Private Eyes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I reached over, pulled a tissue out of the box. Handed it to her and waited until she composed herself.

  “I told her,” she said, sniffling, “that I wasn’t better than she was, in any way whatsoever. That I was out in the world because I’d gotten help. From you. Because she’d cared enough about me to get me help.”

  I thought of a child’s voice on a crisis line tape. Scented brush-off letters, calls unanswered.

  “. . . that I cared about her and wanted her to get help. She said she knew she needed it but that she was beyond treatment, doubted anyone could help her. Then she started crying harder and said doctors scared her— she knew that was stupid and babyish, but her fear was overpowering. That she never even talked to you on the phone. That I really had gotten better despite her. Because I was strong and she was weak. I told her strength isn’t something you just have. It’s something you learn. That she was strong, too, in her own way. Living through everything she’d been through and still ending up a beautiful, kind person— because she is, Dr. Delaware! Even though she never got out and did the things other mothers did, I never cared. Because she was better than the other mothers. Nicer, kinder.”

  I nodded and waited.

  She said, “She feels so guilty, but really she was wonderful. Patient. Never grumpy. She never raised her voice. When I was little and couldn’t sleep— before you cured me— she’d hold me and kiss me and tell me over and over that I was wonderful and beautiful, the best little girl in the world, and that the future was my golden apple. Even if I kept her up all night. Even if I wet the bed and soaked her sheets, she’d just hold me. In the wet sheets. And tell me she loved me, that everything would be okay. That’s the kind of person she is and I wanted to help her— to give some of that kindness back.”

  She buried her face in the tissue. It turned into a sodden lump and I gave her another.

  After a while she dried her eyes and looked up. “Finally, after months of talking, after we’d both cried ourselves dry, I got her to agree that if I found the right doctor, she’d try. A doctor who would come to the house. But I didn’t do anything for a while because I had no idea where to find a doctor like that. I made a few calls, but the ones who phoned me back said they didn’t do house calls. I got the feeling they weren’t taking me seriously, because of my age. I even thought of calling you.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I was embarrassed. Pretty foolish, huh?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Anyway, then I read the article. It sounded perfect. I called their clinic and spoke to her— the wife. She said yes, they could help, but that I couldn’t arrange treatment for someone else. The patients themselves had to call to set it up. That they insisted upon that, only accepted patients who were motivated. She made it sound like applying to college— as if they got tons of applications but only took a few. So I talked to Mother, told her I’d found someone, gave her the number and told her to call. She got really scared— started to have one of her attacks.”

  “What’s that like?”

  “She turns pale and grabs her chest and begins breathing really hard and fast. Gasping, as if she can’t get any breath in. Sometimes she faints.”

  “Pretty scary.”

  “I guess,” she said. “For someone seeing it for the first time. But like I said, I’d grown up with it, so I knew she wasn’t in any danger. That probably sounds cruel but that’s the way it is.”

  I said, “No, it doesn’t. You understood what was happening. Could put it in context.”

  “Yes. Exactly. So I just waited until the attack was over— they usually don’t last more than a few minutes and then she gets really tired and goes to sleep for a couple of hours. But I wouldn’t let her sleep this time. I held her and kissed her and started talking to her, very quietly and calmly. About how the attacks were terrible, how I knew she felt terrible, but didn’t she want to try to get rid of them? Not to feel like that anymore? She started crying. And saying yes, she did want that. Yes, she would try, she promised, but not right now, she was too weak. So I let her off the hook, and nothing happened for weeks. Finally, my patience ran out. I went up to her room, dialed the number in front of her, asked for Dr. Ursula, and handed her the phone. And stood over her. Like this.”

  Rising, she folded both arms over her chest and put on a stern look.

  “I guess I caught her off guard, because she took the phone, began talking to Dr. Ursula. Doing a lot of listening and nodding, mostly, but at the end of it she’d made an appointment.”

  She let her arms drop and sat back down.

  “Anyway, that’s how it happened, and it seems to be helping her.”

  “How long’s she been in treatment?”

  “About a year— it’ll be a year this month.”

  “Does she see both Gabneys?”

  “At first they both came to the house. With a black bag and all sorts of equipment— I guess they were giving her a physical. Then only Dr. Ursula came, and all she brought was a notebook and a pen. She and Mother spent hours together up in Mother’s room— every day, even weekends. For weeks. Then finally they came downstairs, walked around the house. Talking. Like friends.”

  Punctuating friends with just a hint of frown.

  “What they talked about I couldn’t tell you, because she— Dr. Ursula— was always careful to keep Mother away from everyone— the staff, me. Not by actually coming out and saying it— she just has a way of looking at you that lets you know you’re not supposed to be there.”

  Another frown.

  “Finally, after about a month, they went outside. To the grounds. Strolling. Did that for a long time— months— with no progress that I could see. Mother had always been able to do that by herself. Without treatment. That phase seemed to be going on forever and no one was telling me anything about what was going on. I began to wonder if they— if she knew what she was doing. If I’d done the right thing by bringing her into our home. The one time I tried to ask about it was pretty unpleasant.”

  She stopped, wrung her hands.

  I said, “What happened?”

  “I caught up with Dr. Ursula at the end of a session, just as she was getting into her car, and asked her how Mother was doing. She just smiled and told me everything was going well. Clearly letting me know it was none of my business. Then she asked me if anything was troubling me— but not as if she cared. Not the way you’d say it. I felt she was putting me down— analyzing me. It was creepy. I couldn’t wait to get away from her!”

  She’d raised her voice, was nearly shouting. Realized it and blushed and covered her mouth.

  I gave a reassuring smile.

  “But then afterward,” she said, “I could understand it. I guess. The need for confidentiality. I started to think back and remembered how it had been with my therapy. I was always asking you all those questions— about other kids— just to see if you’d break the secret. Testing you. And then I felt very good, very comforted, when you didn’t give in.” She smiled. “That was terrible, wasn’t it? Testing you like that.”

  “A hundred percent normal,” I said.

  She laughed. “Well, you passed the test, Dr. Delaware.” The blush deepened. She turned away. “You helped me a lot.”

  “I’m glad, Melissa. Thanks for saying so.”

  “Must be a pleasant job,” she said, “being a therapist. Getting to tell people they’re okay all the time. Not having to cause pain, like other doctors.”

  “Sometimes it does get painful, but overall you’re right. It is a great job.”

  “Then how come you don’t do it anymo— I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “No topic’s off limits here, as long as you can tolerate not always getting an answer.”

  She laughed. “There you go, doing it again. Telling me I’m okay.”

  “You are okay.”

  She touched a finger to the paperweight, then retracted it
. “Thank you. For everything you did for me. Not only did you get rid of my fears, you also showed me people can change— they can win. It’s hard to see that sometimes, when you’re stuck in the middle of something. I’ve thought of studying psychology myself. Maybe becoming a therapist.”

  “You’d make a good one.”

  “Do you really think so?” she said, facing me and brightening.

  “Yes, I do. You’re smart. You care about people. And you’re patient— from what you’ve told me about getting your mother help, you have tremendous patience.”

  “Well,” she said, “I love her. I don’t know if I’d be patient with someone else.”

  “It would probably be easier, Melissa.”

  “Yes, I guess that’s true. ’Cause to tell the truth, I didn’t feel patient while it was happening— all her resistance and stalling. There were times I even wanted to scream at her, tell her to just get up and change. But I couldn’t. She’s my mother. She’s always been wonderful to me.”

  I said, “But now, after going to all the trouble of getting her into treatment, you have to watch her and Dr. Ursula stroll the grounds for months. With nothing happening. That really tries your patience.”

  “It did! I was really starting to get skeptical. Then all of a sudden, things started to happen. Dr. Ursula got her outside the front gate. Just a few steps, down to the curb, and she had an attack when she got there. But it was the first time she’d been outside the walls since . . . the first time I’d ever seen her do it. And Dr. Ursula didn’t pull her back in because of the attack. She gave her some kind of medicine— in an inhaler, like they use for asthma— and made her stay out there until she’d calmed down. Then they did it again the next day, and again, and she kept having attacks— it was really hard to watch. But finally Mother was able to stand at the curb and be okay. After that, they started walking around the block. Arm in arm. Finally, a couple of months ago, Dr. Ursula got her to drive. In her favorite car— it’s this little Rolls-Royce Silver Dawn, a ’54, but in perfect condition. Coachbuilt— custom-made. My father had it built to his specifications when he was in England. One of the first to have power steering. And tinted windows. Then he gave it to her. She’s always loved it. Sometimes she sat in it after it had been washed, with the engine off. But she never drove it. She must have said something to Dr. Ursula about its being her favorite, because the next thing I knew, the two of them were tooling around in it. Down the drive and right out the gates. She’s at the point where she can drive with someone else in the car. She drives to the clinic with Dr. Ursula or someone else with her— it’s not far, over in Pasadena. Maybe that wouldn’t sound too impressive. But when you think of where she was a year ago, it’s pretty fantastic, don’t you think?”

  “I do. How often does she go to the clinic?”

  “Twice a week. Monday and Thursday, for group therapy. With other women who have the same problem.”

  She sat back, dry-eyed, smiling. “I’m so proud of her, Dr. Delaware. I don’t want to mess it up.”

  “By going to Harvard?”

  “By doing anything that would mess it up. I mean, I think of Mother as being on a scale— one of those balance scales. Fear on one side, happiness on the other. Right now it’s tipping toward happiness, but I can’t help thinking that any little thing could knock it the other way.”

  “You see your mom as pretty fragile.”

  “She is fragile! Everything she’s been through has made her fragile.”

  “Have you talked to Dr. Ursula about the impact of your going away?”

  “No,” she said, suddenly grim. “No, I haven’t.”

  “I get the feeling,” I said, “that even though Dr. Ursula has helped your mother a lot, she’s still not your favorite person.”

  “That’s true. She’s a very— she’s cold.”

  “Is there anything else about her that bothers you?”

  “Just what I said. About her analyzing me . . . I don’t think she likes me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She shook her head. One of her earrings caught the light and flashed. “It’s just the . . . vibrations she gives off. I know that sounds . . . imprecise— but she just makes me feel uncomfortable. The way she was able to tell me to butt out without having to say it. So how can I approach her about something personal? All she’d do is put me down— I feel she wants to shut me out.”

  “Have you tried to talk to your mother about this?”

  “I talked to her about therapy a couple of times. She said Dr. Ursula was taking her through steps and she was climbing them slowly. That she was grateful to me for getting her into treatment but that now she had to be a big girl and do things for herself. I didn’t argue, didn’t want to do anything that would . . . ruin it.”

  Wringing. Flipping her hair.

  I said, “Melissa, are you feeling a little left out? By the treatment?”

  “No, it’s not that at all. Sure, I’d like to know more— especially because of my interest in psychology. But that’s not what’s important to me. If that’s what it takes to work— all that secrecy— then I’m happy. Even if this is as far as it goes, it’s still major progress.”

  “Do you have doubts it will go further?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “On a day-to-day basis it seems to go so slowly.” She smiled. “You see, Dr. Delaware, I’m not patient at all.”

  “So even though your mother’s come a long way, you’re not convinced she’s gone far enough for you to be able to leave her.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you feel frustrated not knowing more about her prognosis because of the way Dr. Ursula treats you.”

  “Very frustrated.”

  “What about Dr. Leo Gabney? Would you be more comfortable talking to him?”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t know him at all. Like I said, he only showed up at the beginning, a real scientist type— walking very fast, writing things down, ordering his wife around. He’s the boss in that relationship.”

  Following that insight with a smile.

  I said, “Even though your mother says she wants you to go to Harvard, you’re not sure she can handle it. And you feel you can’t talk to anyone to find out if she can.”

  She shook her head and gave a weak smile. “A quandary, I guess. Pretty dumb, huh?”

  “Not at all.”

  “There you go again,” she said. “Telling me I’m okay.”

  Both of us smiled.

  I said, “Who else is around to take care of your mother?”

  “There’s the staff. And Don, I guess— that’s her husband.”

  Dropping that nugget into the bucket, then draping it with a look of innocence.

  But I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice. “When did she get married?”

  “Just a few months ago.”

  The hands began kneading.

  “A few months,” I repeated.

  She squirmed and said, “Six.”

  Silence.

  I said, “Want to tell me about it?”

  She looked as if she didn’t. But she said, “His name is Don Ramp. He used to be an actor— never a big one, just a bit player. Cowboys and soldiers, that kind of thing. He owns a restaurant now. In Pasadena, not San Lab, because in San Lab you’re not allowed to sell liquor and he serves all kinds of beers and ales. That’s his specialty. Imported beers. And meat. Prime rib. Tankard and Blade, it’s called. Armor and swords all over the place. Like in old England. Kind of silly, actually, but for San Labrador it’s exotic.”

  “How’d he and your mother meet?”

  “You mean because she never leaves the house?”

  “Yes.”

  The hands kneaded faster. “That was my— I introduced them. I was at the Tankard with some friends, a school thing for some seniors. Don was there, greeting people, and when he found out who I was, he sat down and told me he’d known Mother. Years ago. Back in her days at the studio. The two of them had be
en on contract at the same time. He started asking these questions— about how she was doing. Talking on and on about what a wonderful person she’d been, so beautiful and talented. Telling me I was beautiful, too.” She snorted.

  “You don’t think you’re beautiful?”

  “Let’s be real, Dr. Delaware! Anyway, he seemed so nice and he was the first person I’d met who’d actually known Mother before, back in her Hollywood days. I mean, people in San Labrador don’t usually come from an entertainment background. At least they don’t admit it. One time another actor— a real star, Brett Raymond— wanted to move in, buy an old house and tear it down to build a new one, and there was all this talk about his money being dirty money because the movies were a Jewish business and Jewish money was dirty money, and Brett Raymond himself was really Jewish and tried to hide it— which I don’t even know if it’s true or not. Anyway, they— the zoning board— made his life so miserable with hearings and restrictions and whatever that he changed his mind and moved to Beverly Hills. And people said good, that’s where he belonged. So you can see how I wouldn’t meet too many movie people, and when Don started talking about the old days, I thought it was great. It was like finding a link to the past.”