Red Hook Road

by Ayelet Waldman

  “We’ll have a girl around the house again. Or have you forgotten that Ruthie isn’t going back to England?”

  “No, I have not forgotten. And at any rate, it’s likely that Ruthie will change her mind a dozen times before the end of the summer. But this isn’t about Ruthie. Even if Ruthie were to come back to live with us in New York, we would still have room for Samantha.”

  “This isn’t about room.”

  “Please, Daniel. Samantha desperately needs what we can give her. Why shouldn’t we do what we can for her?”

  “Because her aunt doesn’t want us to. Iris, for Christ’s sake, Jane told you she wouldn’t let her go.”

  “Jane doesn’t understand what’s at stake here. She doesn’t realize how important this is for Samantha.”

  “Jane is her legal guardian. It doesn’t matter what she understands or doesn’t understand. She’s made her decision clear.”

  “In fact, Daniel, Jane is not Samantha’s legal guardian. As I understand it, the relationship is completely ad hoc. When Connie goes into the hospital, Jane takes Samantha. When Connie comes out, she takes her back. On and on, like the girl is some kind of yo-yo. Samantha’s legal guardian is her adoptive mother, Connie Phelps. Jane has no authority in the matter at all.”

  How much of his marriage had been spent deferring to Iris, allowing her to assume control of every aspect of their lives? Even their infrequent arguments belonged to her. Iris would state her position and then she would state his. She would make his points and then rebut them, one by one, often with little input from him, because the angrier Daniel became, the more impenetrable the silence that engulfed him. But not today; today he would make his position known. Today they would do what he wanted.

  “This is a terrible idea,” he said.

  “It’s not a terrible idea,” Iris said.

  “You know it is. We aren’t in any position to take on the burden of caring for a child.”

  “She won’t be a burden.”

  “She’s already a burden. Look, I like Samantha too, she’s a sweet kid, and I didn’t say anything when you started paying for her classes, or when you gave her Becca’s old violin. Not that it even occurred to you for an instant to ask my opinion. But now I’m telling you: enough is enough.”

  “So this is about money?”

  “No, it’s not about money. When have I ever given a shit about money?”

  “Never,” Iris said. “That’s why it surprises me to hear you say it now. Since money has never been a big priority for you.”

  Daniel’s jaw twitched. However much she protested he knew it galled her that he didn’t earn more. For all the feminist folderol Iris espoused, it came down to this. He felt an urge to punch the wall. Or her.

  “It’s not a matter of the money.”

  She tried to take his hand, but he shook her off. “Please, Daniel,” she said. “This will be good for us.”

  “Us.”

  “You and me.”

  He stared at her, and the thought came into his mind that perhaps his marriage had been dead for years, for decades preceding the death of their daughter, and that for all that time up to the present moment the only force sustaining it was the incredible power of Iris Copaken’s capacity for self-delusion.

  “Us,” he said.

  “You and me. I just think that if we had someone, a child—”

  With a sudden jerk, Daniel picked up the chair he was holding on to a few inches off the ground and then slammed it down. The legs shivered and there was an ominous crack of wood.

  “I want you to listen to me, Iris,” he said, with a softness, a control, that struck him as remarkable under the circumstances. “I want you to shut up, and listen, and maybe, just this one fucking time, allow for the possibility that I may be right about something.”

  Iris’s mouth dropped open, and she gazed at him, dumbfounded. Daniel continued, “I’m sick of this complicated psychodrama you’re playing out with Samantha. You can’t possibly believe that insinuating yourself into that kid’s life is ever, ever, going to replace what you and I lost. You’re too smart for that, for one thing. And for another thing—you and I have lost a lot more than our daughter, Iris. And maybe you want to keep kidding yourself about that. But I don’t.”

  Iris’s chin was trembling; Daniel was glad to see that he had cracked the carapace of her superiority, her smugness, her certainty that she knew what was best for everyone.

  “I’m not insinuating myself into her life,” she finally managed to say.

  “Samantha already has a mother.”

  “I know that, Daniel. Thanks for the insight. And, hey, as long as we’re going to stand around diagnosing each other? I have a couple of theories about why a fifty-five-year-old man suddenly decides the thing he wants most in the world is to get beaten to a bloody pulp in the boxing ring.”

  Daniel froze, his dark eyebrows knit above his nose, his lips clamped into a thin line. His face slowly drained of color, his angry flush receding first from his brow, then his cheeks, and then inching down his neck.

  Iris said, “Look, Daniel. I’m not stupid. I know that I’m not being entirely altruistic. I know that I need Samantha as much as she needs me. Having her live with us will be good; I know it will. You have to trust me. I know this is the right thing to do.”

  Daniel’s face was now pale, cold, calm. His brow smoothed. His white-knuckled grip on the chair back loosened. Finally, he returned her look blankly, devoid of emotion. Then he said, “You know what? That’s fine. Do what you want.”

  In two steps he crossed the room. He scooped up his gym bag and grabbed his keys. Forty-five minutes later he was in the Maine Event, pummeling the heavy bag so hard that beneath the thick padding of his gloves his fists ached.

  X

  The Riverview Psychiatric Center was a brand-new facility, opened just this month on the grounds of the forbidding Gothic pile that had been officially called the Augusta Mental Health Institute but was known to most by its original, grimmer name, the Maine Insane Hospital. Unlike its predecessor, Riverview had no iron-spiked gates or high granite walls. It looked more like the headquarters of a software company than a mental hospital, like a failed office park turned over to the purview of lunatics. A row of spindly trees shivered along the broad cement path between the parking lot and the front door.

  The common room of the unit in which Samantha’s mother lived was more pleasant than Iris had expected it would be, perhaps because the furniture was brand-new, the walls freshly painted, the carpeting unmarked.

  “This place is nicer than the old one,” Samantha whispered to Iris as they stood hesitantly in the doorway. The room was crowded, even lively. A group of patients sat around the television. Another played cards. A young man wearing a red T-shirt with a line drawing of a bulldozer and the words “Boston, Can You Dig It?” sat on a sofa next to an older woman in a pink velour sweat suit and matching slippers. He held an elastic band in his mouth and was smoothing the older woman’s peroxide-blond hair with his fingers. Iris watched, transfixed, as he executed a perfect French braid.

  “Look how pretty you are, Mom,” he said, after he snapped the band on the end of the braid. Samantha tugged on Iris’s sleeve. “That’s my mother,” she said, pointing across the room. Connie Phelps, Samantha’s mother, wore her hair drawn back into a tight ponytail that served only to highlight the thick stripe of gray on either side of her part. It had been a long time since she had colored her hair. She had small, pale eyes that were sunk into nests of deep wrinkles, and the hollows of her cheeks were gray. Her lips, however, were generous and full, and deep red, as though they had been stained with the juice of some wild berry.

  Over the last year, since she had taken on the project of Samantha’s musical career, Iris had often wondered about Connie: what she looked like, how she related to her daughter, what their relationship was like. Although she was nervous about the request she was about to make, she found herself eagerly crossing the room to
join Connie in the corner where she had staked out three upright chairs. Samantha ran to her mother and hurled herself into her arms. Connie laughed and hugged her.

  Iris stuck out her hand. “Hello, Connie. I’m Iris Copaken.”

  “Copaken?” Connie said, gently steering Samantha into the seat next to her. “You’re John’s girl’s mother?”

  “Yes,” Iris said. “I’m Becca’s mother.”

  Connie nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And your father’s the one with the violin lessons, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then I owe you a thank-you.” Her voice was low, not much louder than a whisper, and every few moments she pushed her lips forward in an unconscious, exaggerated osculation. “To you and your father.”

  “I’m the one who should thank you,” Iris said. “It’s a joy to be able to help a musician like Samantha. She’s something very special.” Iris sat on the edge of the remaining chair and leaned forward, both because Connie spoke so softly and because she was so anxious to present her case.

  Connie tucked a lock of Samantha’s hair behind her ear. “That she is.”

  Samantha leaned into her mother’s hand.

  Connie said, “Honey, what do you think of this place? Isn’t it nice?” She turned back to Iris. “We used to be in a whole other building up the road.”

  “It’s very nice here,” Iris said.

  “Everything is all new,” Connie said.

  “Really?” Iris said.

  “Brand-new,” Connie repeated, nodding. Then she turned to Samantha. “Where’s your aunt? She under the weather or something?”

  Samantha shook her head. “Aunt Jane’s okay. She’s been working, is all.” The more time she spent with Iris and Mr. Kimmelbrod, the fainter Samantha’s Maine accent had become. But around her mother she reverted to dropping her r’s and flattening her a’s.

  Connie frowned. “That old beater she’s driving still acting up?”

  “I don’t know,” Samantha said. The girl lifted her feet up onto her chair and wrapped her arms tightly around them. She ducked her chin and mouth behind the small, bony hillocks of her knees so that her face below her nose was hidden from view. She seemed nervous, and how could Iris blame her? What had begun as a visit to New York had been transformed into moving in with Iris, going to school in New York, and studying full-time with Mr. Kimmelbrod. Samantha had made it clear to Iris that she wanted to go, that there was not the slightest doubt in her mind that for the sake of her music she should be there, but Iris could tell she was afraid, both of her aunt Jane’s anger and of how her mother would manage without her when she once again got out of this place.

  Iris said, “Connie, Jane’s not here because Samantha and I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “To me?”

  “Yes. I wonder if you know just how gifted your daughter is. How unusually gifted.”

  Connie smiled and smoothed Samantha’s hair again. “I know that. I know she is. She’s always been a special little girl.”

  “Her progress on the violin is truly remarkable. Especially considering how short a time she’s been playing.”

  “She’s always been good at music. If I could have afforded it, I’da had her in lessons a long time ago.”

  “My father and Samantha have a very special relationship.”

  “She talks about him all the time,” Connie said. As she was speaking she worried a crack in the skin of her knuckle. It began to bleed. The sight of the blood flustered Iris for a moment, and she rooted around in her purse for a tissue. She handed it to Connie, but the woman did not seem to know what to do with it.

  “Mumma, you’re bleeding,” Samantha said. “Your finger’s bleeding.” She took the tissue from her mother and wrapped it tightly around her finger. Then she closed her hand around the bound finger and squeezed gently.

  “Oh dear,” Connie said.

  “Are you all right?” Iris asked.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Connie said. “The air in here just dries out your skin.”

  Iris hesitated, but then continued. “My father and I think it would be a terrible shame for Samantha to have to stop her lessons come autumn,” Iris said.

  “Stop her lessons?” Connie asked. “Why should she stop her lessons?”

  “My father goes back to New York at the end of August. He still teaches at Juilliard and he has to return in time for the new semester.”

  “Juilliard?”

  “It’s a music school. One of the best in the country. He’s taught there for nearly forty years. He’s taught some of the finest violinists in the world. And now he wants to continue teaching Samantha.” Iris hesitated for a moment before plunging on. “My father and I would like to invite Samantha to come with us back to New York.” Strictly speaking, Iris told herself, she was not lying. Whatever his reservations, Mr. Kimmelbrod said he would continue teaching Samantha if she came to New York.

  Connie gently disengaged her finger from Samantha’s fist and said, “I don’t understand. Why does she need to go to New York? She has that teacher in Bangor.”

  “Arturo Weinstein,” Iris said. “He’s a wonderful violinist. And a good teacher. Unfortunately, he’s down south for much of the winter, and while Samantha made a lot of progress this past year, we think that in order to continue to improve she should have more consistency.”

  Iris glanced over at Samantha. The girl had ducked her head and let her hair fall in front of her eyes. When she was a little girl, Ruthie used to do the same thing when she was feeling embarrassed or shy.

  “It’s not just the lessons,” Iris said. “Being involved in the world of music is critical to her development as an artist. Only in New York can she get the kind of exposure she needs.” Iris leaned forward intently, her voice rising. “Her career depends on it.”

  Connie laughed. “Her career? She’s a little girl. She doesn’t have a career.”

  Iris paused, conscious of how she must seem, how her words must sound to someone unfamiliar with the world she was talking about. In a softer, more placating voice, she said, “Musical careers run on different tracks than regular careers. Most very talented musicians start performing when they’re very young. Some even when they’re Samantha’s age. The violinist Anne-Sophie Mutter began performing with great orchestras when she was only a little older than Samantha.” As the words left her lips Iris regretted them. This was no time to drop names that would serve only to make the woman feel ignorant.

  “I saw her once,” Connie said.

  “You did?” Iris said, just as Samantha said, “You did not!”

  “I most certainly did,” Connie said. “There was a TV show about violin players and I watched it. I remember that woman in particular, because they had so many men.” Connie unwound the tissue from her finger and resumed picking at the scab on her knuckle. “Is Samantha like her? Is she that good?”

  “I’m confident that she is,” Iris said, firmly. Beneath the veil of Samantha’s hair, Iris could see her tiny smile of pride. “Or she could be. If we nurture her talent.”

  “Your daughter played the violin, too, didn’t she?” Connie said.

  Iris had been charging along, but now she was caught off guard. “Yes,” she said, simply.

  “Samantha talks about her,” Connie said.

  “She does?” Iris turned to Samantha. “You do?”

  Flushing, Samantha said, “I told my mom you gave me the violin Becca used to use when she was my age.”

  “Is Samantha as talented as your daughter was?” Connie asked.

  “More,” Iris said. “My daughter was gifted. Samantha … well, the sky’s the limit for this little one.”

  Connie nodded. She lifted Samantha’s chin with her hand and smoothed her hair away from her face. “Do you want to go to New York?”

  Samantha blinked, her mouth trembling. She looked like she was about to burst into tears. “Not if you don’
t want me to go. If you want me to stay here, I can stay. It’s okay.”

  “But do you want to go?”

  Samantha nodded, as if frightened to say the words aloud.

  Connie released her grip on Samantha’s chin and sat back heavily in her seat. Gazing at Samantha with an expression Iris could only describe as apologetic, she said, “It’s hard to be separated from your child.”

  “She’d come home to visit at every opportunity. We’d make sure of that. And we’d bring her back in May for the whole summer.”

  “I was thinking of you,” Connie said.

  “Of me?” Iris said.

  “Of how hard it must be for you to be separated from your daughter. I know what it’s like for me sometimes, while I’m staying here. I miss Samantha so much. I feel for you, losing your girl. I feel your broken heart.”

  Iris sagged back in her chair. She felt her chin trembling and she gritted her teeth, willing herself not to cry. It still shocked her to find herself switching moods so rapidly. One moment elated by someone mentioning Becca’s name, the next moment a show of sympathy making her feel like she’d been slapped in the face.

  Connie reached across the empty space between them and took Iris’s hand in her scaly one. She squeezed gently. “You know why I like it here so much?”

  Iris could do no more than shake her head.

  “It’s an asylum,” Connie said.

  “It is not, Mumma,” Samantha said. “It’s a mental-health institute. Nobody calls it the asylum anymore.”

  “No, they don’t call it that no more,” Connie said. “But that’s what it is. An asylum. A place of refuge, like. A sanctuary. It’s a good word, asylum. I wish people didn’t mind using it. Most of us could use an asylum sometimes. A refuge from the world.”

  “Yes,” Iris said. Of all people to sense the pain and need beneath her strength, it was this strange woman, a woman whose face was contorted with tardive dyskinesia, whose medications no doubt filled an entire suitcase.

  “Asylums come in all sorts of forms,” Connie said. “Music. Music is an asylum. And children. They can be an asylum. Maybe Samantha is your asylum, Iris.”