By the end of the evening she seemed to be gaining a little perspective. During the following months, she was in high gear—totally focused on her job and working out two hours a day at the gym. She’d bought herself a mountain bike and joined a club which did hundred-mile cycles every weekend. Then the doctor came into her life. Dr. Mark McQueen—a Brookline dermatologist. Forty-five. Married, two kids, and, according to Lizzie, wildly successful: “A big pioneer in the field of acne scarring.” The very fact that Lizzie, with her splendidly sarcastic take on things, said this without irony made me feel that she was really smitten with this one. He also had his own program on a local cable station—Face It—a “how to improve your skin” show that was clearly aimed at the housewife population. The program had become something of a regional success story, and had been picked up by a variety of other cable channels around the country (“He’s just signed a contract for his first Face It book,” Lizzie said, all excited for him).
Anyway, McQueen had come along with a pal on one of those weekend bicycle trips. And that’s how he met Lizzie. It was a complete coup de foudre—and within two months of meeting him, she told me that she knew “he was the one.”
I counseled caution—telling her that an affair with a married man never had a happy ending. But she’d fallen hard, and (she assured me) so had the good doctor. I met him once—on a weekend visit to see Lizzie. He brought us to a very wonderful, very expensive restaurant—the Rialto at the Charles Hotel in Cambridge. He was unnecessarily unctuous in his attentions to Lizzie, and was far too fulsome about my teaching work, and his desire to meet Dan.
“When I heard that Lizzie’s dad was a fellow doctor, well, I just knew that there was something preordained about us.”
Oh, give me a break.
Then I learned that he drove a 7 Series BMW, that he “summered” on the Vineyard, and was planning to take Lizzie to Venice for a week next month (“Staying at the Cipriani, of course”). He dropped the name of his big-deal New York publisher, and told me that, since Face It was syndicated in California, he’d had offers pouring in from assorted Hollywood actors to be their “personal epidermal consultant.” After I’d been told that he’d made varsity tennis at Cornell and was now being coached at the Brookline Lawn Tennis Club by Brooks Barker (who reached the quarterfinals of the 1980 U.S. Open), my heart really started to sink. When Lizzie excused herself to go to the bathroom, he leaned over toward me and said, “You know that your daughter is the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“How nice for you,” I said carefully.
“And though my domestic situation is a little complicated right now . . .”
“Lizzie said you were still living at home.”
“That will change soon.”
“Does your wife know about Lizzie?”
“Not yet. But I will be telling her . . .”
“Does she suspect?”
He pulled back, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t think so,” he finally said.
“You must cover your tracks very well, Doctor.”
“I don’t want to hurt anybody.”
“But you will. If you leave your wife and children . . . they’re nine and eleven, Lizzie told me . . .”
He nodded in agreement.
“Well, if you walk out on your family, they will be damaged. And if you decide to break it off with my daughter . . .”
“I won’t be doing that. She’s the love of my life. I have this total certainty about us . . . the same sort of certainty you must have had when you first met your husband . . .”
I was about to say something rather cutting—along the lines of “When my husband and I met, neither of us was married to someone else . . . and, by the way, I hate anyone who talks about certainty”—but I saw Lizzie heading back toward us. So I simply leaned over to him and whispered, “As I think you know, she’s a fragile woman when it comes to love, and if you mess her up, you will fucking pay.”
He actually blanched. He certainly didn’t expect the bad language—or the Mafia-style threat—from a genteel schoolteacher like me.
And, of course, six weeks afterward he broke it off with Lizzie.
“Please don’t tell Dad,” she said when she called to give me the news.
“Honey, I’ve never said a word about this to your father—and I won’t. Because you asked me to keep a confidence. But I don’t think you should be afraid of your dad—because you know he’s not the condemning type.”
“But he’d still think me a screwup for doing this again.”
I then got the entire saga: how Mark had finally broken down and told his wife; how she went berserk and threatened suicide; how he went to Lizzie and told her that he had to “do the right thing,” even though he still loved her; and how he wouldn’t entertain any of her pleas to keep seeing her clandestinely.
I found all this out a week ago. Since then, we’d spoken daily. What was troubling me now was the fact that Lizzie seemed so unnaturally calm. Over the past few days, she had insisted that everything was under control; she was maintaining perspective and had a very Zen take on this. But her voice was hushed, abnormally subdued—and I was beginning to doubt her constant assurances that she was just fine.
So I settled down at my desk, picked up the phone, dialed the phone numbers that linked us to our phone mail service, and played her message:
“Hi, Mom, hi, Dad . . . it’s just me. Mom, can you call me when you have a moment? Don’t worry if it’s late. I’ll be up.”
Once again, she sounded a little otherworldly—making me wonder if she was suffering from insomnia or was on antidepressants. I checked my watch. Nine thirty-five p.m. Early for Lizzie. I took a large swig of wine and called her number. She answered on the first ring. “Mom?” she asked.
“You okay, hon?” I asked.
“Oh yeah, I’m fine.”
“You sure about that?”
“Why? Don’t I sound fine?”
Her voice was flat, lifeless.
“Just a little tired.”
“Not sleeping. But I’m often not sleeping. So—”
She broke off. Silence.
“Work okay?” I asked, trying to fill the gap.
“I keep making the clients money, so yeah, sure, everything’s fine.”
Another silence. I asked, “And this sleeplessness . . . is it every night?”
“Has been. But now, when I can’t sleep, you know what I do? I get up, get into my car, and drive over to Brookline.”
“What’s in Brookline, hon?”
“Mark’s house.”
Oh God . . .
“You drive over to Mark’s house in the middle of the night?”
“Hey, don’t sound shocked. I don’t go in or anything. I don’t ring the bell. I just wait outside.”
“For what?”
“For Mark.”
“But if it’s the middle of the night, isn’t Mark asleep?”
“Yeah, but he gets up really early to go jogging . . . even though I told him so many times that he’s going to kill his knees that way.”
“Has he seen you outside his door?”
“Oh yes.”
“Has he said anything?”
“No, he just looks at me, turns, and jogs off.”
“Have you approached him or his house?”
“Not yet.”
“By which you mean?”
“If he doesn’t talk to me soon, I’ll have no choice. I’ll ring the bell and have a chat with his wife.”
Once again, it was her calm that unnerved me.
“Have you been trying to make contact with him anywhere else?”
“Oh, I’ve called him.”
“And has he taken your calls?”
“Not yet. He’s always been busy. But he will. Eventually.”
“Where have you been calling him? At home?”
“Not yet. But I will start calling him there if he doesn’t talk to me soon.”
“So you’ve been call
ing him at his office, yes?”
“Yeah, and on his cell phone.”
“And have you been calling often?”
“Every hour on the hour.”
I opened a desk drawer and reached for the pack of Marlboro Lights that I kept there. I had long since curtailed my serious cigarette habit, but I still smoke three a day. It’s a mild indulgence and a lot less toxic than the thirty-a-day addiction I once had. God knows, I needed a cigarette right now. I fished one out, lit it up, took a deep drag, exhaled, and said, “Now, you know, hon, that what you are doing could be construed, by some people, as harassment.”
Her voice remained flat.
“But I’m not approaching him or anything,” she said. “And if he just returned my call and agreed to talk with me . . .”
“What do you expect to get from him?”
“Well . . .” A pause. “I don’t know . . .” Another pause. “Maybe if he hears what I have to say, he’ll change his mind.”
“But Lizzie, the very fact that he hasn’t taken your calls, hasn’t approached your car . . .”
“He has to talk to me!”
This sentence came out in a sudden shriek. As soon as it was uttered, she fell silent again. My stomach did cartwheels, while my brain went spinning into overdrive, wondering whether I should jump into the car right now and get down to Boston. But I had to be in Burlington tomorrow. Anyway, I doubted if my arrival would have any sort of stabilizing effect on her. Suddenly a thought crossed my mind.
“Lizzie, hon, I want you to do a big favor for yourself. I want you to go run a hot bath and have a nice long soak, and make yourself a cup of some sort of herbal tea, and get into bed, and make this a night that you will try to sleep straight through until morning. And if you wake up in the middle of the night, I want you to promise me you will not leave the apartment . . .”
“But he might talk to me this time.”
“All I’m asking,” I said, “is that you stay put tonight. Because if you don’t get a decent night’s sleep . . .”
“I work just fine on three hours.”
“Do you have anything to help you sleep?”
“I’ve got some Sominex.”
“Are you taking anything else right now?”
“My doctor suggested Prozac . . . but I know that once Mark talks to me . . .”
“Maybe you should speak to your doctor again about Prozac.”
“Mom, all I need to do is talk to Mark. Okay?”
The tone was shrieky again.
“Okay,” I said quietly. “But you will stay home all night tonight?”
“Mom . . .”
“Please.”
Silence.
“If it makes you happy . . .”
“It would make me very happy,” I said.
“Okay. But if he doesn’t talk to me by this time tomorrow, I’m going back to his house. And this time I’m ringing his doorbell.”
When we ended the call a few minutes later, I’d also extracted a promise from Lizzie that she’d phone in the middle of the night if she needed to talk. As soon as I hung up, I reached for my address book and found the card that McQueen had given me during that dreadful dinner with him in Cambridge. On the back, he’d scribbled his home number and his cell phone, telling me that “now that we’re family” I should feel free to call him whenever.
“Whenever” had just arrived. So I dialed his cell phone—and when I received a recorded voice mail message, I tried his home number. A woman answered on the fourth ring. When I asked to speak to Dr. McQueen, she got very irritated, demanding to know who I was.
“Please tell him it’s Hannah Buchan,” I said. “I’m a patient.”
“Don’t you know how late it is?” she said.
Oh, give me a break. I’m a doctor’s wife myself—and nine forty-five isn’t exactly the middle of the night.
“Tell him it’s urgent,” I said. She put down the phone. When he picked it up a few moments later, his tone was nervous and he sounded like he was playacting for an audience.
“Ah yes, Mrs. Buchan,” he said. “Hannah, isn’t it? And how are you getting on with the new prescription?”
“It is important I talk with you now,” I said in a very low voice.
“Now, I can understand your worry,” he said in a bright, medical-man voice, “but it’s not an unusual reaction. Might we be able to talk about this at length tomorrow?”
“Don’t hang up on me, or I’ll call right back.”
“It’s that bad, eh? Listen, I’d better take this in my study. I’ll be putting down the phone for a moment, but will pick it up again in just an instant. Don’t go away.”
No chance of that, chum.
Around a minute later, he picked up again, sounding strained and talking in a near whisper.
“Are you crazy, calling me at home?” he hissed.
“It is a genuine emergency.”
“You’re as mad as your daughter.”
I stiffened and suddenly felt real rage.
“Now, you listen to me, Doctor,” I said, the anger showing. “Lizzie is in a terrible place right now . . .”
“Tell me about it. She calls me morning, noon, and night. She lies in wait for me outside my house—”
“. . . and she’s doing this because you dumped her.”
“I had no choice. My wife and my kids . . .”
“I warned you at that dinner . . .”
“I didn’t think she would go so crazy.”
“You can never predict someone else’s feelings, especially when you’ve led them to believe that the game you were playing was for keeps.”
“I wasn’t playing a game . . .”
“You’re a married man,” I said. “Of course you were playing a game.”
“I genuinely loved . . .”
“Loved? Since when did you stop loving the woman you told me was your destiny or some such—”
“Since she started stalking me, that’s when.”
“You have put her in this place . . .”
“Oh, please. She knew I was married when this whole thing started . . .”
“Don’t you dare. You made it crystal clear to her that she was the love of your life.”
“If she shows up here again, I’ll call the police.”
“And I’ll call the AMA and make a formal complaint against you.”
“For what? Sleeping with a lunatic?”
“Sleeping with a patient.”
“She was never my patient. She saw me once as her dermatologist—a ten-minute appointment, during which I referred her to another specialist . . .”
“Once is enough, as far as the AMA is concerned.”
“You’re playing dirty.”
“That’s right. I am—and do you know why I am? Because Lizzie is my daughter.”
“The complaint would be thrown out.”
“Perhaps, but think of all the great publicity you’ll receive along the way. How do you think a complaint against you would affect your emerging career as a television celebrity?”
Another long silence.
“So what do you want?” he finally asked.
“I want you to call her as soon as we’re finished, and agree to meet her.”
“It won’t change my mind.”
“If you don’t call her, I promise you she’ll be ringing your doorbell at home tomorrow night—because she told me that was her next step.”
“What am I supposed to say to her?”
“That’s up to you.”
“I’m not going back to her.”
“Then tell her that—in as clear and as kindly a way as possible.”
“And if that doesn’t work . . . if she keeps harassing me?”
“Then we’ll get her some professional help. But before that, you must call her and tell her you’ll see her tomorrow.”
“I’m booked solid with appointments . . .”
“Find the time,” I said.
“All right,” he
said quietly.
“And you’ll call her at home now? She is definitely there, because I just got off the phone with her.”
“Yes, I’ll call her now.”
And he hung up.
I put down the phone, and put my head in my hands. More than anything, I felt fear and guilt right now. Fear because Lizzie was in such a dark wood . . . and guilt because I wondered what we might have done during her childhood to nourish such desperate neediness, such fear of abandonment. She’d always been a great kid (and one with whom I had always had a close and relatively bump-free relationship), but that offered no comfort right now. I was about to light another cigarette, but instead I stood up and headed downstairs to the basement. I knew that, in the current situation, I could no longer keep Lizzie’s secret. I had to talk to Dan about it, and get his counsel about what to do next.
But when I reached the basement, I found all the lights were off. So I returned upstairs to our bedroom. The lights were out in our room too, except for a small night-light that we always kept on in a corner of the room. Dan was already in bed, the duvet pulled up around him, fast asleep, dead to the world. Though I wanted to wake him up and tell him what was going on, I knew that it simply wouldn’t be fair to rouse him now. It would have to wait until morning . . . no, damn it, I would be heading off to Burlington first thing . . . all right, I could leave him a note, telling him to call me on my cell phone and then I’d bring him up to date. I wouldn’t soft-pedal the fact that I had kept this story from him at Lizzie’s request. I’d come clean—and take the consequences.
I walked back to the basement, retrieved the bottle of wine from the bar, and brought it back to my office. I refilled my glass, fished out another cigarette, and resisted the temptation to call Margy in Manhattan. God, how I wanted to speak with her right now. After all these years, she still remained my closest friend, but Margy was in the middle of her own very dark wood—and although I know she would have looked upon the Lizzie crisis as a welcome respite from her own worries (“I love other people’s emergencies,” she once said), it was hard to know whether she’d be awake or asleep at this hour, given her general condition right now. So I lit up the cigarette (I was definitely going to break the three-a-day rule tonight), drank some more pinot noir, and tried to concentrate on the thirty term papers to be graded before morning. I had just finished with the second when the phone rang. I grabbed it immediately.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 135
