“You were off your meds?”
“Had been since they ran out—maybe six months?” Linda shrugged. “I started sleeping badly again but it wasn’t bad enough to try to get more.”
“I’d say you felt safe with Marissa. But not in a purely platonic way?”
“No, I wanted . . . she’s really engaging. With this inner humor 99
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and zest and I kept thinking about what it would be like to be with her. I was afraid I’d freak her out, though. I didn’t want to tell her about my mother and . . . that stuff. And I didn’t want to just . . .”
Linda frowned.
“Go to bed with her and dissociate?”
“I didn’t want to just do her, yeah. The last night I thought well, okay, it would turn out like all the other times I’d tried but at least I could give her something she wanted because she did want me to touch her. At least we could have that memory. I turned off the lights because sometimes I don’t go away as quickly.”
Dr. Kirkland nodded and Linda relaxed even more. Whether she recalled all the details of Linda’s case file from three years ago or not, Dr. Kirkland seemed to be catching up rapidly. “And how was it?”
With a feeling of profound relief, Linda said, “I didn’t go away at all. Even when . . . she made love to me. I stayed. I felt connected to my body the whole time.”
Dr. Kirkland sat back in her chair with a blinding smile. “That’s absolutely fantastic. A major breakthrough. And how did that feel?”
Linda stuck her tongue out. “How do you think it felt?”
“You’re supposed to tell me, remember?”
Shifting in her seat so she could tuck one leg under her, Linda answered, “It felt great. I realized what I’d been missing.”
After making another note on the left, Dr. Kirkland asked, “So, why are you here?”
“Because she had to go home. I had a ticket to run away more.
And on the flight I took there was this woman who flirted with me and I did all the things I’ve always done.”
“One great sexual experience doesn’t undo the habits and security behavior of two decades, Linda. Why don’t you tell me what happened.”
“It was just . . .” She shrugged. “One of those random things.
She wasn’t even gay—not that she was telling herself anyway. So we were in the airport and starting to get to it. I got clinical—
remember? You pointed out how when I don’t feel safe I get very 100
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clinical as the first step to dissociating?” After the other woman nodded, Linda continued, “I noticed what was going on all around us, if other people would figure out what we were doing, things like that.”
“Controlling what you could.”
Linda nodded. “And I might not have gone away except . . . she called me beautiful.”
One eyebrow went up. “That word has always troubled you.”
“But this time it didn’t irritate me and so I went away.”
When Linda didn’t go on, Dr. Kirkland prompted softly with,
“What was different this time?”
“It was as if this woman pressed a button. She’d hardly said the word and I was on the ceiling, watching.”
“So the word triggered the dissociation, you think? Not the situation, but the word?”
“Yeah. Marissa never said it. She said I was strong.” A tiny headache started behind Linda’s eyes but she had expected it. Her first two months of therapy had left her with blinding migraines that she felt were a by-product of trying so hard to “see” into her brain, so to speak. “After—in the airport—I felt remote for a long time. I didn’t like it. I wanted to feel the way I had with Marissa.”
“That’s important, you know that, right?”
Linda nodded.
“Important because you know you’re capable of feeling more than distant and remote. When we first met you told me being disconnected was the way you were made.”
“I didn’t want to talk to you.”
“Oh, I remember.” Dr. Kirkland smiled. “So what did you do about wanting to feel different?”
“I want to have a chance with Marissa. So I came home.”
“You didn’t go to her? Why do you think you chose to come here instead?”
“Because.” Linda rolled her eyes. “Because I knew I needed to talk to you some more. And I could sponge off my mother while I fixed the rest of it.”
“So you’ve seen your mother?”
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“I went there from the airport. Burst into her office in front of some clients. I made a big stir because someone called security.”
She chewed on her thumbnail as she recalled the flicker of emotions on her mother’s face. “I don’t even think she was angry.”
“Did you want her to be?”
“No. I don’t need anything from her . . .” Linda’s voice trailed away. “I mean . . . yes. I guess I did want her to be angry. I wanted to push her buttons for once. She pushes mine every day. But I thought I was past wanting emotion out of her. I didn’t get what I wanted, I guess.”
Dr. Kirkland made another note on the left before asking, “So how does it feel to be living in your old house?”
“Weird. Familiar, but weird. The rooms are all in the same place of course but she changed all the decorations—probably more than once. Marshall, her long-time escort, is still around, I guess. I still think he’s gay. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Are you still married?”
Neither eyebrow moved but Linda was certain Dr. Kirkland was dying to arch one of them. “That’s a little personal, don’t you think? We talked about boundaries.”
“I know. I’m not sure why I asked. Do you have a therapist? I mean, it must be hard to hear everybody’s problems all the time.”
There was humor in Dr. Kirkland’s eyes. Linda for the first time realized that, in the three years since she’d seen her therapist, gray had edged into Dr. Kirkland’s temples and the divots where her glasses rested on her nose were even deeper.
They had both gotten older. I’ve gotten older, she thought, I’m not fourteen anymore.
“Yes,” Dr. Kirkland said. “There’s someone I talk to about how my work affects me and other things in my life. Empathy is very important for me to keep alive but it’s useless if I can’t also maintain enough distance to notice things my clients might not.”
“I get that.” Linda straightened up in the chair. “So when are you going to tell me what you’ve been writing on the left side?”
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After her eyes flicked to the clock only she was in a position to see, Dr. Kirkland said, “There’s time. I think it might spur some more discussion.”
“I’m listening. And I promise not to ask how anything made you feel.”
“Thanks so much,” Dr. Kirkland said dryly. “When we first started working together it took us a while to get little Linda to talk, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember. She had a lot of feelings she didn’t have words for. She was really angry too.”
“One of the reasons you gave me when you left a few years ago was that you thought little Linda had nothing more to say. I think you were right. You made wonderful, thoughtful progress.
Accepting the things that happened to little Linda and dealing with her hurt and anger has left you capable of dealing with the world in a more healthy way. Some compulsive behavior remains but overall you’re well on your way to healing your wounds.”
“I can hear the but coming.”
“You’re back here, talking to me. Little Linda isn’t the one sitting in the chair. Adult Linda has a few things bothering her, I think, but nothing I think she needs me to listen to.”
Linda tipped her head to one side. �
��Who else is there?”
“I think I’ve been talking to a teenager for a while. She’s angry and confrontational—not with me, but with her mother. Your body language has a touch of defiance. Lots of ‘yeah’ and ‘I mean like.’ I’ve never seen you chew your fingernails before.”
Linda swallowed and her headache got worse.
“You’re getting a headache, aren’t you?”
“Yes. It just got a lot worse.”
“I think teenage Linda is ready to talk to adult Linda. You’re ready to deal with whatever it was that put you over the edge the first time.”
Closing her eyes, Linda flashed on that disturbing, repeating loop of her mother offering her a plate of food. “I don’t think so.
I’m not ready.”
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“Don’t force it. Do you want to come back day after tomorrow and talk? I can put you at the end of the day.”
Her headache eased as she realized she wouldn’t have to talk anymore. “Okay, yes.”
Dr. Kirkland closed her notebook. “You’ve made great progress, Linda. There’s more work to do but I think we’re dig-ging deep.”
“My mother is probably going to set up a competency hearing again.”
The smile Dr. Kirkland gave her was tinged with an odd kind of pleasure. “Well, your mother can just bring it on.”
Linda was halfway through a cheeseburger and chocolate shake before the true import of Dr. Kirkland’s final words sank in. Dr. K
didn’t think she was crazy.
She stood in front of a pay phone for the longest time, looking at the bright piece of blue silk and the paper with Marissa’s phone number. But what would she say? Sorry, I won’t be visiting soon.
Sorry, I’m not where I told you I’d be. Sorry, I’m not who you think I am.
The call could wait. Maybe everything would fix itself quickly and her mother would finally realize, like Dr. K, that she wasn’t crazy.
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Chapter 8
“Well, don’t you look relaxed!”
“Thank you, Mom,” Marissa said automatically. She gave her mother the obligatory kiss then sat down at the empty chair at their table for two. Sunday brunch at the club was a treat but even after a week of being home, Marissa didn’t quite feel adjusted to the time. It had been very, very hard to get up.
“Joanne, is this your daughter who was shipwrecked?” An elegantly coiffed woman paused at their table to examine Marissa with interest.
“Yes, this is my daughter Marissa. She’s just back from Tahiti.
Marissa, this is my dear friend—I’ve spoken of her so often . . .”
Marissa made appropriate responses and thought longingly of hot coffee. The hovering waiter wouldn’t intrude on the conversation. She didn’t mean to be rude but couldn’t help but pick up the menu to see what was offered. Like every day since she’d started working out, she was starving.
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When she’d made up her mind, she studied her mother, taking in the perfectly turned out white hair, the age-defying makeup and the crisply starched linen blouse. If her mother ever gave her half a chance, she’d tell anyone that she thought her mom was terribly good looking and yes, in her opinion, this apple had fallen a long way from her mother’s tree. She could try forever and not achieve that kind of classy elegance.
Then again, she wasn’t sure how her mother’s carefully con-structed world would have fared in a shipwreck. Oh, she’d have climbed that cliff easily, no doubt about that. But without a stylist handy?
Marissa allowed she was likely being unfair to her mother, who was strong-willed and successful. She was just also quite annoying at times.
Her mother’s friend took leave of them after a minute of trad-ing gossip that sounded competitive to Marissa’s ear. Marissa was relieved her mother didn’t seem annoyed that Marissa had stayed out of the conversation for the most part.
“Everything looks wonderful,” Marissa said, indicating the menu. “I think I’ll have the eggs Benedict.”
“Do you really think you should? It’s got all that butter, dear.”
“I joined a gym this week, so I think I deserve a little treat.”
“Oh?” Her mother skepticism was obvious. “Why not come to the one here at the club? I’m sure the equipment is excellent. Your guest privileges are still good.”
“I joined with a coworker so we could encourage each other.”
“That reminds me of my old sorority. It was always nice to have someone to do things with. If there was no beau around on a Saturday night a group of us would go to the movies.”
“I’m not going to the gym because I don’t have anything else to do, Mom. I’m trying to get more fit.”
“Better late than never. Your father waited too long.”
“I know.” Marissa hoped her mollifying tone would derail the usual rant.
“He never listened to me—first the heart attack and I’m sure 106
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that’s what made the cancer move so fast. Even after . . . he moved elsewhere, he could have still used the fitness services here, just like you could.”
Sure, Marissa wanted to say, Dad would have been welcome here. Shifting under her mother’s piercing gaze, she said instead,
“The gym is only five minutes from work. If I had to drive all the way out here I’d not go as often.”
“Whatever you think best.”
“Thank you for your advice, Mom. I work late sometimes and my gym is twenty-four hours.”
“Of course.” Her mother’s perfectly lipsticked mouth curved in one of the smiles that made Marissa expect a new criticism. “I’m sure you thought it through.”
“I did.” The waiter arrived with a gleaming silver coffee pot and filled Marissa’s cup after she nodded. She ordered the eggs Benedict with sliced melon on the side. She wondered from what ocean her father must have spawned to have given her the genes she had. Her mother ordered the spirulina smoothie, the New York platter—lox, bagel, cream cheese—and a chocolate muffin.
None of it would show on her petite figure.
“So how are things at the gallery? Have you made new discoveries?”
The bright smile she received told Marissa she’d asked the right question. “Egyptian themes are back in, just as I thought they’d be, and I already have a small collection of paintings to offer. But I’m really intrigued by a young man from the city who uses light-sensitive plates to create the most interesting forms. He calls them fractal reflections. I love them—won’t make much money I suppose. They’re a little too arty for way out here in Blackhawk.”
“They sound interesting,” Marissa said sincerely. She had nothing but respect for her mother’s taste in art. Her father had even admitted that he’d first been attracted to Joanne’s artistic sense.
“Have you ever thought of running a gallery in San Francisco?”
That topic lasted through most of breakfast and part of the time Marissa was aware of her detachment from her mother’s hopes and 107
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dreams. How much, at this point in her life, was that a self-fulfill-ing prophecy? She offered only a little bit about her life for review and was generally never disappointed when her mother showed only a little bit of interest.
She realized too late her mother had asked her a question. “I’m sorry, I was thinking about having some strawberries.”
“You haven’t said a word about your vacation and it was so dra-matic.”
“It was, Mom, and thank you again for the gift. It was very generous of you. In spite of everything, I had a great time.”
“I was hoping you’d meet someone interesting.”
“I did,” Marissa said before she thought better of it.
“Reall
y?” Her mother’s eyes—eerily similar to those that looked back at Marissa from every mirror—glowed with intrigue.
“What’s his name?”
So there it was, thirty-four years old, Marissa mused, and just a fawn caught in her mother’s Mack truck headlights. So she wasn’t all that close to her mother but she wasn’t prepared to be even more distant. Thirty-four, independent and still afraid of her mother—pathetic.
The waiter warmed up their coffee, allowing Marissa a few more seconds to evaluate her entire life, her father’s life, relive the terrifying early hours in the lifeboat and the feel of Linda’s hair on her thighs.
“What’s his name? Where does he live?”
“Mom.” Marissa cleared her throat. “There was this short time while we were abandoning ship that I didn’t think I was going to survive. I thought about what really mattered to me. Like I spent all that time trying to choose the perfect books to take with me and that ended up being completely unimportant. Sitting in a lifeboat with no land in sight made me realize that it’s not all that important what brand of rum is in my glass or whether my living room is Country French or Nouveau Deco.”
Her smile fixed, her mother said, “Please tell me it’s not Country French.”
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“I’m not talking about decorating.”
Marissa saw the acceptance in her mother’s face before she spoke again. She knows, Marissa realized. She’s known all along. “I met a woman. I’ve always preferred women. And I want this woman to be in my life.”
There was a prolonged silence while her mother sat frozen in place. Only the fingers wrapped around the stem of her cham-pagne glass moved slightly.
“I’m sorry if that disappoints you,” Marissa said. She had expected to feel relieved to have finally spoken the truth but her mother’s reaction mattered. It shouldn’t, she thought. You’re old enough for it not to matter. But it did. Yes, while hanging off that cliff face she had accepted that nothing but living the exact life her mother desired would ever gain approval. She knew she would never live that life. But that didn’t mean more proof of her mother’s disdain for the life she did lead wouldn’t hurt.
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