by Mary Campisi
“Thanks for stopping by. I’m really getting worried about Danielle.”
“Still not talking to you, huh?”
“Not really. Oh, she did break the ‘no talking fast’ for about ten minutes to tell me how she and Natalie aren’t supposed to be eating fast food more than once a week. Of course, that’s all we’ve been eating.”
“I should’ve thought—”
“No, it’s not your responsibility; it’s mine. But, heck, I don’t know what kids are supposed to eat. I like junk food. I love cheeseburgers, French fries, tacos. I thought it was a treat, I mean when you see all those commercials with kids eating that stuff, they’re always rushing to the register, laughing, jumping up and down.” Jenny shrugged. “You never see them get that excited when they’re sitting in front of a plate of green beans.”
Laura smiled. “You’ve got a point there.”
“So, I thought I’d make macaroni and cheese. That didn’t count as acceptable either, not according to Danielle.” She leaned over, lowered her voice. “Do you think that’s junk food? Why isn’t it considered homemade; after all, you cook it at home and it goes on the stove, not in the microwave, right?”
Laura sipped her coffee and thought a moment. “That’s true, but it does have quite a bit of sodium and the cheese is all processed.”
Jenny shook her head. “I should have brought Gerald with me; he’s a chef. He could have worried about balancing their meals and making sure they got their folic acid or whatever it is kids are supposed to have.”
Laura laid a hand on Jenny’s. “You’re doing fine.”
“What? Oh.” No, she wasn’t doing fine; she was botching things up horribly. She couldn’t even tell the difference between junk food and real food.
“Are you okay?”
Jenny shrugged as she began to implode under Laura’s watchful gaze.
“Cry if you want. You’ve been going nonstop since your plane landed. You don’t have to be Superwoman.”
Jenny sniffed, pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I’m fine. I…really.” She blinked, hard.
“Oh, Jenny. Let it out.”
This was where Grace always came in, talking, reassuring, even twenty-four hundred miles away, she knew what to say, how to say it, to make Jenny feel better, gain perspective. And now, Grace wasn’t here for her. Now she was in a hospital bed, and she couldn’t talk, couldn’t even move. Now it was all up to Jenny…
“This is crazy.” Jenny swiped tears from her cheeks and tried for humor. “Maybe there’s something in that cobbler.”
“Talk to me,” Laura said. There was a quiet authority in her voice that demanded a response.
“I thought I was okay. Then, I don’t know, I started to fall apart.”
“Welcome to the human race.”
“Grace would never act like this,” Jenny said, sniffing again.
“Well, we can’t count Grace. She’s the fourth part of the Catholic trinity.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit, and then there’s Grace.”
“That about sums it up.”
Laura leaned over the table and lowered her voice. “But you don’t want to be within a mile of my house when I come undone,” she said. “It’s worse than a hurricane.”
“You? Lose your cool? No way.”
Laura raised a brow. “Thanks, but please don’t tell poor Hank that. He’s witnessed the fallout too many times in our twelve years of marriage.” She shrugged. “It’s natural. I’d say even healthy.”
“I guess. It’s just that I’ve been practicing all these techniques to de-stress myself—herbal remedies, lavender, chamomile, hot massages, oatmeal baths…but they’re not working.”
“One breath at a time,” Laura said. “That’s it. You’ve got a lot on your plate right now.”
“I miss Grace.”
“Me, too. She could calm me down, get me grounded better than anyone I’ve ever met before.”
“And I really am worried about Danielle. Ten sentences in six days isn’t good. I feel like she blames me for Grant’s death, you know, kill the messenger and all that.”
“Maybe, in some subconscious way, she does.”
Jenny rubbed the back of her neck, let out a slow breath. Relax. Think Hawaii. Think cool water.
“Danielle’s okay with me, quieter than usual, but when you’ve got four girls yapping at once, sometimes it’s a welcome relief to have one take a break.”
“Well, she’s been taking a lot of breaks around here.”
“It might not hurt to have the girls talk to somebody.”
“Like who?”
“I know someone who helped Hank’s niece when her parents got divorced last year,” she said. “Actually, his secretary is Hank’s aunt.”
“A shrink?”
She threw Jenny a look and said, “He’s a psychologist, actually.”
“Oh. A mini-shrink.”
“His name’s Elliot Drake, and I think you should consider having the girls talk with him,” she said.
“Elliot Drake.” Jenny tried the name on her tongue. “Sounds like the name of a ship. Like the Edmund Fitzgerald.”
“I met him,” she said, ignoring Jenny’s comments. “He’s very nice.”
“Did he analyze every word you said?” Jenny asked. “Watch you with hawk-like intensity from over small, black glasses perched on the tip of his pointy nose?”
Laura laughed and shook her head. “You, Jenny Romano, watch way too much television. Elliot does not have black glasses.” She gave her a sly smile. “I think they’re brown.” Jenny raised a brow and opened her mouth to speak but Laura rushed in. “And his nose isn’t the least bit pointy.”
“Elliot? Why not Dr. Elliot what’s his name?”
“Drake,” she said.
“Drake, Dracula, whatever.”
Laura tapped a finger against her chin and tilted her head. Her pale blonde braid swayed behind her. “I guess I think of him as Elliot because he’s got a very unassuming manner. Relaxed. Casual. You’d never know he was a doctor. And,” she grinned, “he introduced himself as Elliot.”
“Probably some ploy to get you to relax so he can dissect what you’re saying.”
“He’s very nice,” she repeated.
“You said that already.”
“Well, I guess I did.” She hesitated a second, added, “You’ve been under so much pressure since the accident...you might even want to consider seeing him yourself.”
“No thanks.”
“Talking to someone might make things easier for you.”
“I have someone,” Jenny said, forcing a smile. “You.”
Laura shook her head. “I’m not qualified to listen and give you advice—”
“You’re a friend. That makes you more than qualified.” She was not going to talk to a shrink, a mini-shrink, or anyone who asked questions like “How does that make you feel?” and “Can you tell me more?”
“I’m sorry. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I really don’t need to see a shrink, or a psychologist, or any other head guy with a bunch of letters after his name. I’m fine.” She reached for two pieces of bubble gum, unwrapped them, and popped them in her mouth.
“Okay.” Jenny didn’t miss the hesitancy in Laura’s voice, as though she wanted to dispute that comment but decided against it. “Will you at least consider taking the girls? Especially Danielle? A few sessions, that’s all.”
Jenny worked the gum so fast she thought her jaw would pop out of its socket. Strawberry spurted in her mouth in small, uneven gushes. She met Laura’s steady gaze and said around a double wad of gum, “I’ll think about it.”
6
Jenny waffled back and forth for the next two days, take them to see a shrink, don’t take them to see a shrink, take them, don’t. But in the end, it was the girls who decided for her.
It was a Saturday afternoon; the sun had spread its rays like a spr
ing jacket, warming everything it touched. Jenny and Natalie sat on a blanket in the backyard, blowing bubbles and eating cheese curls. After blowing one incredibly huge bubble, especially for a five-year-old, Natalie leaned over and grabbed a handful of cheese curls. She knocked the bottle of bubbles with her elbow and it spilled on the blanket and the front of Jenny’s shorts.
“I’m sorry.” Natalie jumped up, her small face scrunching with fear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, Aunt Jenny. Honest.”
Jenny stood and brushed the soapy liquid from her jean shorts. “I know you didn’t mean it, honey. It’s okay.”
Natalie threw her arms around Jenny’s waist, held tight. “Don’t go, Aunt Jenny, don’t go.”
Jenny ran a hand over Natalie’s curls and murmured, “I’m not going anywhere.”
But Natalie went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “Please, don’t go,” she said again, her voice wobbling. “’cause Mommy can’t run and do the kind of stuff you do. I’m trying to be good and quiet, so she can get better.”
Jenny hugged her niece’s small body to her. “I know you are, honey.”
“I want Mommy back the way she used to be,” she whimpered.
“I know.” So do I.
“Danielle says I have to behave or I’m going to make Mommy sicker and she might die and then we wouldn’t have any parents.”
“No, Natalie, that’s not true.”
The child’s voice shook as the tears started. “Danielle says we have to be vv...verrry gg...goood. Better than with Da...aaddy.”
“What happened to Mommy and Daddy is not your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It was an accident.”
“But Danielle says, we have to be vv...very good so God doesn’t ttt...take Mommy, too.”
Did Danielle really believe that she and Natalie were responsible for what happened to their parents? That they could control it?
Laura was right; they needed someone who could talk to them, make them understand the accident wasn’t their fault. Laura had given her the name of a doctor. What was his name? Alec? Alex? Eldridge? Elliot? That was it. Elliot. Elliot Drake.
* * *
Dr. Elliot Drake lived twenty minutes away in the next town. When Jenny pulled her car into a parking space on Glendale Road, she had to check the address on her notepad twice. It was the same address, but it wasn’t what she expected. Actually, she wasn’t expecting a house at all. In California, doctors had offices in sleek, chrome buildings, several stories high with elevators and walls of windows.
Dr. Drake’s secretary, that would be Hank’s aunt she guessed, had indicated that the doctor’s office was in his house, but somehow, she hadn’t expected anything so...warm or welcoming. She’d always thought a psychologist would counsel patients in an atmosphere that was conservative, perhaps even austere.
This house was anything but that. With its long wrap-around porch and high-pitched roofs, it was an elegant blend of colonial and Victorian architecture in honey-wheat, trimmed in Wedgwood blue and burgundy. The porch led to a small side entry that had to be the doctor’s office. And there were plants everywhere. Six hanging ferns and several potted begonias and impatiens. Red, white, yellow, fuchsia, orange, all spilling from the porch in an explosion of vibrant color.
Dr. Drake’s wife certainly loved flowers. Jenny followed the trail of potted plants to the side entrance and stopped before a door with the name Elliot S. Drake on it. For a second, she wondered what the S stood for, and then raised a finger to the doorbell. When she pressed the button, the first few chords of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony chimed around her. Interesting. She pressed it again, her curiosity toward the doctor mounting.
The oak door opened just as she contemplated another ring. A pleasant-looking, fifty-something woman with huge dimples smiled up at her from her barely-five-foot frame. “Hello,” she said. “Come in. Come in. You must be Miss Romano, Laura’s friend.”
Jenny smiled at the woman and stepped past her into the house. “Yes, I am. I have a three o’clock appointment with Dr. Drake.”
“Elliot,” the woman said, waving a plump hand in the air. “Everyone calls him Elliot.” She waddled a few steps and turned around. “I’m Eleanor. Did Laura tell you Hank was my nephew? Yes, of course she must have. Hank’s a good boy and Laura’s a dear.” She lowered her voice. “I’m so sorry to hear about your sister and her husband.”
“Thank you.” Maybe Hank had been paying more attention to her situation than she thought.
“Would you like something to drink? Iced tea or lemonade, maybe?”
“Lemonade, please.” Were all psychologists’ offices this hospitable? Doubtful.
“I’ll be back in a jiff,” the older woman called over her shoulder as she opened a side door and left the room.
Jenny seriously doubted the poor woman could do anything “in a jiff,” not with such short legs and so much extra padding around the middle, but she sure did have a kind heart. Those warm brown eyes reminded Jenny of simmering molasses, and when she smiled, two big dimples carved both sides of her mouth, giving her a girlish appearance.
If Dr. Drake, correction, Elliot, was half as warm and welcoming as this woman, then Danielle might open up enough to talk to him, and Natalie would stop blaming herself for her parents’ accident. Jenny glanced around the room trying to get a feel for the doctor. She’d always been a big believer in observation of surroundings, kind of like taking a snapshot without a camera. It told a lot about the person. Herself, for example. If someone walked into her condo, the first thing they would notice would be a wall of black-and-white photos. Not just any black-and-whites, but photos of people; head shots, full body shots, young, old, in groups, or alone. If they were to travel from room to room, they would see more photographs, some in color, others gray-toned, but always with a face or body as the subject. By the time they finished wandering through the place, they’d know Jenny’s passion and her profession, without one peek into her darkroom or one glimpse at a camera.
She glanced around the waiting room, trying to detect something about the doctor. Her guess would be that he preferred comfort to style. There was an overstuffed burgundy and cream plaid sofa tucked against the far wall with two hand-crocheted cream pillows. A dark blue afghan rested on the back of the couch, compliments of Mrs. Drake, no doubt. Two straight-backed chairs sat across from each other, one done in blue plaid, the other in burgundy. The fabric on both chairs was faded and frayed along the edges. Probably something he’d had forever, maybe a purchase made as a newlywed and now, years later, neither he nor Mrs. Drake could part with it.
Her mind wandered off in that direction as she took in the rest of the room. There were two pictures of mountain landscapes and one of a beach. Laura had given no indication of Dr. Drake’s age, so she had no idea what to expect, but she’d bet her entire darkroom that he was a white-haired gentleman, pushing sixty-five, with a kind face, bushy eyebrows, and wire-rimmed glasses. There was another picture in the far corner, a photograph, actually, that she had to move closer to see. Jenny squinted hard to bring it into view. A motorcycle? Sure enough, it was a black-and-white shot of a very large motorcycle. She recognized the style even before she saw Harley Davidson scrawled on the side of it.
Did the motorcycle belong to a relative, maybe a son?
“Here we are, dear.” Hank’s aunt moved beside Jenny and held out a tall glass of lemonade. “Fresh-squeezed this morning.”
“Thank you.”
The older woman smiled as Jenny accepted the drink. “Call me Eleanor. Everyone else does.”
“Thank you, Eleanor.” Jenny sipped the lemonade and puckered her lips at the sour-sweetness. “I noticed the beautiful flowers on the porch. Did you plant those?”
Eleanor let out a full-bellied laugh that rolled around the room, pulling a laugh from Jenny. “Heavens, no. I have nothing to do with anything green.” She shook her gray head and her bun flopped back and forth. “That’s Elliot’s doing. All of it.”
“Well, they’re beautiful. I guess I just thought they had a woman’s touch.”
Eleanor chuckled. “I’m the only woman around here, and Eleanor Flatt doesn’t do plants.”
“Oh.” And then, “What about his wife?” The question was out before Jenny could pull it back and think of a more polite way to ask it.
The smile faded from the older woman’s face. “Elliot doesn’t have a wife.”
He must be a widower. She could tell by the way Eleanor shut down, there was grief buried in those words. Maybe his wife had died of cancer. Or some horrible accident. They’d probably been very much in love and she’d been plucked away in the twilight of their lives, leaving him alone and heartbroken.
“I’m sorry,” Jenny murmured, wishing she could yank back the last two minutes of conversation.
Before Eleanor could respond, the door behind Jenny opened and she heard a deep voice say, “Ms. Romano?”
Dr. Drake? Jenny swung around, wondering how a senior citizen could have such a young-sounding voice. Only Dr. Drake wasn’t a senior citizen. Not at all. Jenny stood eye to eye with the tall, lean man in the doorway. This man was Dr. Drake? She wiped a sweaty palm on her jeans skirt and held out her hand. “Jenny Romano.”
He gave her a wide smile and took her hand. His touch was warm, confident. “Elliot Drake,” he said. “Sorry for the wait. I see you’ve been sampling Eleanor’s special blend.” He nodded toward the glass in Jenny’s hand. “Lemonade with a twist of lime.” He cast a look at the older woman standing behind her. “Thanks, Eleanor,” he said, his deep voice warm with affection.
“You’re very welcome. Now, I’ll just lock up and go fetch Sydney.”
“Fine. I’ll see you at 6:00.” He turned to Jenny and motioned toward his office. “Right this way.”
Jenny stepped past him into his office, wondering who Sydney was and what was happening at 6:00. She took a seat in one of two camel-colored leather chairs and looked around. The same decorator who’d placed his mark in the waiting room had added his touch here as well. She’d thought it was Mrs. Drake, but Eleanor had squashed that idea. The soft leather and polished brass were an extension of the waiting room with their faded-yet-honest invitation to sit down and relax. It almost made her want to kick off her sandals and cross her legs.
