Private Eyes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I said, “I’m not here to judge you. This is about Melissa’s going away to college. That’s all.”

  She tightened her lips and shook her head. “You helped her so much. Despite me.”

  “No,” I said. “Because of you.”

  She closed her eyes, sucked in her breath, and clawed her knees through the gray dress. “Don’t worry, Dr. Delaware. I’ve come a long way. I can handle harsh truths.”

  “The truth, Mrs. Ramp, is that Melissa turned out to be the terrific young woman she is in good part because she got a lot of love and support at home.”

  She opened her eyes and shook her head very slowly. “You’re kind, but the truth is that even though I knew I was failing her, I couldn’t pull myself out of my . . . out of it. It sounds so weak-willed, but . . .”

  “I know,” I said. “Anxiety can be as crippling as polio.”

  “Anxiety,” she said. “What a mild word. It’s more like dying. Over and over. Like living on Death Row, never knowing . . .” She swiveled, revealing a crescent of damaged flesh. “I felt trapped. Helpless and inadequate. So I continued to fail her.”

  I said nothing.

  She went on: “Do you know that in thirteen years I never attended a single parent-teacher conference? Never applauded at her school plays or chaperoned field trips or met the mothers of the few children she played with. I wasn’t a mother, Dr. Delaware. Not in any true sense of the word. She’s got to resent me for it. Maybe even hate me.”

  “Has she given any indication of that?”

  “No, of course not. Melissa’s a good girl—too respectful to say what’s on her mind. Even though I’ve tried to get her to.”

  She leaned forward again. “Dr. Delaware, she puts on a brave front— feels she always has to be grown up, a perfect little lady. I did that to her— my weakness did.” Touching her bad side. “I turned her into a premature adult and robbed her of her childhood. So I know it’s got to be there— anger. All bottled up inside.”

  I said, “I’m not going to sit here and tell you you gave her the ideal upbringing. Or that your fears didn’t influence hers. They did. But throughout it all— from what I saw during her therapy— she perceived you as being nurturant and loving, giving her unconditional love. She still sees you that way.”

  She bowed her head, held it with both hands, as if praise hurt.

  I said, “When she wet your sheets you held her and didn’t get angry. That means a lot more to a child than parent-teacher conferences.”

  She looked up and stared at me. The facial sag more evident than before. Shifting her head, she switched to a profile view. Smiling.

  “I can see where you’d be good for her,” she said. “You put forth your point of view with a . . . force that’s hard to debate.”

  “Is there a need for us to debate?”

  She bit her lip. One hand flew up and touched her bad side again. “No. Of course not. It’s just that I’ve been working on . . . honesty. Seeing myself the way I truly am. It’s part of my therapy. But you’re right, I’m not our concern. Melissa is. What can I do to help her?”

  “I’m sure you know how ambivalent she is about going away to college, Mrs. Ramp. Right now she’s framing it in terms of her concern about you. Worry that leaving you at this point in your therapy might upset the progress you’ve made. So it’s important for her to hear from you— explicitly— that you’ll be okay. That you’ll continue to make progress with her gone. That you want her to go. If you do.”

  “Dr. Delaware,” she said, looking at me straight on, “of course I do. And I have told her that. I’ve been telling her since I found out she’d been accepted. I’m thrilled for her— it’s a wonderful opportunity. She must go!”

  Her intensity caught me by surprise.

  “What I mean,” she said, “is that I see this as a crucial period for Melissa. Breaking away. Starting a new life. Not that I won’t miss her— of course I will. But I’ve finally gotten to a point where I can think of her the way I should have been doing all along. As the child. I’ve made tremendous progress, Dr. Delaware. I’m ready to take some really giant steps. Look at life differently. But I can’t get Melissa to see that. I know she mouths the words, but she hasn’t changed her behavior.”

  “How would you like her to change?”

  “She overprotects me. Continues to hover. Ursula— Dr. Cunningham-Gabney— has tried to talk to her about it, but Melissa’s unresponsive. The two of them seem to have a personality conflict. When I try to tell her how well I’m doing, she smiles, gives me a pat, and says “Great, Mom,’ and walks away. Not that I blame her. I let her be the parent for so long. Now I’m paying for it.”

  She lowered her gaze again, rested her brow in one hand, and sat that way for a long time. Then:

  “I haven’t had an attack in over four weeks, Dr. Delaware. I’m seeing the world for the first time in a very long time, and I feel I can cope with it. It’s like being born again. I don’t want Melissa limiting herself because of me. What can I say to convince her?”

  “Sounds like you’re saying the right things. She just may not be ready to hear them.”

  “I don’t want to come out and tell her I don’t need her— I could never hurt her that way. And it wouldn’t be true. I do need her. The way any mother needs any daughter. I want us always to be close. And I’m not giving her mixed messages, Doctor— believe me. Dr. Cunningham-Gabney and I have worked on that. Projecting clear communication. Missy just refuses to hear it.”

  I said, “Part of the problem is that some of her conflict has nothing to do with you or your progress. Any eighteen-year-old would be anxious about leaving home for the first time. The life Melissa’s led up till now— the relationship between the two of you, the size of this place, the isolation— makes moving out scarier for her than for the average freshman. By focusing on you, she doesn’t have to deal with her own fears.”

  “This place,” she said, holding out her hands. “It’s a monstrosity, isn’t it? Arthur collected things, built himself a museum.”

  A trace of bitterness. Then quick cover:

  “Not that he did it out of ego— that wasn’t Arthur. He was a lover of beauty. Believed in beautifying his world. And he did have exquisite taste. I have no feel for things. I can appreciate a fine painting when it’s placed in front of me, but I’d never accumulate— it’s just not in my nature.”

  “Would you ever consider moving?”

  Faint smile. “I’m considering lots of things, Dr. Delaware. Once the door opens, it’s hard not to step through. But we— Dr. Cunningham-Gabney and I— are working together to keep me in check, make sure I don’t get ahead of myself. I’ve still got a long way to go. And even if I was ready to dump everything and roam the world, I wouldn’t do that to Melissa— pull everything out from under her.”

  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 you
r 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 close, 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.