"Don't get your hopes up. It's not Matt. One of my best students has made it to the semi-finals of the regional singles competition and I need to be there."
"Oh, Nan, why? I get lonely when you're not here."
"I'll be home for dinner, don't worry. How would it look if I didn't attend an at-home match? And I like Ida. I promised to go out for coffee afterward with her and the boyfriend she talks about all the time."
"Ah." Catherine sighed. "Love."
Nan groaned. "Love is not all it's cracked up to be."
"Yes, it is!" Catherine called after her, and Nan found she was smiling despite herself. Being her mother's caregiver was by no means easy, but she couldn't–didn't want to–imagine life without her.
She glided through the school day feeling more relaxed than she had in a week. The cliché was right, she thought. Fighting the devil you know is a lot easier than fighting a phantom. After finishing her daily paperwork, she headed for the tournament courts with something resembling a pleasant sense of anticipation.
Four rows of bleachers had been set up around the court. Nan seated herself in the space reserved for her. She moved one of the two hand-written "Taken" signs lying on the bench to her right closer to where she was sitting, designating both spaces, and went to speak to Ida and wish her luck before the warm-up. They hugged. "He's up there. Next to you," Ida whispered in her ear.
"Who?"
"My boyfriend."
Nan turned. "You have good taste," she said, looking at Peter Sanchez, resplendent in a white Aran-style cable knit sweater. Next to him sat Matt Mullen. The young man waved and poked Matt in the ribs. The poet waved feebly. "What's Dr. Mullen doing here?" Nan could feel her temper rising, much of it at her own stupidity in thinking Peter had found her attractive or, heaven forefend, had been in Matt's office for business other than poetry.
"Peter's in his class. I am, too. I thought it might be nice if he came out with us afterwards, so I asked Peter to ask him–" Ida's voice trailed off. "Did I do something bad?"
Nan reorganized her facial expression. The last thing Ida needed was an extra reason to feel nervous. "Of course not." She forced herself to smile. "Now go out there and show them who you are."
When she returned to her seat Matt greeted her warmly and she gave a civil response. Moving to a different spot would have made an unnecessary fuss and felt like some sort of concession.
Ida played brilliantly. Nan applauded after each good shot, every strong serve, but, though she was proud of her, she could not focus on the match. Every so often, a student stopped to greet her or Matt. Struck by his personal response to them and by their obvious affection and respect for him, she couldn't help thinking that a man like him could not possibly have done what he was accused of doing, then reminded herself that child molesters could and usually did look and act like everybody else.
In a break between sets Peter went off to get refreshments for the three of them, and suddenly things were very awkward indeed. Matt tried a couple of innocuous conversational gambits–Ida's skill on the court, about which they'd already said everything there was to say; how his end-of-semester responsibilities as visiting Prof compared and contrasted with hers as tenured faculty. She responded politely. Finally he turned to face her squarely. "Are we going to resolve this, Nan?"
"I don't know. I don't know if it can be resolved."
"But there's something happening between us. Something special. You feel it, too. I know you do."
She yearned to take him in her arms. Instead, she kept as far away from him as possible as the bleachers filled up again with the end of the break. She had time to say, "Yes, I do, I feel it, too. But that's not enough." Then Peter was back, carrying bottled water and orange wedges. With only a slight look of acknowledgment he took the space between them.
Playing with confidence, Ida took the last set 6-3. She grinned as she accepted her trophy, blew a kiss to Peter, and headed for the locker-room. The three of them took their time leaving the courts and strolling to their cars, knowing that she would take a quick shower before joining them.
When she did, there was a round of hugs followed by the decision to go to the Peppermill for coffee. They took a booth in the bar-coffee shop where Nan, Matt, and Peter vied playfully for the honor of buying the tennis champ a latté. Giddy with accomplishment, she kept hugging everyone.
Nan watched the two men, noting Peter's familiarity with the young, lithe body in his arms, and Matt's kindness toward the two young people. She saw not a hint of lechery in his enthusiastic embraces, only affection. Kindness.
Was it conceivable that such a gentle man had sexually molested his infant son?
Matt kept trying to catch her gaze, and every once in a while, when she didn't force herself to look away quickly enough, they smiled into each other's eyes. Peter and Ida were dancing among the tables to the strains of "Lara's Song," the love theme from Dr. Zhivago. They were singing, obviously to each other. Nan wanted nothing more than to stay in the happy group.
Except, perhaps, to get away. To extract herself from this confusing and tempting and dangerous relationship right now, before it got worse. To go home, where all she had to think about was her demented mother.
"I have to go," she announced, knowing how abrupt it sounded.
"Oh, why? We thought we could all eat and go to a movie or something." Peering over Peter's shoulder, Ida seemed genuinely disappointed.
"My mother's home alone. I can't leave her for very long."
"I'll go with you." It was less an offer than a declaration of intent by Matt.
Her vulnerability turned into anger. "No, you won't!" She strode out.
CHAPTER TEN
"Memory isn't always what it's cracked up to be, you know," Catherine remarked at dinner. She wasn't sure why she'd said that, but she liked how it sounded. Was it true? What did it mean? She didn't know and didn't much care.
The other person at the table, a lovely woman whom she didn't know, looked at her and smiled.
That was nice. Encouraged, she patted her neck, attacking the wrinkles with fervor. "Rooster neck," she said. "Never wanted that."
"Which of those was a random comment, Mom?"
Mom. So this must be her child. Her daughter. Ah, yes, her daughter Nan.
Someone had asked her something, but she didn't remember what. If it were important, they'd ask again. She looked at herself in the back of a silver spoon, didn't like what she saw, and asked brightly, "So, what will you do?" Suddenly she knew exactly what she was asking of her daughter Nan.
"About?"
"About your poet, of course."
Nan gave one of her favorite answers. "The only thing I can do. Build a bridge and get over it."
Catherine morphed into the tragic leading lady and spoke in a throaty drawl. "Build a bridge to where exactly, my dear? And get over what? What is it your poet has done to distress you so deeply?"
Nan told her. Catherine listened as attentively as she could, pleased that her daughter was talking to her about something personal and important. She had the feeling that it was precisely because she sometimes forgot things that Nan was willing to talk to her about something personal and important. Whatever frosts your cookie, sweetheart.
When Nan had finished a brief account of Eliot's shattering email message (what in the world was "email" anyway?) and Matt's unsatisfactory explanation, she was in tears. Catherine posed in front of the bay window, hands clasped at her bosom. "You must never allow that terrible creature in this house again." She meant it. The character she was playing meant it. She was not quite sure who the "terrible creature" was or what he or she had done, but the passion strengthened her.
"Maybe not."
"Such filth! Such degradation!" She remembered now: Sodomized. Not a word any lady would ever allow into her thoughts.
"If it's true."
Without missing a beat, Catherine declaimed with just as much fervor, "A man wrongly accused! We must stand by him! We must tr
ust in what we know him to be!" She meant it. The character she was playing meant it. She could not quite remember who had been wrongly accused of what, but the passion enlivened her.
"Maybe." Nan was crying in earnest now.
Catherine went to her and stroked her hair, soothing her like that Mrs. March, mother of four daughters in Little Women. Nan leaned her head against her mother's bosom. Catherine wept.
Then she helped with preparations for a long visit from Jordan. Jordan was her–my goodness!–great-granddaughter. They readied the guest room and hung Princess Bride towels in the guest bathroom.
Then this nice woman helped her get ready for bed, brushing her hair so many long, firm strokes that Catherine was half-asleep and crooning before she was even tucked into bed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Having made sure her mother was in bed and well on her way toward sleep, Nan checked her email. There was no message from Eliot. Should she let it go, chalk it up to meanness or mental illness or a disgusting prank?
Even if she should, she couldn't. She typed in his name and wrote, "Please, Eliot, tell me more. It's not fair to drop this bombshell without giving me specifics so I can figure out what I'm dealing with. May I talk to your therapist? Are you still seeing the same one?"
She hesitated, then just signed off. It took her a long time to fall asleep.
When she got home from work the next day and opened the front door, she heard a man's voice in her living room. Matt Mullen, reading poetry. Fleetingly, she was pleased to recognize T.S. Eliot. The rhythm was impeccable. That was something she had always loved about Gary: his way of absorbing the music and the beat of things and conveying them to her.
Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw–/For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law./He's the bafflement/ of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's/ despair:/For when they reach the scene of crime–Macavity's not there!
Nan felt herself flush with an uncomfortable mixture of resentment because she had not invited Matt to her home, and anticipation because she'd been missing him. It wasn't until she stood in the open doorway that she realized his voice was coming from a video. Catherine sat on the sofa, entranced.
"Where did you get that?" Nan tried to keep her voice even
"Your poet brought it over for me. It's a tape of one of his readings, when he was on a panel about poetry and verse for children."
Nan felt sick. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I am telling you, Nanny. He brought it today." Things always got worse when her mother reverted to "Nanny."
"I'm not mad at you. It's just hard for me."
"I asked him to come to dinner tonight."
"You did what?"
The old woman's lower lip quivered admirably. "Please don't uninvite him." She looked at Nan beseechingly and added, "He's bringing Chinese." When that inducement didn't work, she tried, "Maybe we can get to the truth of things
"Did you forget that Jordan's coming?"
"No. Yes. I did forget. But what's that–" Catherine's eyes widened. "You don't think he would–"
"I don't know what he would do, Mother. Neither do you. That's the point. I'm going to check my email."
There was a message from Eliot. "Of course you may not talk to my therapist. She's busy. She helps a lot of people. I've said all I'm going to say. I'd prefer it if you don't contact me again."
Nan sighed and sat back. A half a dozen email exchanges and the only vaguely relevant information she had acquired was that the therapist was the same one he'd used from the start, right here in Rockland County, and her office was somewhere near the Inn off Route 59, which was where Eliot stayed when he came to see her.
Even if she could figure out who that was, Eliot was obviously not about to sign a release allowing the therapist to talk to her about their session. Which didn't mean, she suddenly thought, that she couldn't make an appointment to see her on the pretext of talking about Gary. If nothing else, she'd learn something about therapy in general, and with a little bit of luck, if she asked the right questions, she'd learn enough about repressed memory syndrome to supplement what she'd been reading in the library and on the web.
She had uncovered a wealth of material. The most direct, understandable, and lacking in hysteria came in the form of newsletters from the False Memory Syndrome Foundation and from the work of Paul J. Ciolino, an expert on child abuse investigations. He gave exactly the kind of guidance Nan had hoped to find. Best of all, he offered it in lay language, side-stepping the usual annoying buzzwords.
Ciolino offered twenty questions to be asked when trying to determine the veracity–or lack thereof–of therapists working with patients who had suddenly remembered familial abuse. He said the answers would, in most cases, lead to the exposure of what he called "The Repressed Memory Myth." If she ever found Eliot's therapist, she would work in Ciolino's twenty questions. Maybe she would go to the source for an interpretation of the answers or talk to an expert at the FMS Foundation.
The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Jordan stood on the porch, lugging a duffle bag. Matt held an armload of what smelled like Won Ton soup and wet brown bag.
Ashley, who knew nothing of Nan's estrangement from Matt, waved from her car. "Thank you, Mom."
Not looking at or speaking to Matt, Nan kissed Jordan. The image flashed through her mind of someone hurting her granddaughter the way Matt was accused of hurting Eliot, and she held onto Jordan, burying her face in the sweet-smelling hair until the little girl squirmed to get away.
Ashley was tapping the shiny blue enamel of the car's paint with a manicured fingernail. "Cruise wear." She held up her hand. "This, my shawl, sunglasses and a swimsuit, and I'm good to go." She leaned out and angled her face for a kiss. Nan trudged across the lawn to oblige. "You have the emergency number for the ship, right?"
"Right. Go on. I'll spoil her rotten. She'll be fine."
"Bye, Mommy." Jordan waved.
Ashley grinned, waved, and pulled away from the curb. When she smiled, she reminded Nan of Gary. Nan hurried inside, edgy about Matt's interactions with Jordan. Not that he and the child were going to be alone together, at least until she had learned a lot more about Repressed Memory Syndrome and was sure about Matt, one way or the other.
After dinner, at which nobody but Nan seemed uncomfortable, she did the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, refusing help. Alone, she tried to sort out what she knew about Matthew Mullen. What she had learned firsthand about him was overwhelmingly positive. The one thing she had been told about him by an outside source was overwhelmingly negative. Should she, on the basis of this accusation, end things between them altogether? Could she bear to lose what had all the makings of a good relationship on the basis of an accusation she could neither prove nor disprove?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Knowing he was taking a risk, Matt walked up behind Nan where she stood at the counter and put his hands on her shoulders, very lightly, not trying to turn her around. She kept her back to him and her voice was tight when she said. "What, Matt?"
"Are you ever going to look at me again?"
"I don't know."
"I don't want to lose you," he whispered, thinking how so often life seemed like nothing but taking risks. . "It's been a long time since I've felt–"
"Please, Matt, give me some time," Nan said, but he thought she rested her head back against his shoulder for a split second before she pulled away, just as Jordan came into the room. "Jordan, sweetie, it's bedtime."
"Aw, Grandma!" Jordan yawned hugely.
"How about if you read me a story?" Nan suggested.
Jordan stopped mid-protest when Matt offered, "How about I read both of you a story?" Catherine, who had joined them, pretended to pout. Matt winked at her. "All of you." The oldest and youngest of the three were obviously pleased.
He knew his reading from one of Jordan's favorite books was expert, but the child's eyes quickly began to droop. When he suggested he carry her to bed, Nan prodded her awa
ke, as if letting him read to her was one thing, carrying her to bed in his arms quite another. He knew what she was thinking, and the old fury at Eliot and the therapist and the unfairness of the world swept dangerously through him again.
Jordan opened her eyes, pulled herself off the sofa, and stumbled to the guest room. Nan followed to tuck her in, the way Matt used to tuck his son in every night. He was thinking he was not going to be able to stand being around this family tonight when Catherine, either blessedly oblivious or adroitly kind, patted his hand and announced, "Don't worry, my dear, I know just the thing."
When Nan returned to the living room, Matt and Catherine had set up the Scrabble set, but she shook her head. "I'm tired."
"Oh, Nanny, please? For me?" Matt had the distinct impression that this was an old pattern between them.
"Maybe we should play tomorrow." He heard his own childlike hopefulness, but he could not help himself.
"Come on, Nanny."
Suddenly Matt saw that Catherine's shoulders had begun to lift with each intake of breath. She was gulping air through her mouth and wheezing like a warm-up on an un-tuned violin. Nan went quickly to her side, coaching her, "In through your nose, out through your mouth. In, two-three-four. Out, five-six-seven-eight," breathing with her.
Catherine tried, but grew increasingly agitated. The color had drained from her face, leaving two high spots of blush. Her lips had a purple tinge.
"Keep her going, Matt. I have to get the epi." Nan half-ran to the kitchen while Matt did his best to pick up the count.
"No needle," Catherine begged between wheezes. "You know how much I hate needles."
"I was taught to do this on oranges," Nan said, positioning the syringe. "According to her doctor it's the closest thing to the feeling of human flesh." She gave the injection.
Feeling a little queasy, Matt inquired foolishly, "Shouldn't she go to the hospital?"
"Let's give it a few minutes for the epi to work. I warn you, she may throw up. Bring me a dish, a bag, anything you can find." Catherine was dry heaving. "If she could get up some phlegm, she'd be all right," Nan said, and Matt, rummaging under the sink, thought how this was too much information, "but she considers vomiting déclassé."
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