by Nancy Geary
Frances closed her eyes. Hearing her aunt articulate her sorrow made the enormity of the tragedy unavoidable. In a few phrases, she’d captured both the pleasure and pain of parenthood, an experience foreign to Frances. Neither she nor Penelope had children. Hope was dead. Someone or something larger than all of them had left the fate of the Pratt line up to Blair alone.
“I was so shocked by last night, I could hardly speak. I tried to tell myself that the Cabots are nervous around us and don’t know how to help, but they seemed so cold, so calculating, saying, ‘My son is alive and I want him to have a future.’ Here Fiona professed to love Hope as much as I do, and we haven’t even... before—” Adelaide glanced out at the cherry grove, then covered her face with her hands, emitting the tiniest of muffled sounds.
“Did you and Fiona talk often about Hope?”
“Not really,” she said, sniffling. “Although there was one conversation I remember well. She asked all kinds of questions and seemed genuinely concerned about Hope’s well-being. I remember talking and feeling this relief wash over me. Like a dam breaking and suddenly the water rushes out. But I regret opening up to her. I shouldn’t have done it. I was just so thankful to have someone to talk to. It’s difficult here. I have wonderful friends, don’t misunderstand, but it’s almost as if there are rules in place. You can’t be too honest, too emotional. Everything is supposed to always be all right, better than all right, really, perfect. If you falter, if you have problems, you keep them quiet or it will come back to haunt—” She cut herself off.
“What sorts of things did you say to her?”
“I told her the truth about Hope’s eating disorder. I told her Hope had been diagnosed with clinical depression and possibly bipolar disorder. I remember the conversation so clearly, because as I was talking, I was thinking, Why is this so secret? Why have I been ashamed? It’s my daughter. I love her and I want to do whatever I can to help her. It seemed almost as if there were a disconnection between the words I uttered and the feeling inside.” She paused, then got up from the table and moved to the sideboard. She returned with a pot of raspberry jam and another of clotted cream, each with its own dollop-size porcelain spoon. She placed them on the table near Frances. “I’m sorry to say that around here seeing a psychiatrist is a scarlet letter. Worse, perhaps. Bill got apoplectic whenever I mentioned the word anorexia or depression. He was frightened of the stigma.”
“What do you mean?”
As she responded, her gaze seemed to drift past Frances. “Years before, we’d had problems with Penelope.”
“What were they?”
“She was horribly jealous of Hope and, in several episodes, had shown herself to be somewhat... violent. I’d had to come to Hope’s rescue. One time she tied her to a tree and left her for hours, claiming not to know where she was. Poor Bea Bundy next door eventually heard her crying and called Bill, who went and untied her, but we were both so distraught, as was poor Hope. Sweet thing. I can still remember her little tearstained face, her body limp from exhaustion as Bill carried her inside. For nights afterward, she’d awaken screaming in fear, but during the day she remained ever faithful to Penelope, following her around like an adoring puppy. Another time, the gardener found Penelope spreading liquid fire starter around the bottom of Hope’s little playhouse. Do you remember it, the one with the green windowboxes and gabled roof? He asked her what she was doing, and she said she wanted to burn off the weeds around the edge of the house, but we were all alarmed. So at least for a long while, she posed a real danger.”
“What did you do?”
“She went to see some therapist, a woman who was a specialist in adolescent development. But after one session, Bill didn’t want her to return. ‘Talking about issues until we’re all blue in the face only magnifies them. Let’s keep this in perspective,’ he said. It was then that I realized he was fearful of psychiatry, the process and the label.”
“But Hope saw a therapist?”
“Her physical health was in jeopardy. That was easier for Bill to understand. Even so, he was very apprehensive. Dr. Bentley, our family physician, wanted her on antidepressants. He’s an older man and I’m sure conservative in his approach, certainly not prone to overmedicate. My initial reaction was to follow his recommendation, but Bill said antidepressants were out of the question.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t want a permanent record. He kept telling me that once Hope was married and set up in her own home with Jack, she would get better. He didn’t want to allow what he saw as a demerit to exist forever. He didn’t want her and Jack to begin their life together socially handicapped.”
“Do you remember what medication Dr. Bentley wanted to prescribe?”
“Something called an SSRI. I remember that.”
Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, like Prozac or Zoloft, were commonly prescribed to alleviate symptoms of depression. Since clients of the Coalition Against Domestic Violence had benefited from these drugs, Frances had at least anecdotal information about their efficacy. “How did you find Hope’s psychiatrist?”
“He was recommended by Dr. Bentley.”
“Dr. Frank?”
“How did you know?”
“Jack mentioned the name. Did you know Fiona Cabot went to see him as well?”
She looked surprised. “No.”
“Did you or Bill ever see him?”
Adelaide pursed her lips, obviously reluctant to answer. When she spoke, her voice had softened considerably, and Frances leaned forward so as not to miss a word. “He’d wanted us to come initially. He believed it was important for those involved in Hope’s life to share in therapy. It seemed reasonable enough to me, especially with Hope still living at home, but I could tell it didn’t sit well with Bill. He went once, and that night, when he got home, he sat in the library and drank. It was the only time I’ve ever seen him drink like that. I couldn’t get him to talk about what had happened, and I couldn’t get him to come to bed. The next morning, the Scotch decanter was empty and he was asleep in a chair. After that, he started making excuses for why he couldn’t make his appointment, and eventually he just refused to go back. He said the doctor was blaming him for all of Hope’s problems.”
Frances could see the sadness on Adelaide’s face. “After your conversation with Fiona, did Hope’s emotional state ever come up again?” she asked, redirecting her aunt’s focus. She had pushed her aunt to open up before and failed miserably; she’d decided to tread lightly if the opportunity arose again.
Adelaide shook her head. “She never asked. It was hurtful to me that she didn’t, but I couldn’t be the one to bring it up.” Again she stood and walked over to the corner hutch. She opened several drawers, removed a stack of yellow-and-blue-print napkins, and began refolding them, pressing the fabric with the palm of her hand. Her restlessness seemed to magnify the fragility of her psyche.
As Frances sat watching her aunt’s homemade form of occupational therapy, she felt a nagging sense of unease. “What were the terms of the prenuptial Hope was supposed to sign?”
The look of shock on Adelaide’s face made it clear this wasn’t a question she’d expected. “Why do you ask?”
“Jack was talking to me about it. He said his parents were insistent that Hope agree to certain terms prior to their marriage and that he hadn’t wanted anything to do with such a contract. He also told me that when he couldn’t be persuaded, they turned to you and Bill.”
“It’s ... not... something ... I’m ... proud... of,” she stammered.
Frances leaned closer to her and, without meaning to, spoke in a whisper. “What happened?”
Adelaide’s eyes welled with tears yet again. “It felt as if we were conspiring against our own daughter. We served the Cabots vodka tonics and shrimp cocktail out on the veranda while we discussed financial arrangements between Hope and Jack in the event of a divorce. Here they weren’t even married. I’m so appalled, embarrassed.”
“
Why did you do it?”
“If I say it was Bill’s idea, you’ll get the wrong impression. But his rationalization made sense to me. It actually seemed to be in Hope’s best interest.”
“What do you mean?” Frances prompted.
“Ever since Hope got involved with Carl, Bill was very anxious about her. He’s of the view that relationships need similar backgrounds, similar frames of reference, in order to survive. Hope and he were night and day. I think Bill feared that if she ended up with Carl, he’d lose her because she would have to abandon her roots to hold on to her marriage. And abandoning her roots meant abandoning us. Does that make sense?” she implored.
She thought about her aunt’s words. Frances had never put much stock in familial backgrounds, economic, ethnic, or religious. Sam’s experiences had been completely different from those of her own childhood, yet she felt without a doubt that he knew and understood her better than anyone else she had known. His capacity for empathy, his sensitivity, was particular to him, not the Oregon farmlands upon which he was raised. But she knew she was being naive. Plenty of people couldn’t surmount the enormous hurdles of difference to find a common ground, even if their passions ran deep.
“When Hope and Jack rekindled their romance, Bill was ecstatic,” Adelaide continued, apparently not willing to wait further for Frances’s reaction. “He had confidence in Jack—confidence that he could protect her from the outside world, insulate her, keep her safe. Because Bill recognized Hope’s fragility, his primary concern was that she marry a man who could take care of her. Part of that care was financial—and Jack is very well off—and part was a mentality that Bill believed Jack had. So he was willing to do anything possible to make sure the marriage took place. Although we never spoke about it, I think he also wanted to make sure the marriage happened before the Cabots learned that Hope couldn’t have children.”
“They didn’t know?” She was shocked.
“No, or at least not until very recently. Bill knew they’d try to get Jack to change his mind. Bloodline was so important to them. I told him several times I thought it was a mistake, but his response was always the same. ‘I married you when you couldn’t have children, and we’ve been happy,’ he said.” She smiled meekly. “I suppose that’s his way of complimenting me.”
Frances said nothing. Such deception seemed obscene, yet Bill had managed to convince his wife that their situation was comparable. “But you didn’t know you wouldn’t have another baby when you married him?”
“No. I didn’t. Penelope had happened without anyone thinking twice, just a blink of an eye. And there wasn’t the kind of medical assistance available then.” She opened a drawer and neatly laid the refolded napkins inside, then returned to her seat. “Anyway, that’s the long story for why Bill supported whatever the Cabots wanted, including the prenuptial.” She sat back down. “It’s difficult for you to understand because you grew up with wealth. You’ll never want for anything, I’m sure. But our circumstances were different. How can I say this delicately? I do so hate to discuss money.”
“Don’t we all,” Frances said, trying to put her aunt at ease.
“For most of our marriage, Bill and I have been more than comfortable. When he worked at Hale and Dorr, he earned plenty. He’d inherited this home, and we had everything we needed. But when he had to leave the firm, when he had to start all over, the situation changed. Taxes and upkeep on this house seemed overwhelming. We fell behind. And this is a difficult community to fall behind in. Even when Teddy moved in and began to help us out, something I’m ashamed to admit, it wasn’t enough. I’m sure you’ve noticed all that needs to be done around here. As if the house were collapsing with us in it.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “Hope had been raised in affluence, like you, but it was coming to an abrupt end. Bill and I will probably have to sell this place now. Some twenty-five-year-old broker type will buy it, bulldoze it, and build an enormous house with Palladian windows. It will kill him, his family home... But I’m rambling. Suffice it to say that he wanted Hope to be taken care of, and Jack could do that. Maybe he hoped that Jack would take care of all of us, I don’t know. But he wanted the marriage to happen, and he’d agree to any condition to see that it did.”
“I’m sorry,” Frances said.
“Me too,” she replied, standing up. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
Frances watched her leave the kitchen and pass into the dining room. As she did, she stooped to pick up something—a leaf, a piece of lint—off the well-worn rug. Even on her way to dress for her daughter’s funeral, she noticed, and corrected, the imperfections. How much had her elegant touches been able to mask?
24
Frances inched closer to Sam and reached for his hand as they sat together in the pew. Unexpectedly, he’d arrived just moments after her conversation with Adelaide; she’d been alone in the dining room, staring at platters of cold cuts, cheese, and dips set out for after the service and rearranging flowers in a vase that was too small in proportion to the long Chippendale table, when she’d heard a knock. There was Sam on the threshold in his yellow slicker, khakis, and canvas sneakers, wearing a baseball cap and holding a bouquet of calla lilies. Her eyes had welled with tears as she’d embraced him, and the feel of his strong arms around her had made her want to collapse. “I know you never need anyone,” he’d whispered in her ear. “But I wanted to be at the memorial service for you just in case.”
The Church of the Holy Spirit was filled to capacity. Except for the sea of dark clothing, little had changed with the crowd that had gathered for the Lawrence-Cabot wedding just days earlier. Votive candles burned on every window ledge. Each pew was adorned with a bunch of white spray roses, and two enormous bouquets of white lilies dominated the altar. The mahogany box that would one day hold Hope’s ashes sat in the middle. Although Hope was to be cremated, her body was still with the medical examiner. Since Adelaide didn’t want the guests to know, the empty box provided the necessary deception.
The organist played Pachelbel’s Canon while Adelaide and Bill proceeded slowly down the aisle. She held on to his arm with both hands and took several small steps for every one of his strides. He held his head high, but hers was positioned to avoid all eye contact. His breast pocket had no handkerchief. Apparently it had been needed even before the service started.
Clutching several sheets of paper, Penelope followed behind, escorted by Jack. His cheeks were drawn and he stared ahead vacantly as he shuffled, seeming to lack the energy to lift his feet off the ground. Bringing up the rear, Teddy made her way down the aisle with the help of her silver-handled cane. When they had all settled into the first pew, Reverend Whitney approached the altar, bowed his head slightly, and then turned to face the congregation. Dark rings circled his eyes, and his fingers trembled slightly as he clasped his prayer book. “The Lord be with you,” he began.
“And with thy spirit,” the crowd mumbled in response.
“Let us pray. Oh God, whose mercies cannot be numbered: Accept out prayers on behalf of Hope Alexandra Lawrence and grant her an entrance into the land of light and joy.”
Frances listened to the order of the service, realizing how much of it she recognized. That the words would be familiar surprised her, and she felt comforted, although she couldn’t tell exactly why. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil...” The oft repeated words of Psalm 23 washed over her. Perhaps rote memorization did quiet the mind.
After Father Whitney completed his opening prayer, Penelope stood up and made her way to the podium. She arranged her papers, then grasped the lectern for a moment, adjusted the microphone to the height of her mouth, and paused to look up at the crowd. That she was to give a eulogy seemed surprising, but perhaps the task had been too difficult for those closest to Hope. Or maybe she had decided to seize this occasion to assuage her guilt. It was a testament to Adelaide’s generosity that she had allowed her to speak at what she surely wanted to be a
momentous, graceful occasion.
Penelope cleared her throat, glanced down again at her notes, and then crumpled the sheet of paper into a ball. She held it in both hands, as if to offer it up in sacrifice. “I had some prepared remarks about my sister, Hope, but I don’t want to deliver them. They are not the words I should say. I don’t want to tell you canned stories about our childhood. All of us have our own memories of her. Those individual memories will be the things that sustain us in the months and years ahead as we return to our lives without her. As her older sister, I’m sure my memories are colored by sibling rivalries, perhaps even jealousies, moments when she and I didn’t get along.” She paused and seemed to look directly at Jack. “And we are all horrified by her murder. That her life was taken is such an outrage that it still feels unreal, impossible. Weren’t we all just here for what was to be her wedding? No one suffers more over her absence than Jack. I think I share the views of all of us when I say to him that I love him and want to help him heal, if such a thing is possible. Hope would have wanted that, too.”
Frances glanced at Jack, but he didn’t appear to react to Penelope’s words.
“I will take this opportunity in memorializing my sister to share one moment with you, a recent one, a conversation she and I had the night before she was to marry, a moment when she reached out to me as her sister.”
Frances felt Sam squeeze her hand.
“Hope told me that she feared becoming Jack’s wife because she didn’t know if she could be all he wanted. She didn’t know whether she could meet his expectations.”