perfume and she recognized it from . . . from New Hampshire. It wasn't a perfume that her mother or her aunt or Grandmother wore, that wasn't why it was familiar. Rather, it was an aroma that reminded her of one of the flowers in the cutting garden they'd put in. The tall purple ones, she guessed, but she wasn't positive. She wished she knew the plant's name.
"Has that changed your relationship with him?"
"The fact he can't open a bottle of ketchup?"
"That's right."
She shrugged. "Sure. I do a lot of stuff for him I never did before--stuff he would never have let me do before. At first, he thought he was going to be superindependent--despite the injury. Then he figured out he didn't have a prayer. And so I tie his sneakers for him. I make his coffee for him. I don't do the real personal stuff, like flossing his teeth and helping him get dressed and undressed. Mom does that. When he burnt the crap--excuse me--when he burnt the heck out of his hand, she was the one who kept putting the lotion on it. But I always feed the cats now--which is a real production, because of course we're not a normal family that feeds the cats normal canned cat food. That has meat in it, so we can't. It used to be that whoever happened to be in the kitchen would feed the kitties, but now it's always Mom or me. And because Mom is so busy making sure that Dad's zipper is up or something, I try to be the one to feed them. And that means getting down the vegan vegetable stew, the Foney Baloney, the seitan, and the vitamin supplements and then mixing them all together. And our cats are so finicky, we can't mix up a huge batch ahead of time and then store it in the refrigerator. It has to be room temperature, which means opening a fresh can of the stew each and every time and then mushing in the other ingredients, including the Foney Baloney which does have to be refrigerated and so it really has to be blended into the canned stuff. It is only completely impossible to do it all with one hand. Mom just wants to start buying them Friskies or something to make our lives a little easier, but I know that isn't what Dad wants, and so I figure I better be the cat chef for now."
"For now," Dr. Warwick repeated.
She nodded. She thought of that Saturday afternoon in the summer when everyone had been sitting on the porch in Sugar Hill talking about the party at the club that night--maybe six or seven hours before the accident would occur--and she'd decided to go wandering around the house to the cutting garden. She'd knelt amid the purple flowers that smelled so much like this woman's perfume. She wished she could go back there now. To that moment.
"It sounds like a lot of work," the doctor continued.
"Having vegetarian cats? Oh, yeah. It's hugely difficult. But what else could we do? I mean, think of who my dad is. He and his boss, Dominique, are, like, two of the most notorious vegetarians in the country. Dad's been on The Today Show, you know. Twice. And he's been on the CBS Early Show and Nightline and tons of other news programs."
"You sound like you're very proud of him."
"I am. But being Spencer McCullough's daughter is a lot of work. Do you know something?"
The doctor shook her head and waited.
"I have never been inside a McDonald's. I may be the only teenager in the developed world who hasn't been inside a McDonald's. My friends, even the ones who don't eat meat--and there are a few--think it's pretty extreme."
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
She sighed and savored the smell of the perfume. That day had been warm, the parents had all arrived, and she thought she was going to dance at the bonfire that night with . . . Connor. At least she thought now the teen boy's name had been Connor. Had she really forgotten? Was the boy really that forgettable? In any case, she knew she had been very happy that afternoon. She remembered putting one of those purple flowers in her hair, slipping it underneath her headband and imagining that she'd wear it that night to the bonfire. Then she remembered taking it out because she feared that she looked like a hillbilly.
"Charlotte?"
"Yes?"
"You said it wasn't easy being your father's daughter--even before his injury. Would you like to tell me more about that?"
"About being Spencer McCullough of FERAL's kid?"
"Is that who you are?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Not Charlotte McCullough?"
"Oh, I'm her, too," she agreed, but she understood now what the doctor was driving at. Still, here in New York she was Spencer McCullough's daughter--even, often enough, at Brearley, where if she had been anybody other than simply Charlotte she should have been Mrs. McCullough's kid. Or, if it was one of the older English classes filled with juniors and seniors who her mother insisted call her by her first name, Catherine's kid. But even at Brearley she was frequently defined in terms of who her father was and what he stood for. It was always good-natured and sometimes kids were impressed by her father's notoriety, though there was no shortage of celebrity moms and dads among the Brearley parents. Other kids' parents were important politicians, or they ran big corporations and were frequently in the New York Times business section or the Wall Street Journal, or they were simply richer than God and everyone (somehow) knew it. Sometimes their mom or dad--or their grandmom or granddad--was a famous actor. Nevertheless, what her dad did stood out, and so he was the subject of conversation as often as any other student's parent. FERAL did s
ome pretty outrageous stuff, and whether it was photos of naked models at some antifur extravaganza or the those horrible photos of monkeys from research labs that her father's group plastered on the bus stop kiosks, it was going to be of interest. Heck, the fact that she herself had never eaten a Sabrett hot dog was of interest, what other people ate in the lunchroom when they sat beside her was of interest. I hope you don't mind my eating the lasagna today, Charlotte--it's got meat in it. Charlotte, how can you not eat roast beef? I only eat chicken: Is that okay? What's wrong with eating fish? They're, like, cold-blooded, aren't they?
"Is there a difference?" It was the doctor.
"Excuse me?"
"Is there a difference between Spencer McCullough's daughter and Charlotte?"
She thought about this. Of course there was. Especially in New Hampshire, where Grandmother's friends and the kids at the club viewed her more as a Seton than a McCullough. It was completely different from New York. She guessed there were people in Sugar Hill who weren't even aware of what her dad did for a living. If anyone there made a big deal about vegetarianism and animal rights, it was likely to be her. Either she would be trying to torment Grandmother for force-feeding her cousin sausages or she would be turning up her nose with great drama at something that was cooking on the long barbecues at the club. Even the night of the bonfire, she'd made a point of telling one of the older girls what really went into a hot dog.
And that garden. Those gardens. Her father's gardens. The day of the accident when she'd wandered alone into the cutting garden: That hadn't been the first time. Did she go there as Spencer McCullough's daughter or as Charlotte? She'd actually spent more time amid those flowers in the weeks before all the parents had arrived than either her cousin or her grandmother. Yes, she hated weeding. But didn't everybody? Weeding, after all, was a chore. But flowers weren't all work. They weren't even mostly work. And alone in July she had meandered among the rows of loosestrife, astilbe, and phlox; she'd knelt before the daisies and lilies and savored the rich aromas that rose up to her from the flowers.
Especially those purple ones.
Now she breathed in Dr. Warwick's perfume and closed her eyes, recalling those days before she had shot her father. Shot. Her. Father. Oh, to be back in the garden on an afternoon smack in the middle of the summer, your parents on the porch on the other side of the house, everything the way it had always been and forever would be.
If only she could go back.
If only.
She was aware that she was crying now, the tears creating small, shallow runnels along the sides of her nose. When she opened her eyes, she saw that the therapist was handing her a box of tissues. She took one, and then she took the box. She thought she had finished crying back in New Hampshire. Apparently, she was wrong. Apparently, she was a complete mess.
She remembered she was supposed to answer a question that had something to do with her father, but she was no longer sure what it was. And so she just shook her head and blew her nose and let the psychiatrist sit there and watch since--as she'd noticed before--the woman really did seem happy enough when her patients didn't say a word.
WILLOW KNEW it was exactly 289 miles from the end of her family's driveway to the garage on Ninety-second Street in Manhattan where they parked the car when they visited Grandmother. She'd been picked up at school today which added another two miles since they had to double back past their house, and so when she looked over the headrest at the odometer she saw they were still a few miles short of the point at which they would be precisely two-thirds of the way there. But they'd been on the Taconic for easily forty-five minutes now, and she felt clearly as if they were in the home stretch. Even though they had stopped twice in the first half of the trip so they could have lunch and then change her baby brother's diaper, they would still be in the city by seven.
Beside her Patrick blinked in his sleep in his car seat, and he scrunched up his face as if he'd just eaten a lemon. She knew he'd probably wake up pretty soon. He'd given her almost two hours of peace in the car while he'd napped, and that was about all she could expect. And so she leaned over and reached for the bottle with the breast milk Mom had pumped before leaving her office. Willow guessed that the first thing her mother would do when they arrived at Grandmother's apartment was get Patrick latched onto her chest: She could tell by the way her mother was fidgeting in the front seat that her tanks were getting pretty full and it was time to start dumping fuel.
Her parents were listening to the news out of Manhattan now that they were in range of the New York City AM stations. Her dad loved it. News Radio 88, 1010 WINS. You give us twenty minutes, and we'll give you the world. It was one of those signals, her mom said, that thrilled Dad because it meant he was almost back to his childhood home.
She gazed out the window at the trees along the highway which, this far south, hadn't even begun to change color, and she kept her eyes open for deer. She almost always saw a few on the Taconic, usually in groups of three or four, one of whom would be staring at the cars as they sped by on the highway while the others browsed contentedly among the trees and shrubs at the edge of the forest for food.
She thought it was interesting that in the last two months she'd never felt any anger toward the deer. She knew this whole disaster was not their fault, but she also knew from her mom that anger very often wasn't rational. The closest she guessed she'd ever come to feeling any animosity toward the animals had actually occurred well before her cousin had shot Uncle Spencer. She remembered she had felt a twinge of resentment toward them when her parents had first learned that the baby in Mom's tummy was going to be a boy, and her father suddenly announced his interest in hunting. She'd wondered why it hadn't crossed his mind that hunting might be something he could share with her. After all, there were girls in their village who hunted with their fathers. Yes, it was mostly boys with their dads. But last year their neighbors Carolyn Patterson and Jocelyn Adams had both gotten animals during the state's Youth Deer Hunting Weekend.
The truth was that she had absolutely no interest in the sport, and there was no way in the world she would ever have gone with her dad into the woods in search of a buck they could kill. Her dad probably understood this. She wasn't exactly the type to shoot an animal and then pull out its guts. And she wasn't known for being real happy in the cold. Still, it would have been nice if her dad had asked.
She was looking forward to the Cloisters tomorrow more than she had expected. When she'd told her art teacher they were going, Ms. Seeley had brought her brochures and a National Geographic magazine article with breathtaking color photographs, and given her all sorts of suggestions of what to look for. She'd reminded her to keep her eye out for the jugglers at the festival at the park beside the museum, and to give the guys doing the Gregorian chants half a chance.
Mostly, however, Willow was anticipating her conversation with Charlotte. She wasn't looking forward to it in the same way she was excited about the Cloisters, for the simple reason that she and her cousin might very well end up fighting. And she hated fighting. But she had to see if she could change her cousin's mind. See if they could come to some sort of agreement about what they should say at the depositions. She understood her cousin's point that they didn't want to get Gwen in trouble and that it was in Uncle Spencer's best interests for them to lie at the deposition: Complete honesty might undermine both the lawsuit and FERAL's antihunting campaign. But that didn't make lying right. And while the truth might make things more complicated for Uncle Spencer, she sensed it would make things easier for her own dad.
At least she thought it would.
Though it would also make things worse for Charlotte. And that, Willow had concluded, was the big problem. If they told the lawyers they'd been smoking pot and drinking beer that night, then Charlotte would seem far from innocent.
This had to be at least part of the reason why her cousin was continuing to insist that they lie at the deposition.
When she brought their whole sto
ry up with Charlotte, the older girl would be defensive. Obstinate. Even a little melodramatic. But she reminded herself that she could be stubborn, too. Besides, she had the high ground on her side. She was the one advocating that they reveal everything they had done that night.
Next to her Patrick opened his eyes completely and stared up at the ceiling of the Volvo for a moment, and then turned his attention to her. He smiled and reached up his arms. He wanted to be picked up, but she couldn't lift him from his car seat while they were speeding south on the Taconic. And so she took the tiny fingers on both his hands in hers and kissed them one by one. Then, still smiling down at him, she inserted the bottle of milk into his mouth.
SPENCER GUESSED that the Setons would all want to meet Tanya, especially Willow, but he had to believe that John would have the good sense to steer clear of his family's apartment. The depth of his anger at his brother-in-law continued to mesmerize him. So much else that used to annoy him no longer did, and he actually thought he was handling his disability with something that resembled grace. He hadn't even lashed out at his physical therapist today while doing his reps with the man during lunch.
Before You Know Kindness (2004) Page 40
