She touched the china pot. Smiled and said, "Cold. Are you sure you don't want me to call down for fresh? Or something to eat have you had lunch?"
I said, "I'm sure, but thanks anyway."
"What you said before," she said. "Avoiding her own conflicts by mothering me. If that's the case, how can I pull that out from under her?"
"She'll come to grips with your improvement naturally gradually as you continue to make progress. And to be honest, you may not be able to persuade her to go to Harvard before the application deadline's up."
She frowned.
I said, "It seems to me there's something else complicating the situation-jealousy."
"Yes, I know," she said. "Ursula's pointed out how jealous she is."
"Melissa's got lots to be jealous of, Mrs. Ramp. She's been hit with a lot of change over a short period of time, besides your progress: Jacob Dutchy's death, your remarriage." The return of a madman "What makes it even rougher for her is the fact that she takes credit or blame-for initiating a good deal of the change. For getting you into treatment, introducing you to your husband."
"I know," she said. "And it's true. She did get me into therapy.
Nagged me into it, God bless her. And therapy's helped me cut a window in my cell. Sometimes I feel like such a fool for not doing it sooner, all those years..." She shifted position suddenly, showing me her complete face. Flaunting it.
Saying nothing about her second marriage. I didn't pursue it.
She stood suddenly, made a fist, held it in front of her, and stared at it. "I've got to convince her, somehow." Tension blanched the scarred side, marbling it again, bleaching the stripes on her neck.
"I'm her mother, for God's sake!"
Silence. The distant whir of a vacuum cleaner.
I said, "You sound pretty convincing right now. Why don't you call her in and tell her that."
She thought about that. Lowered the fist but kept it clenched.
"Yes," she said. "Okay. I will. Let's do it."
She excused herself, opened the door on the rear wall, and disappeared through the doorway. I heard padded footsteps, the sound of her voice, got up and looked.
She sat on the edge of a canopied bed, in an immense off-white bedroom with a muraled ceiling. Mural of courtesans at Versailles, enjoying life before the deluge.
She sat slightly stooped, bad side unprotected, pressing the mouthpiece of a white-and-gold phone to her lips. Her feet rested on plum-colored carpeting. The bed was covered with a quilted satin spread and the phone rested on a chinoiserie nightstand. High crank windows flanked the bed on both sides clear glass under pleated, gold-fringed valances.
Gilt-framed mirrors, lots of lace and toile and happily pigmented paintings. Enough French antiques to put Marie Antoinette at ease.
She nodded, said something, and put the phone back in its cradle. I returned to my seat. She came out a moment later, saying, "She's on her way up. Do you mind being here?"
"If Melissa doesn't mind."
Smile. "She won't. She's quite fond of you. Sees you as her ally."
I said, "I am her ally."
"Of course," she said. "We all need our allies, don't we."
A few minutes later footsteps sounded from the hall. Gina got up, met Melissa at the door, took her by the hand, and drew her in.
Placing both hands on Melissa's shoulders, she looked down at her solemnly, as if preparing to confer a benediction.
"I'm your mother, Melissa Anne. I've made mistakes and been weak and inadequate as a mother, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm your mother and you're my child."
Melissa looked at her quizzically, then whipped her head in my direction.
I gave what I hoped was a reassuring smile and shifted my glance to her mother. Melissa followed it.
Gina said, "I know my weakness has put a burden on you, baby.
But that's all going to change. Things are going to be different."
At the word different, Melissa stiffened.
Gina saw it and drew her close, hugging her. Melissa didn't fight it, but neither did she yield. "I want us always to be clpse, baby, but I also want us to live our own lives."
"We do, Mother."
"No, we don't, sweetheart. Not really. We love each other and care about each other you're the best daughter a mother could ever hope for.
But what we have is too. tangled. We have to untangle it. Get the knots out.
Melissa pulled away a bit and stared up at her. "What are you saying?"
"What I'm saying, baby, is that going away back east is a golden opportunity for you. Your apple. You earned it. I'm so proud of you your whole future is waiting and you have the brains and the talent to make the best of it. So take advantage of the opportunity I insist you take advantage."
Melissa wriggled free. "You insist?"
"No, I'm not trying to What I mean, baby, is that "What if I don't want to take advantage of it?" Melissa's tone was soft but combative. A prosecutor building the foundation for an assault.
Gina said, "I just think you should go, Melissa Anne." Some of the conviction had left her voice.
Melissa smiled. "That's fine, Mother, but what about what I think?"
Gina drew her close once more and pressed her to her breast.
Melissa's face was impassive.
Gina said, "What you think is the most important, baby, but I want to make sure you know what you really think that your decision isn't clouded by your worries about me. Because I'm fine, and I'm going to continue to be fine."
Melissa looked up at her again. Her smile had widened but turned cold.
Gina looked away from it while holding tight.
I said, "Melissa, your mother has given a lot of thought to this.
She's certain she can handle things."
"Is she?"
"Yes, I am," said Gina. Her voice had risen half an octave. "And I expect you to respect that opinion.
"I respect all of your opinions, Mother. But that doesn't mean I have to live my life around them."
Gina's mouth opened and closed.
Melissa took hold of her mother's arms and peeled them off her.
Stepping back, she looped her fingers in the belt loops of her jeans.
Gina said, "Please, baby."
"I'm not a baby, Mother." Still smiling.
"No. No, you aren't. Of course you aren't. I apologize for calling you that-old habits are hard to break. That's what this is all about changing. I'm working on changing you know how hard I've been working, Melissa. That means a different life. For all of us. I want you to go to Boston."
Melissa looked at me, defiant.
I said, "Talk to your mother, Melissa."
Melissa's attention swung back to Gina, then to me once more.
Her eyes narrowed. "What's going on here?"
Gina said, "Nothing, ba Nothing. Dr. Delaware and I have had a very good talk. He's helped me clarify things even further. I can see why you like him."
"Can you?"
Gina started to reply, stammered, and stopped.
I said, "Melissa, this family's going through major changes. It's rough for everyone. Your mother's searching for the right way to let you know she's really okay. So that you don't feel obligated to take care of her."
"Yes," said Gina. "Exactly. I really am okay, honey. Go out and live your own life. Be your own person."
Melissa didn't move. Her smile had vanished. She was wringing her hands. "Sounds like the grown-ups have decided what's best for little me.
"Oh, honey," said Gina. "That's not it at all!"
I said, "No one's decided anything. What's important is that the two of you keep talking-keep the channels of communication open.
Gina said, "We sure will. We'll get through it, won't we, honey?"
She walked toward her daughter, arms out.
Melissa backed away, into the doorway, braced herself by grasping the doorframe.
"This is great," she said. "Just great."
Her eyes blazed. She pointed a finger at me. "This isn't what I expected from you.
"Honey!" said Gina.
I got up.
Melissa shook her head and held her hands out, palms-front.
I said, "Melissa "Forget it. Just forget it!"
She shuddered with anger and ran out.
I stuck my head out the door, watched her race down the corridor, legs flying, hair flapping.
I considered going after her, then thought better of it and turned back to Gina, trying to conjure up something profound.
But she was in no shape to listen.
Her face had gone ghostly and she was clutching her chest.
Mouth open, gasping for breath. Body starting to shake.
The shakes got violent. I rushed to her. She stumbled back, shaking her head, holding me off, her eyes wild.
Reaching into one of the pockets of her dress, she fumbled for what seemed like a very long time, finally pulled out a small L-shaped white plastic inhaler. Inserting the short end in her mouth, she closed her eyes and tried to fasten her lips around the apparatus.
But her teeth chattered against the plastic and she had trouble gripping it in her mouth. Our eyes met but hers were glazed and I knew she was somewhere else. Finally she clamped her jaws around the mouthpiece and managed to inhale. Depressed a metal button at the tip of the inhaler's long end.
A faint hiss sounded. Her cheeks remained hollow. The bad side more hollow. She clutched the inhaler with one hand, grabbed a corner of the loveseat for balance with the other. Held her breath for several seconds before removing the device and collapsing on the couch.
Her chest heaved. I stood there and watched as the rhythm slowed, then sat next to her. She was still shaking; I could feel the vibrations through the sofa cushions. She mouth-breathed, worked at slowing down her respiration. Closed her eyes, then opened them.
Saw me and closed them again. Her face was filmed with sweat. I touched her hand. She gave a weak squeeze in return. Her flesh was cold and moist.
We sat together, not moving, not talking. She tried to say something, but nothing came out. She rested her head against the back of the loveseat and stared at the ceiling. Tears filled her eyes.
"That was a small one," she said in a feeble voice. "I controlled it."
"Yes, you did."
The inhaler was still in her hand. She looked at it, then dropped it back in her pocket. Bending forward, she took my hand and squeezed it again. Exhaled. Inhaled. Let out breath in a long, cool, minty stream.
We were so close I could hear her heart beating. But I was focusing on other sounds listening for footsteps. Thinking of Melissa returning, seeing us that way.
When her hand relaxed, I let it go. It took a couple more minutes for her breathing to return to normal.
I said, "Should I call someone?"
"No, no, I'm fine." She patted her pocket.
"What's in the inhaler?"
"Muscle relaxant. Ursula and Dr. Gabney did the research on it.
It's very good. For short term."
Her face was soaked with sweat, the feathery bangs plastered to her brow. The bad side looked like inflatable plastic.
She said, "Whew."
I said, "Can I get you some water?"
"No, no, I'll be fine. Really. It looks worse than it is. This was a small one-the first time in... four weeks... I.
"It was a tough confrontation."
She put her hand to her mouth. "Melissa!"
Shooting up, she ran out of the room.
I went after her, following her slender form down one of the dark spokes, to a rear spiral staircase. Sticking close so as not to get lost in the huge house.
The second man in his early fifties, I guessed was thickset but not flabby, a lifelong athlete who'd stayed in condition. Heavyjawed and blue-eyed. Executive-cut black hair with gray temples, clipped gray mustache precisely as wide as his mouth. Seamed, ruddy complexion.
Marlboro Man goes Country Club.
He cocked an eyebrow and said, "Gina? What's up?" His voice was mellow and resonant, the kind that seems friendly even if it isn t.
The stairway bottomed at a short hallway just outside a pantry as big as my living room. We walked through it and into the kitchen, a banquet-sized galley painted custard-yellow and floored with white hexagonal ceramic tiles. There were two walls of coolers and freezers, oiled butcher-block counters, and lots of copper pots hanging from cast-iron ceiling racks.
No cooking smells. A bowl of fruit sat on one of the counters.
The industrial eight-burner stove was bare.
Gina Ramp led me out, past a second, smaller kitchen, a silver room, and a paneled dining hall that could accommodate a convention. Looking from side to side, calling out Melissa's name.
Getting silence in return.
We backtracked, made a couple of turns, and ended in the room with the painted ceiling beams. Two men in tennis whites came through the French doors, holding rackets and wearing towels around their necks.
Both were big and well built.
The younger man was in his twenties, with thick shaggy yellow hair worn past his shoulders. A long thin face was dominated by narrow dark eyes and a cleft chin deep enough to hide a diamond. His tan had taken more than one summer to build.
"Have you seen Melissa, Don?"
"Sure, just a minute ago." Directing his gaze at me. "Something the mat-?"
"Do you know where she is, Don?"
"She left with Noel-" "With Noel?"
"He was doing the cars, she came running out like a bat out of Hades, said something to him, and the two of them drove off. In the Corvette.
Something wrong, Geen?"
"Oh, boy." Gina sagged.
The mustachioed man put his arm around her shoulder. Cast another searching look at me. "What's going on?"
Gina forced a smile and fluffed her hair. "It's nothing, Don. Just aThis is Dr. Delaware. The psychologist I told you about. He and I were trying to talk to Melissa about college and she got upset. I'm sure it'll blow over.
He held her arm, pursed his lips in a way that made his mustache peak in the middle, and arched his eyebrows again. Strong and silent.
Another one to the camera born Gina said, "Doctor, this is my husband, Donald Ramp. Don, Dr. Alex Delaware."
"Pleased to meet you." Ramp extended a big hard hand and we shook briefly. The younger man had retreated to a corner of the room.
Ramp said, "They can't have gotten too far, Geen. If you'd like, I can go after them, see if I can haul "em back."
Gina said, "No, it's okay, Don." She touched his cheek. "The price of living with a teenager, darling. Anyway, I'm sure she'll be back fairly soon maybe they just went to get gas."
The younger man was examining a jade bowl with a fascination too intense to be genuine. Lifting it, putting it down, lifting it again.
Gina turned to him. "How are you today, Todd?"
The bowl descended and stayed put. "Great, Mrs. Ramp. And you?"
"Muddling along, Todd. How did Don do today?"
The blond man gave her a toothpaste-ad smile and said, "He's got the moves. All he needs is to work."
Ramp groaned and stretched. "These old bones rebel against work."
Turning to me: "Doctor, this is Todd Nyquist. My trainer, tennis coach, and all-around Grand Inquisitor."
Nyquist grinned and touched one finger to his temple. "Doctor."
Ramp said, "Not only do I suffer, I pay for it."
Obligatory smiles all around.
Ramp looked at his wife. "You sure there's nothing I can do, honey?"
"No, Don. We'll just wait. They're bound to be back soon.
Noel's not finished yet, is he?"
Ramp looked out the doors, toward the cobbled courtyard.
"Doesn't look like it. The Isotta and the Delahaye are both due for a wax and all he's been doing so far is washing."
"Okay," said Gina. "So they probably did go for
gas. They'll be back, and then Dr. Delaware and I will take up where we left off. You go shower off, mister. Don't worry about a thing."
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 06 - Private Eyes Page 15
