I was still smarting from that disappointment, but it was like getting a scratch after you had suffered a far more serious wound. I was too numb from what had happened to really feel the pain he had inflicted, even though I had hoped for and even expected his support Instead, he had given me threats and ultimatums. He did leave me feeling I was a highstrung, emotionally unstable young woman, and that took from my vault of self-confidence, leaving me vulnerable and insecure just when I had to be the complete opposite.
.
It was a short flight to the West Palm Beach airport. My father's travel agent was right: it was the season and very busy. The airport was jammed with tourists from all over western Europe as well as the northern and midwestern United States. It took me nearly a half hour to get my luggage and then more than that to get my rental car. By the time I headed for Palm Beach itself. it was close to seven P.M.
I followed the directions the rental car agent had given me. They weren't difficult at all, but even so. when I crossed over the Flagler Bridge, named for one of the founders of this ritzy community. I looked for a sign and couldn't find one. I pulled over to the side and called to a woman who was walking what resembled a miniature hippopotamus. It had loose skin in thick, wrinkled folds, especially on its forehead. I later learned it was a very popular dog here. a Chinese sharpei. The dog's leash as well as its collar seemed to be made of mink; the collar was also studded with jewels.
The woman stopped and turned to me. It was what I would consider a warm, humid evening, but she wore a chic designer knit pantsuit with a shawl over her shoulders and strutted in a pair of highheeled shoes that looked rather formal for taking a dog for a walk. She pulled her head back as if automobile smelled bad and said. "What is it?"
"I wanted to be sure I'm in Palm Beach," I said.
"Of course you're in Palm Beach. If you do not know that, you certainly do not belong here," she replied through a mouth so tight she looked as if she had lockjaw. She turned and continued walking without offering any more assistance.
I smiled in astonishment, shook my head, and drove on, following the directions to the Breakers that I had been given at the rental car desk. I was soon driving the wide streets lined with tall coconut palm trees. If wealth had an aroma, it would undulate through the air around you in Palm Beach and make it impossible to breathe any other scent. I thought, I couldn't count how many chauffeur-driven limousines were parked along the streets or moving around me. I suddenly felt self-conscious driving a midsize, inexpensive rental. It was like going to a party in a pair of jeans and a blouse and finding out everyone else was formally dressed. Some pedestrians who looked my way appeared absolutely indignant. It's just my imagination, I told myself, my imagination and my nervousness.
Finally. The Breakers hotel came into view. The palms along the entrance were lit with colored spotlights, and the illuminated twin towers with pennants snapping in the breeze made it look more like a castle than a resort. Maybe I was entering a fantasy after all, I thought, falling through some tunnel like Alice in Wonderland.
The valet parking attendants and the porters swarmed over me when I pulled in. Moments later. I was at the desk, gazing around the lobby and wondering how I had gotten myself here. how I had left my tiny apartment heavy with sorrow and sadness and come so quickly to this glamorous place. The hand-painted ceilings, Venetian chandeliers, and fifteenth-century tapestries showed that the hotel's builders had clearly been heavily influenced by the Italian Renaissance.
'What opulence, I thought. The Breakers was as luxurious a resort as any in the world. There were many women in fancy, expensive dresses and men in tuxedos and designer suits moving through the lobby, their laughter like music building the excitement around me. No wonder my father's travel agent was so interested in why I wanted to come here so soon after my father's passing. This was no stopover and no place for someone in mourning to use as a quiet retreat.
My room had an ocean view. For a few moments after the porter showed me my room and brought in my luggage. I stood by the window gazing. I was mesmerized by the sea. The sight of some vacationers walking on the beach and the sounds of the music I could hear below made me feel strangely invisible. I couldn't be part of all that I saw and heard-- and yet. I was here.
I was hungry but decided to remain in my room and just order room service. I tried distracting myself with television, but my mind was determined to keep all my fears and questions streaking across the marquee of my attention. Had I made a terrible mistake? Was I foolish to leave school on an impulse? Was I wrong to ignore Amou and Dr. Price and Allan? What was I doing here?
I felt as twisted and knotted inside as a ball of rubber bands. Later, it seemed they were all stretching and snapping in my stomach. I was sorry I had eaten anything. Pretty soon. I vomited: then I curled up in the bed and cried until I welcomed the exhaustion that would carry me off into a few hours of sleep.
My eyes snapped open many times during the night, and when the sunlight penetrated the curtains, they opened again, but I was so groggy I forced myself to remain in bed. I fell back to sleep, a deeper sleep this time, and when I woke. I glanced at the clock and realized I had only a little more than a half hour to get over to Dr. Anderson's office.
Thrown into a panic. I rose, showered, and tried to dress and brush my hair all in less than fifteen minutes. Having any breakfast was out of the question. I barely had time to swallow a glass of water. I rushed out of my room and into the lobby. It took longer than I had anticipated getting my car. too. Mercedes, B.M.W's, and Rolls-Royces were all brought up before mine as if they had to get the wellto-do guests away before they were contaminated.
Finally, my car came. and I asked directions, trying desperately to absorb what I was being told. Nevertheless. I did get lost. Fortunately, I spotted a police car parked near a curb, and the officers directed me well enough to get me to Dr. Anderson's office only five minutes late.
When I shut off the engine. I took some deep breaths and glanced at myself in the visor mirror. I looked like a wild madwoman, just the sort of person who would be coming here. perhaps. I closed my eves and swallowed back a lump. It was really like someone experiencing stagefright. For a moment. I couldn't move. Then I opened the car door and stepped out.
If ever there was an attempt to hide the real purpose of an office, this was it. The building looked like a residence, and there were no signs announcing whose offices were in there, nothing but simple nameplates near the front door. Apparently, a dentist and an accountant were in the same building. I went inside and found the door to Dr. Anderson's offices on my right.
Dr. Anderson's receptionist looked like someone who was on her way to a formal dinner party. She was at a computer, but she was wearing an elegant knit skirt suit and a pair of what looked like flawless diamond teardrop earrings. She was a very attractive woman, maybe in her mid-thirties, with soft blue eyes and straight, light brown hair.
"Willow De Beers?" she asked before I approached the desk. "Yes. I'm sorry I'm a little late. but I got lost," I explained.
"Late?" She widened her smile. ''Most of Dr. Anderson's patients consider twenty minutes to a half hour late to be on time. We build it into our schedule," she said. "Let me tell him you are here. He'll probably be surprised you're so close to your appointment," she added, and rose to knock on the inner office door. She opened it, leaned in, and announced my arrival.
My heart was thumping so hard I thought I wouldn't be able to take the next step. Would he be like Daddy and see right through my contrived story? But I couldn't very well tell him what my father had told only his closest associate and me in his diary. Who knew how he would react, what he would think? If my mother was still in some form of treatment, he might very well blame it on my father's actions, actions any other psychiatrist would certainly consider unprofessional.
I would be devastated if all I accomplished was to embarrass my father, even though he was gone. In fact, it would be even worse because he was no longe
r here to defend himself.
"Please show her in," I heard Dr. Anderson say, He had a deep baritone voice.
His receptionist nodded at me and stepped aside as I entered, Dr. Anderson started around his light oak desk. Amou would call him Uma bebida longa de agua, "a long drink of water," I thought. He was well over six feet tall, probably six-foot-six or -seven, very slim with a prominent Adam's apple and a sharply jutting chin. His brown eyes were set deeply under a wide forehead, creased with small ripples that reached into his temples. He had a long thin nose but thick lips under a neatly trimmed mustache that had more red in it than brown-- quite similar to my father's. actually. He extended his long hand to me.
"How do you do." he said. "Please," he added, practically tugging me to the soft leather chair in front of his desk. "I heard about your father only a few hours before you phoned my office." he explained, standing there for a moment and nodding at me. "I'm so sorry. He was actually somewhat of a mentor to me. I think I've read everything he's written. What a loss to the world of psychiatric medicine."
"Thank you," I said.
He had a way of folding his arms over his chest and pressing back on his upper torso as if that were the only way he could keep his shoulders straight. Very tall people had a tendency to slouch and diminish the distance between themselves and everyone else, but his posture made him look like an old statue of a cigar-store Indian.
"How can I help you?" he asked, still not moving back to his chair.
Here I go, 1 thought, like some drama student about to step onto the stage for her first performance before a real audience.
"My father taught me that the only way to deal successfully with disappointments, sadness, tragedy, and defeats in life was to immerse yourself
immediately in some productive activity. One thing he would definitely not want is for me to sit at home and mourn him for days and days and drop out of social and educational activities. He would say I was fanning the flames," I added. "Stoking the hot coals of my own misery."
"Yes," Dr. Anderson said, smiling as if he fondly recalled my father saying something similar to him, and then he started around his desk, which looked as if everything on it were arranged in some sort of geometric pattern.
I glanced around. Unlike Daddy's office, this looked like someone's sitting room at home. The curtains coordinated with the carpet and furniture, as well as the carefully chosen artwork, the vases, and even the artificial flowers that were in those vases. Everything was in harmony.
I told myself this was actually a place to treat patients, and therefore helping them feel comfortable was important. Daddy's was a work office: all that was in it was arranged for his needs and his pleasure.
"So how are you keeping yourself busy?" Dr. Anderson asked. "I attend the University of North Carolina, I was in the middle of a project at school when he passed away."
Dr. Anderson nodded. His eyes seemed to move forward in his shill as he studied me. His staring without speaking began to make me even more nervous. As far as I knew, Daddy never made his patients feel like specimens caught under a
microscope's lens. I remember one of his patients' fathers remarking that his daughter thought she was simply having an informal conversation with him. "You don't even realize you're telling him the most intimate things." she'd remarked.
It was a work-study research project. I mean, it is, and it's very important to me," I told Dr, Anderson,
"What is your major?" he asked.
"Oh. Sorry. I am going into psychology"
"I should have guessed," he said, smiling. He put his elbows on his desk and pressed his palms against his chest, as if he were once again doing something to keep his shoulders back. "What's your project?"
"Well, it's a study of the wealthy and how they distinguish between the real and the unreal, the important and the unimportant events in their lives," I said, and held my breath in anticipation of his thinking it stupid or contrived.
Instead, he nodded and continued to smile. but I felt the need to elaborate.
"My question is whether money, so much money, creates bigger illusions and makes it more difficult to function down in the reality of everyday life."
"The old ivory tower. huh?"
"Yes, exactly," I said.
"Well, you're right to come to Palm Beach for that research. I can't think of a more representative capital of wealth, but if you're here to learn whether money corrupts or not, my dear Willow. I can assure you, it does."
"I'm sure you can, but that won't do for a thesis conclusion my teacher will accept, even if it comes directly from a prominent psychiatrist." I said, and he laughed.
"Well, I'm a bit relieved to know you're not here for sorrow therapy," he said, sitting back. "Not that I wouldn't have been more than happy to have helped you, but I'm not quite sure what I can do for your project."
"Well, considering my topic and my major, I thought there would be no one better to recommend me, give me a letter of introduction, perhaps, than one of the more prominent psychiatrists in Palm Beach. People are naturally very reticent to speak with strangers and give them the kinds of answers, sincere and truthful answers, I'll need."
He nodded, I noticed he liked little pauses in the conversation. He was a man who obviously measured his words carefully, who knew the importance they often carried even in what some would call small talk.
"Okay." he said. "I'd be happy to do that for you-- depending on whom you want to meet, of course. In some cases, it might actually be
disadvantageous to have my name associated with your project. There are people who still believe psychiatry is a voodoo art form."
"Yes, and for that reason. I would like to remain incognito."
"Incognito?"
"My father had a national reputation, published a great deal, was honored by governors, even a president. People would just naturally associate my name with his and might be very unwilling to talk because of the fear of being analyzed."
"Interesting. Yes." he said. nodding. "That's possible. I suppose, but I'm not sure most of the people you might meet here would know who he was."
"Still,' I insisted. "it would be prudent to have a pseudonym, don't you think?"
"Maybe," he said thoughtfully. "Okay. What's your pseudonym?" he asked.
"Isabel Amou," I said. I thought it would be good luck to call myself that.
"Isabel Amou? Unusual name. Well, then, did your father help you design this project?"
"Yes. We talked about it, and he indicated he had some patients from Palm Beach from time to time and thought it would be a good place for the study."
Dr. Anderson nodded, still smiling, but his smile was a little less full,
He recalled one family in particular. and I remember him saying you had referred this woman to his clinic."
I said it all quickly because I was afraid I might stutter and stumble.
"Oh?"
"And I wondered if she were still living here and if she were still in therapy with you and if she would be a good subject for my study."
"Well" he said, shaking his head. that is quite an unusual request. I don't really know how to react to that. I thought you simply meant letters of
introduction to prominent Palm Beach residents, but actual patients or families of patients. well..."
"I wouldn't ask you to tell me anything about her. My father didn't, of course. He just mentioned the family name. Montgomery. I think he called them one of 'the core,' is that right?" I asked quickly.
"Yes," Dr. Anderson said. laughing. "It's almost like the families who came over on the Mayfower, They are some of the original residents. the A-list, so to speak. He was correct about that."
I nodded. encouraged. "I believe he was going to call you for me right before he died."
"I see. Very unfortunate. He was still a young man." he added.
"Yes. Anyway, I wondered if that family is still living in Palm Beach."
"Well, yes, but the individual in ques
tion is not in therapy-- at least not with me, that is. However, it probably wouldn't look right for me to go sending students to my patients' homes." he said, scrunching up his nose, "even ones with pseudonyms. I hope you understand."
"Oh. yes. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you in any uncomfortable position because of my project."
"Oh, no, it was perfectly correct for your father to think of sending you to speak to me about your topic." He thought a moment.
"What I could do," he continued. "is introduce you simply as what you are... someone writing a paper on Palm Beach society. You'll find a number of people who will want to talk to you about that. I'm sure you'll find your own leads after speaking to one or two individuals."
"Yes. I suppose so," I said, not hiding my disappointment.
"However. I can see why your father suggested her family to you,- he added.
"You can?"
My heart began to pound. He didn't know anything. He couldn't know anything, could he? Of course, he could. He could have had sessions with her after she had left my father's clinic, and she might have told him everything.
"Yes, especially in light of the topic you are researching. That's a family that has lost its wealth and social standing but has managed to remain living here."
"Oh. How?"
"They have rented out their residence to another family." He thought and smiled. "A family," he continued. "who would be perfect subjects for your study."
"Really?"
"Yes. I guess there's no problem about your speaking to them." he said. "I will make a phone call for you."
"But..."
"I'm not sending you off on a wild goose chase.
I'm sure they will be helpful. And I'd be happy to -contribute myself, in a more general way, of course. "Thank you."
"Is there anything I can answer for you right
now in that regard? I've been here for most of my professional life." he added. "I've had some interesting situations I could speak about: patients who were so devastated by the deaths of their French poodles that they actually attempted suicide, for example. I had a woman, the wife of a prominent billionaire, who was convinced she could never buy and wear anything original. She had such an obsession about it, she wouldn't leave her home and lived like a mad recluse, dressing only in one of her mother's old ball gowns. That was a challenge. I made house calls. Where else but in Palm Beach can you find a therapist making house calls?" he added with a laugh. "By all rights, she should have been institutionalized, but they would sooner have kept her locked up in a room.
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