“I stayed that way for a while. Some time later—I'm really not sure how long it was—Paul came by to see how I was doing. He cleaned me up, dressed me, and took me back to his place. For a week I did nothing but relax, stayed up in my . . . in a room there. Then we had another session, even deeper hypnosis, and he told me about the separation.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That we'd been put up for adoption at birth and wrenched apart at three because Sherry kept trying to hurt me. He said it wasn't the right way to handle it, but that our adoptive mother had problems of her own, couldn't handle both of us. She liked Sherry more, so I was given away.”
She'd taken pains to speak in an offhand voice, but something raw and frigid had come into her eyes.
“What is it?” I said.
“Nothing. Just the irony. She lived like a princess all her life, but her soul was impoverished. I ended up being the lucky one.”
“Did you ever meet Mrs. Blalock?”
“No. Not even at the party. Why should I? She was a name to me—not even a face. Someone else's mother.”
I gazed at the plastic walls of the dome and said nothing. Let my eyes rest on the husk in the next bed.
“When did Paul tell you about partner number two?”
“Third session, but there wasn't much to tell. All he knew was that she'd been born disabled, was institutionalized somewhere.”
“Someone filled you in. Uncle Billy?”
“Yes.”
“The handsome paternal lawyer?”
“After all these years, you remember? Amazing.” Trying to sound pleased, but edgy. “As a matter of fact, Uncle Billy always wanted to be a lawyer. He even applied to law school, but he got caught up with other things and never went.”
“When did he come into the picture?”
“The second time Paul sent me home. Maybe a week after we . . . parted. I was doing much better, putting things in perspective. The doorbell rang. An older man with a beautiful smile was standing there. With candy and flowers and a bottle of wine. He said he was the brother of the woman who'd given me away—he apologized for that, said I shouldn't hate her, though he understood if I did. That she was an inadequate person but he'd always looked after me. Both as an uncle and an emissary of my father.”
She looked over at the empty bed. “Then he told me who my father was.”
I said, “How'd it feel learning you were Leland Belding's heir?”
“Not as strange as you'd think. Of course I'd heard of him, knew he was a genius and rich, and it was strange finding out we were related. But he was dead, gone, no chance for any connection. I was more concerned with living ties.”
She hadn't answered the question. I let it pass. “How did Uncle Billy chance to find you?”
“Paul had traced my roots and found him. He said he'd wanted to meet me for years, had been unsure of what to say or do and stayed away out of fear of doing the wrong thing. Now that the cat was out of the bag, he wanted me to hear everything from the source.
“I told him I knew about Sherry and we talked a little about her—I could tell he wasn't fond of her, but he didn't push it and I didn't challenge him. I wanted to know about my other sister, about my roots. We sat there and drank wine and he told me everything—how the three of us were the love children of Mr. Belding and an actress whom he'd loved very much but couldn't marry for social reasons. Her name was Linda. She died of childbirth complications. He showed me a picture. She was very beautiful.”
“An actress,” I said. When she didn't react, I said, “You look like her.”
“That's quite a compliment,” she said. “We were also miracle children—premature, tiny at birth, and not expected to live. Linda became sick, with septicemia, but she never stopped thinking about us, praying for us. She named us just minutes before she died. Jana, Joan, and Jewel Rae—that's me. And though we all made it, Joan had multiple deformities. Despite being rich and powerful, Mr. Belding was in no position to raise her—or any of us. He was painfully shy—actually phobic about people, especially children. From what Uncle Billy described, a bit agoraphobic as well. So Uncle Billy had us adopted by his sister. He'd thought she'd turn out to be a better mother than she did. All these years both he and Mr. Belding felt tremendously guilty about letting us go.
“I told him Paul was going to arrange a meeting with Sherry and he said he knew. Then I asked if he could arrange one with Joan.”
“So he and Paul were working together.”
“They were cooperating. He was evasive about Joan, but I kept pressing him and finally he told me she was somewhere in Connecticut. I said I wanted to see her. He said there was no point—she was severely disabled, had no conscious mind to speak of. I said not only did I want to see her, I wanted to be with her, to take care of her. He said that was impossible—she required full-time care and that I should concentrate on my education. I said she was a part of me. I'd never be able to concentrate on anything else again unless I could have her with me. He thought about that, asked if I could take some time off from school, and I said sure. We drove straight to a private airport, hopped on a corporate jet to New York, then took a limousine to Connecticut. I know he thought the way she looked would change my mind. But it only made me more resolute. I lay down in bed next to her, hugged her, kissed her. Felt her vibrations. When he saw that, he agreed to move her out here. The corporation bought Resthaven and set up a private wing for her. I got to interview attendants, hand-picked Elmo. She became part of my life. I came to really love her. Loved the other patients, too—I've always felt at home with the defective. If I had it all to do over again, I would have spent my life working with them.”
At home. The only real home she'd known had been shared with two retarded people. A textbook insight, but she wasn't getting it.
I said, “And you changed her name.”
“Yes. A new name symbolizes a new life. Both Jana and I had been given S names; I thought Joan should have one too. To fit in.”
She got up, sat by her sister's side, and touched the sunken cheeks.
“She goes on forever,” she said. “She's been a constant in my life. A real comfort.”
“Unlike your other partner.”
That cold look again. “Yes, unlike her.” Then a smile. “Well, Alex, I'm pooped. We've covered a lot of ground.”
“There are a few other things, if you don't mind?”
Pause. For the first time since I'd known her, she looked drawn. “No, of course not. What else would you like to know?”
There was plenty, but I was looking at her smile: stuck to her without being part of her—like a clown's makeup. Too wide, too bright. A prodrome—early warning of something. I ordered my thoughts, said, “The story you told me about being orphaned—the accident in Majorca. Where did that come from?”
“A fantasy,” she said. “Wishful thinking, I guess.”
“Wishing for what?”
“Romance.”
“But the way you tell it, the true story of your parents is pretty romantic. Why embellish?”
She lost color. “I . . . I don't know what to tell you, Alex. When you asked me about the house, that story came out—just poured out of me. Does it matter after all these years?”
“You really have no idea where it came from?”
“What do you mean?”
“It's identical to the way Leland Belding's parents died.”
She turned ghostly. “No, that couldn't . . .” Then, again, the glazed smile. “How strange. Yes, I can see why that would intrigue you.”
She thought, tugged her ear. “Maybe Jung was right. The collective unconscious—genetic material transmitting images as well as physical traits. Memories. Perhaps when you asked me, my unconscious kicked in. I was remembering him. Eulogizing him.”
“Maybe,” I said, “but something else comes to mind.”
“What's that?”
“It was something Paul told you under hypnosis, then suggest
ed you forget. Something that surfaced anyway.”
“No. I . . . there were no suggestions for amnesia.”
“Would you remember if there were?”
She stood, clenched her hands, held them stiff at her sides.
“No, Alex. He wouldn't have done that.” Pause. “And what if he did? It would only have been to protect me.”
“I'm sure you're right,” I said. “Pardon the armchair analysis. Occupational hazard.”
She looked down at me. I took her hand and she relaxed.
“After all,” I said, “he did tell you about the drowning—which was pretty emotionally loaded stuff.”
“The drowning,” she said. “Yes. He did tell me that. I remember it clearly.”
“And you told me. And Helen.” Twisting and turning the truth like wood in a lathe.
“Yes, of course I did. You were the people I felt close to. I wanted both of you to know.”
She pulled away, sat down on the opposite end of the bed. Bewildered.
I said, “It must have been a terrible experience, being forced under water, someone trying to kill you. Especially at that age. The primal age.”
She turned her back to me. I listened to the arrhythmic hiss and squeak of Shirlee's breathing.
“Alex?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think lies are . . . a combination of elements?” Her voice was empty, dead, like that of a torture victim. “Fiction combined with repressed truth? That when we lie, what we're really doing is taking truth and changing its temporal context—bringing it forward from the past to the present?”
I said, “It's an interesting theory.” Then, “If you feel up to it, I'd like to hear about how you and Sherry finally met.”
“A couple of days after Uncle Billy visited me, Paul came by and told me she was ready.”
“Back to his house.”
“Yes. He put me up in my room and told me to meditate, be sure to get a good night's sleep. The next morning he brought me down to the living room. Everything was set up with big soft pillows and dim lighting. He told me to wait, and left. A moment later he reappeared. With her.
“When I saw her a jolt of electricity shot up my spine. I couldn't move. She must have been going through the same thing, because both of us just stared at each other for a long time. She looked exactly like me except she'd dyed her hair platinum-blond and was wearing sexy clothes. We started to smile—at precisely the same moment. Then we started giggling, then laughing out loud, threw out our arms and ran toward each other—it was like running into a mirror. A few minutes later and we were talking away as if we'd been best friends all our lives.
“She was funny and sweet—nothing at all like Paul had described. Not selfish or spoiled the way Uncle Billy had implied. It was obvious she wasn't highly educated, which surprised me because I knew she'd grown up rich. But she was bright. And well-bred—her posture, the way she crossed her legs. She told me she was studying to be an actress, had already starred in one film. I asked her the title but she just laughed and changed the subject. She wanted to know all about grad school, all about psych, said she was so proud that I was going to get a Ph.D. We really hit it off, discovering that we liked the same foods, used the same toothpaste and mouthwash and deodorant. Noticing little mannerisms we had in common.”
“Like this?” I tugged on my earlobe.
“No.” She laughed. “I'm afraid that's all me.”
“Did she talk about her home life?”
“Not much that first time—we really didn't want to talk about anything but us. And she hadn't been told about Joan yet—Paul said she wasn't ready for that. So we concentrated on just the two of us. We stayed in that room all day. The first time I had a hint of anything negative was when we got on the topic of men. She told me she'd done lots of men, so many she'd lost count. She was sounding me out—wanted to see if I approved or disapproved. I wasn't judgmental, but told her I was a one-man woman. She refused to believe that at first, then said she hoped he was one hell of a man. That's when I told her all about you. For a moment a scary look came into her eyes—predatory. Hungry. As if she hated me for loving. But then it disappeared so quickly that I thought I'd imagined it. If I'd known better, I would have protected you, believe me, Alex. Protected us.”
“When did it start going bad?”
Her eyes moistened. “Soon after, though I didn't realize it at the time. We were supposed to go shopping together, but she didn't show. When I got back to Paul's house, he told me she'd packed her bags and left town without telling anyone. That it was her pattern—she had no impulse control. Not to worry, it wasn't my fault. She finally came back, two weeks later, in terrible shape—bruised, groggy, unable to remember anything that had happened other than that she'd ended up in a bar in Reno. From that point on, that's what it was like—drop in, drop out. Fugue states, drug abuse.”
“Jana. Your dissertation.”
That jolted her.
I said, “I read it. I was interested—in you. Whose idea was it?”
“It started out as a joke. I'd just been through a rough month with her—a couple of overdoses, lots of verbal abuse. And I was under pressure, needed to come up with a dissertation topic or apply for an extension from the department—my second one. I was unloading on Paul about how much she frustrated me, how hard she was making it for me. That it would have been easier to be her therapist than her sister. He laughed at that, said being her therapist was no picnic either. We talked about the loss of control that comes from dealing with people like that. Then he said, why didn't I put myself in the therapist role—as a means of establishing some sense of control in the relationship—and write it all down.”
“Working it through.”
“Paul said she owed it to me.”
“Sounds like Paul was angry at her too.”
“He was frustrated—all those years, and she kept getting worse. Deteriorating. Toward the end she was downright paranoid, near psychotic.”
“Paranoid about what?”
“Everything. The last time she came back—the time she wrecked my practice—she was convinced I was out to get her, that I was revealing her personal secrets to my patients, humiliating her. It came from her own pain, but she was projecting it onto me—blaming me, the way she'd done years before.”
“Tell me about that.”
“It was a long time ago, Alex.”
“I'd still like to hear about it.”
She thought for a while, shrugged and smiled. “If it's that important to you.”
I smiled back.
She said, “It happened after she got married—to Italian nobility, a marchese named Benito di Orano whom her mother introduced her to. Ten years younger than her, suave, handsome, heir to some sort of shoe company—another impulsive thing—they'd only known each other a week, flew to Liechtenstein and had a civil ceremony. He bought her a Lamborghini, moved her into his villa overlooking the Spanish Steps. Paul and I hoped she'd finally settle down. But Benito turned out to be a sadist and a druggie. He beat her, doped her up, took her to the family palazzo in Venice, crammed her with dope, and gave her to his friends—as a party favor. When she woke up, he told her he'd had the marriage annulled because she was trash, then kicked her out. Literally.
“She crawled back to the States like a worm, burst into my office in the middle of a session, screaming and bawling and begging me to help her. I called Paul. Both of us tried to calm her down, persuade her to admit herself. But she wouldn't cooperate and she wasn't a clear and present danger, so there was nothing we could do, legally. She stomped out, cursing both of us. A few days later she was the old Sherry again—foul-mouthed, popping pills, back on the road, constantly on the move. From time to time I heard from her—middle of the night phone calls, postcards that tried to be friendly. Once or twice I even drove out to the airport to see her between planes. We'd chat, have drinks, pretend everything between us was okay. But her rage hadn't dissipated. The next time sh
e came back to L.A. to stay, she got close to me again, then started in with her follow-up visits. God, I loved my work, Alex. Still miss it.”
“What brought things to a head?”
“The party. She loved parties as much as I hated them. But Paul wanted me at this one—ordered her to stay away. She argued, threw a fit. He told her that both of us couldn't go and I'd be the one. This was for psychologists. Professionals only. A special occasion for him and he wouldn't see it ruined by her acting-out. That set her off—she attacked him, tried to stab him with a pair of scissors. The first time she'd ever gotten physical with him. He overpowered her, gave her a large dose of barbiturates, and locked her in her room. Saturday night, right after the party, he let her out. Told me she looked calm, was actually pleasant—remorseful. Forgive and forget.”
“How did you handle the party?” I asked. “Meeting Mrs. Blalock's friends.”
“For them I was Sherry—smiling and looking sexy. It wasn't that hard—there wasn't much substance to her. For all the psych people I was me. The two groups didn't mingle at all, and mostly I stayed with Uncle Billy.”
Magpies and swans . . .
“Forgive and forget,” I said. “But she'd done neither.”
She stared at me. “Must we go further, Alex? It's so ugly. She's gone now, out of my life—out of our lives. And I have a chance for a new start.”
She raised my hand to her lips. Licked the knuckles.
“Hard to begin without ending,” I said. “Closure. For both of us.”
She sighed. “For you,” she said. “Only for you. Because you mean so much to me.”
“Thanks. I know it's hard, but I really think it's best.”
She squeezed my hand. “I got your message on Sunday. I was disappointed, but I could tell from your voice that it wasn't farewell. You were nervous, had left the lines open.”
I didn't argue.
“So I was thinking about whether to call you, or wait until you called me to set up another date. I decided to wait, let you move at your own pace. You'd been on my mind all day and when the knock on my door sounded, I thought it was you. But it was her. All covered with blood. And laughing. I asked her what had happened—had she been in an accident? Was she okay? And then she told me. Laughing. What she'd done—the horror of it and she was laughing!”
Silent Partner Page 45