by Meg O'Brien
“Why can’t I go home with you?” Angela had pleaded for the hundredth time. “There isn’t anything wrong with me, honest!” Her large hazel eyes brimmed with tears.
Paul had held one of her hands, Gina the other. “The doctor thinks you need to stay,” Paul had said, at a loss for words that would make any sense to a six-year-old. Angela had been here a year, and for a year he and Gina had been coming every month to visit. How could he possibly tell her this would be the last time?
“But when can I go home?” Angela had pressed, one huge tear slipping down her cheek. Her lower lip shook and Paul noted that her complexion had grown pale; the rosy glow of babyhood was gone.
Of course, the winters were harsh in Minnesota. There wasn’t much sunlight for months on end. That, and being separated from her family, probably accounted for the change in their daughter—the haunted look when they’d first seen her this time, and the new physical fragility. She had lost weight, and no longer seemed like the little girl they had raised till the age of five. There was a sharpness in her eyes, and an angular, hungry look to her face.
“It’s part of her illness,” Dr. Chase, the staff psychiatrist, had said, pushing back a thatch of brown hair. He was young, with a bland face and not a lot of personality, Paul had thought. In bearing he seemed tall when sitting, but lost inches when he stood. “She would be this way,” he added, “even if you had kept her at home. In fact, she might well have become worse.”
Gina had answered Angela’s question, biting her lower lip. There were tears in her eyes, too, Paul remembered now. “We don’t know when you can come home, sweetheart,” she had said.
“You’re coming back, though?” Angela had asked, the sadness in her tone almost more than Paul could bear.
“I…we don’t know,” he had said, avoiding an outright lie.
Sadness turned to anger as Angela yanked away from their hands, her eyes flashing. “You mean you’re never coming back!”
“Daddy didn’t say that, Angela,” Gina said soothingly. “We just don’t know how things are going to go.”
But that was a lie, and Angela was too bright not to know it. Standing before them, she clenched her fists and cried out angrily, “Why isn’t Rachel here? She should be here!”
“Honey—”
She stomped her foot. “I want to go home! I hate it here! Why can’t I go home?”
Neither Paul nor Gina knew what to say. They had been through this on every visit, and always before they had left with hope in their hearts. Each time they had been able to tell their daughter that next month things could be different. Dr. Chase might give her a clean bill of health, and they might finally be able to take her back to Seattle with them.
This time, that hope had been crushed.
“She simply hasn’t continued to improve,” the psychiatrist had told them. “I strongly recommend that you not remove her from our care.”
It was final, then. Angela might never be able to live in a “normal” home. She still had no conscience to speak of, Dr. Chase had said. No remorse, none of the feelings people normally have. She could be a danger to anyone, at any time.
Paul sat at his desk, his heart aching just as it had that day. The ache was one of emptiness, a hollow feeling where love used to be. He had thought, back then, that this was what one felt when one’s heart “broke,” and over the years he had stuffed back that ache, telling himself it was gone, it was healed, he would never feel it again…if only he could manage not to think of it.
Still, it never went away entirely. It popped up at odd times, like when he saw another little child who resembled Angela with her dark hair in ponytails, walking along the street with a man who might be her father. Or when he and Gina went to school plays that Rachel was in. It had seemed so strange—almost unnatural—not to see Angela beside her sister.
Not to see Angela at all.
“Paul, you all right?” Gina tapped on his office door. They’d had an agreement for years that she would always knock before walking in, in case he was working. And Paul did the same for her. Without that, neither of them would ever have gotten anything done at home.
“I’m fine,” he answered, surprised that his voice even worked. It felt as if his throat muscles were constricted, that there might not be enough room for air to pass through. “Be out in a minute,” he added, his voice cracking.
Burying his face in his hands, he wept.
Paul sat in Victoria Lessing’s office, clenching and unclenching his hands. For some reason, he couldn’t keep them from shaking. He had just asked Victoria for more water, but when she poured it he’d had to put the glass down to keep it from spilling.
“I thought I had put all that behind me,” he said. “I thought I was all right, that I’d never feel this way again.”
“An odd expression,” Victoria observed, “‘putting it all behind you’. Do you know I’ve actually had patients who developed lower back problems from thinking they’d put their troubles behind them, when in fact they were still carrying them around?”
“You’re kidding. Back problems?” Paul’s right hand went automatically to his lower back, which had been hurting lately when he stood too long.
“Well, troubles are a terrible weight,” Victoria said. “There are books about it. Throat problems, for instance. They can come from being afraid to speak up, from swallowing anger. Leg troubles? Being afraid to move forward. Even medical doctors have begun to look at the connection between the emotions and illness, Paul. But to get back to you…”
He managed a small smile. “I thought for a minute we were talking about me.”
Victoria smiled. “So now we have to get to what you’re carrying around. The true essence of it, that is, not just the veneer. The human mind, you know, is much like this antique furniture you work with. If a piece has been painted over, it doesn’t tell you much about what’s beneath. You have to remove that coat of paint to get to the rich old wood, the pine, maple, mahogany—all of which may tell you a story about the provenance of that piece, its history.”
She paused and looked at him earnestly. “You need to uncover that history in yourself, Paul. Then you have to find a way to let it go.”
“Easier said than done,” he observed.
“True. There’s that trick of putting one’s troubles in a brown grocery bag by the bed every night, rather than lying awake thinking about them. Unfortunately, human curiosity is something to behold. People will inevitably take their troubles out again in the morning and go over and over them, like snapshots in a photo album of people they’re afraid they’ll forget.”
She studied him, her blue eyes narrowing. “Paul, what is it that worries you most?”
“I’m not sure. I guess I’m afraid that Angela really has returned and is trying to harm us in some way. If that’s true, I’ll have to deal with it. It isn’t something I can simply brush off.”
“Not brush off,” Victoria said. “There’s a difference between that and letting go. You do what you can—in this case, turning the matter over to the police—and then you go on with your life as calmly as possible.”
She held up a restraining hand. “Never mind, I know that can’t be easy. What does Gina say about all this?”
He shrugged. “I imagine she feels the same. We haven’t talked about it.”
Victoria’s brows went up. “Really? Why not?”
“Well, it’s hard,” Paul said, taking a sip of water and setting the glass down carefully. “She still blames me for making the decision to take Angela back. She thinks we could have done more for her.”
“And you? What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Paul said softly. “Sometimes I agree with Gina, I guess. Other times, just thinking about what might have happened if we’d kept Angela another single day…you know, Vicky, it chills me to the bone.”
Victoria nodded. “Why are you here?”
He met her eyes. “Because you’re the only one who agreed with me.
It was you, in fact, who told us she had to go back. Do you still feel we made the right decision?”
“Oh, Paul, who can say? We have to live with what we did and go on from there. Looking back and casting blame is a thankless task.”
“I wish you could convince my wife of that,” he said.
“She’s not the one sitting in that chair. You’re all I have to work with at the moment.”
“I tried to get her to come with me. But since last night at the police station, it seems that she doesn’t want to think about it anymore. Neither does Rachel.”
“Well, see if you can get her to come in,” Victoria said. “I’ll do my best. With both of them. But, Paul—” She hesitated.
“Yes?”
“Sixteen years is a long time to grieve for a child. I’m not saying it ever goes away completely—but you might want to ask yourself what’s really going on.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“This distance between you and Gina. Are you sure you haven’t both been using Angela’s loss to cover up a more basic problem in your marriage?”
Paul’s first instinct was to be angry. “I didn’t come here to have my feelings invalidated,” he said curtly.
“And I don’t mean at all to invalidate them,” Victoria said reasonably. “Paul, I know your grief was genuine. And certainly it’s understandable that you’d think of Angela during the holidays. But think about this, too. What if you and Gina are both using Angela’s loss as a handy excuse for not looking at what’s really wrong?”
Paul frowned. “What are you saying?”
“Not very much,” Victoria admitted. “I’m not a mind reader, Paul. It’s just a suggestion. But I would like you to think about that before you come in again.”
Paul nodded and stood. “I’d better get back to Soleil.”
When he reached the door he turned and said, “Vicky? At the risk of using the ‘A’ word again, what do you really think? Not as a doctor, but as a friend. Is she back? And if she is, will she try to hurt us?”
“As a friend?” Victoria sighed. “I’m not sure, Paul. I would urge you to watch your back. Do you know what she looks like now?”
He shook his head. “I asked if Saint Sympatica’s had any photos of her. Mrs. Ewing said there was a group photo they took on the twentieth anniversary of the orphanage. Angela was in it, but she was in a back row, Mrs. Ewing said, since she was one of the tallest. She said it’s not very clear.”
“How long ago was the photo taken?”
“About five years ago. When Angela was sixteen.”
“Is she sending you a copy of it?”
Paul shook his head. “The police had to ask for it, so she’s sending it to the police here. I’ll go down to the precinct and try to get a look at it.”
“Well, see if you can make anything of it. Watch for anyone who could be her. And keep in mind, she may try to change her appearance.”
“You really think she’d go to that extent?”
“Paul, if the grown-up Angela is anything like the Angela I knew as a child, I think she would be capable of anything. Anything at all.”
6
That same morning, Roberta Evans lay on the massage table at the Rose Arbor Spa, trying to relax. If she didn’t relax, the massage would be wasted, and she couldn’t afford that. She had a tough job ahead. Things were going crazy, and she felt as if her neck were being pulled halfway around the globe by a rubber band.
“How was your Christmas?” Andie asked. Her competent hands ran over the muscles in Roberta’s back, feeling for knots and other signs of tension.
“Better than most,” Roberta answered.
“Did you have it with your family?”
“No. That’s why it was better than most.”
Andie laughed. “Troubles, hmm?”
“No more than usual at this time of year. Ouch!”
“Take a deep breath,” Andie suggested, pressing hard with her thumb on a point in Roberta’s upper back. “Breath in from the diaphragm, and hold it till I tell you to breathe out.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, I know how to breathe, Andie!” Roberta said irritably. “We’ve been doing this for years!”
“I know you know,” the massage therapist said patiently. “You just don’t always focus.” She chuckled. “Pretend you’re having a baby.”
“Humph.” Babies were the last thing Roberta needed to think about.
When Paul and Gina had taken Angela back to the orphanage all those years ago, neither of them had seemed to consider how losing the child had affected her grandmother. Roberta had come to love both girls more than life itself, and over the first two years they were in the family, her worries about their having been adopted had subsided, washed away by the overpowering love she had for them.
It was Angela, though, who became her precious “grandbaby” from the time Gina and Paul had brought the twins home. It was Angela who reminded her of herself as a child—breaking the rules, testing her parents’ limits, but always with a huge, saucy grin on her face. Rachel was quiet and demanded less attention, while Angela would always tug at her knee, asking her “Gamma” to read a story, play a game, or sometimes simply hold her.
As Angela began to show signs of temper and even violence, however, Roberta was the first to point out to Gina that this might be cause for worry. Gina didn’t want to hear it, and Paul was even less willing, to the point of putting a distance between himself and Roberta rather than listen to her worries. Finally Roberta was able to talk Gina into taking the girls to a psychiatrist. She knew of Victoria Lessing through a friend, and assured Gina that she came highly recommended.
“Just let her see Angela and talk to her,” Roberta had urged. “What harm can it do?”
Victoria was the first to put a tentative label on Angela’s illness—Reactive Attachment Disorder, or RAD. It was most likely the result, she said, of her not having had a mother or anyone loving to bond with the first months of her life. Though the Ewings were nice people and meant well, Victoria said, it was possible—even likely—they had been overwhelmed by the sheer amount of work it took to run an orphanage that was full to bursting with more children than they could handle but hadn’t had the heart to turn away. Unfortunately, they had only private funding, and during the year Angela and Rachel had been left there, they had been going through a budget crunch. There wasn’t enough in the coffers to hire additional staff to help with the children.
At first they had all—Victoria, Roberta, Paul and Gina—pulled together to help Angela, thinking this problem might be something they could get past. But then there was that horrible incident on Christmas Eve. As soon as they could make arrangements, Paul and Gina took Angela back to the orphanage in Minnesota. Roberta hadn’t seen her since.
Just thinking about it brought tears to her eyes, even now. That was the thing about being a grandmother. Children often didn’t consider what it did to grandparents when they were wrenched apart from a beloved grandchild. Even those first months when Paul and Gina went back to Minnesota to see Angela and talk to her psychiatrist, Roberta wasn’t allowed to go along. “Dr. Chase doesn’t think it would be a good idea,” they had said.
Good for whom, dammit? Roberta had wondered then. Certainly not for me. She still longed to put her arms around the child and love her, despite what she had done. And Angela, regardless of her illness, must surely be missing her grandmother.
“We grandparents have become second-class citizens, Andie,” she said with a bitter sigh. “Our children say they want us to be close to their babies, but when it comes to having any say about what happens to them, like where they live or any other important life decisions, we aren’t consulted.”
“You can say that again,” Andie confirmed with a sigh. “Mine just moved to Boston. Three thousand miles away, they took that child! I’ll be lucky if I get to see her once a year.”
“It’s as if they think we can turn love off and on at will,” Roberta concurred. �
��If they move away, we’re not supposed to hurt. If they’re sent away, as Angela was, we’re supposed to forget them overnight.”
Andie chuckled. “But then, if we ever do manage to put them out of our minds, they say we’re hard-hearted.”
Roberta grunted her affirmation as Andie pushed with her thumbs on another pressure point. Taking a deep breath, Roberta let it out slowly.
Well, she had done her best to get over the loss of Angela, throwing herself into activities just as Gina and Paul had. It was Rachel who made it difficult, though, Rachel who asked the hard questions about what had happened to her sister. She asked them of her grandmother because Gina and Paul would tell her not to think about what happened, to just forget it.
Well, maybe they could. But Rachel had relived that last moment with Angela for years, in her nightmares. There were times when she needed someone close to talk to, to tell her the truth about things.
Not that seeing Victoria all that time hadn’t helped, but Victoria was a psychiatrist, not a member of the family. She couldn’t know everything that went on inside the home.
Nor had Victoria ever had a child. It was easier for her to tell Rachel that her parents were right, that she did need to forget.
Well, Roberta hadn’t forgotten. A grandmother never does. And now…now, thank God, she was being given a second chance.
7
Gina was deep in thought when Rachel entered the living room. It suddenly dawned on her that her daughter was simply standing inside the doorway, watching her.
“Rachel! How long have you been there?”
“Not long.” Rachel crossed over to her and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Mom, you don’t mind, do you, if I spend the night at Ellen’s?”
Gina set aside the invoices she was going over at the Louis XV desk. The sun, for once, had made an appearance, filtering through the Christmas tree in the bay window to bounce off the reading glasses she wore. Gina removed them, smiling at her daughter, who was dressed in jeans and the pink cashmere sweater Gina and Paul had given her for Christmas. Pink was Rachel’s favorite color, and she wore something in that shade every day. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and that, with the sweater, made her look like the Rachel she remembered from years ago, before the world and its influences had carried her away.