Private Eyes

We shook hands.

“Come on in.”

She entered the house and stood with her hands folded in front of her.

The transition from girl to woman appeared nearly complete, and the evidence pointed to a graceful process. She had fashion-model cheekbones that asserted themselves through flawless lightly tanned skin. Her hair had darkened to a sun-streaked light brown and it hung, poker-straight and gleaming, to her waist. The straight-edge bangs had given way to a side part and flip. Below naturally arched brows her gray-green eyes were huge and wide-set. A young Grace Kelly.

A miniature Grace Kelly. She was barely five feet tall, with a cinch-waist and tiny bones. Big gold hoop earrings dangled from each shell-like ear. She carried a small lambskin handbag, wore a blue pinpoint button-down shirt, a denim skirt that ended an inch above her knees, and maroon penny loafers without socks. Maybe Preppy still ruled in San Labrador.

I showed her to a chair in the living room. She sat, crossed her legs at the ankles, hugged her knees, and looked around. “You have a very nice home, Dr. Delaware.”

I wondered what my eighteen-hundred square feet of redwood and glass really looked like to her. The castle she’d grown up in probably had rooms bigger. Thanking her, I took a seat and said, “It’s good to see you, Melissa.”

“Good to see you, too, Dr. Delaware. And thanks so much for doing it on short notice.”

“My pleasure. Any trouble finding the address?”

“No. I used my Thomas Guide- I just learned about Thomas Guides. They’re terrific.”

“Yes, they are.”

“Amazing how so much information can go in one book, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.”

“I’ve never really been up to these canyons. It’s quite pretty.”

Smile. Shy, but poised. Proper. A proper young lady. Was it for my benefit? Did she metamorphose into something giggly and ill-mannered when she and her friends hit the mall?

Did she go to the mall?

Did she have friends?

The ignorance born of nine years struck home.

Starting from scratch.

I smiled back and, trying not to be obviously analytic, studied her.

Posture straight, maybe a little stiff. Understandable, considering the circumstances. But no obvious signs of anxiety. Her hands remained motionless around her knees. No kneading, no evidence of chafing.

I said, “Well. It’s been a long time.”

“Nine years,” she said. “Pretty unbelievable, huh?”

“Sure is. I don’t expect you to sum up all nine of them. But I am kind of curious about what you’ve been up to.”

“Just the usual,” she said, shrugging. “School, mostly.”

She bent forward, straightened her arms, and hugged her knees tighter. A sheet of hair fell across one eye. She brushed it aside and checked out the room again.

I said, “Congratulations on graduating.”

“Thanks. I got accepted to Harvard.”

“Fantastic. Double congratulations.”

“I was surprised they took me.”

“I’ll bet there was never any doubt in their minds.”

“That’s nice of you to say, Dr. Delaware, but I think I was pretty lucky.”

I said, “Straight A’s or close to it?”

Return of the shy smile. Her hands remained clamped on her knees. “Not in gym.”

“Well, shame on you, young lady.”

The smile widened, but maintaining it seemed to take effort. She kept looking around the room, as if searching for something.

I said, “So when do you leave for Boston?”

“I don’t know… They want me to notify them within two weeks if I’m coming. So I guess I’d better decide.”

“That mean you’re thinking of not going?”

She licked her lips and nodded and brought her gaze to rest, meeting mine. “That’s what- that’s the problem I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Whether or not to go to Harvard?”

“What going to Harvard means. In terms of Mother.” She licked her lips again, coughed, and began rocking, very gently. Then she freed her hands, picked up a cut-crystal paperweight from the coffee table, and peered through it, squinting. Studying the refraction of the gold-dusted southern light streaming in through the dining room windows.

I said, “Is your mother opposed to your going away?”

“No, she’s- She says she wants me to. She hasn’t objected at all- as a matter of fact, she’s been very encouraging. Says she really wants me to go.”

“But you’re worried about her anyway.”

She put down the paperweight, moved to the edge of her chair, and held out her hands, palms up. “I’m not sure she can handle it, Dr. Delaware.”

“Being away from you?”

“Yes. She’s… It’s…” Shrug. She began wringing her hands. That saddened me more than it should have.

I said, “Is she still- Is her situation the same? In terms of her fears?”

“No. I mean, she still has it. The agoraphobia. But she’s better. Because of her treatment. I finally convinced her to get treatment and it’s helped.”

“Good.”

“Yes. It is good.”

“But you’re not sure treatment’s helped her enough to cope with being separated from you.”

“I don’t know. I mean, how can I be sure…?” She shook her head with a weariness that made her seem very old. Lowered her head and opened her bag. After fumbling for a few moments she drew out a newspaper article and handed it to me.

February of last year. A “Lifestyles” piece entitled “New Hope for Victims of Fears: Husband and Wife Team Fight Debilitating Phobias.”

She lifted the paperweight and began toying with it again. I read on.

The article was a profile of Leo Gabney, a Pasadena-based clinical psychologist, formerly of Harvard University, and his psychiatrist wife, Ursula Cunningham-Gabney, alumna and former staff member of that august institution. An accompanying photograph showed the two therapists sitting side by side at a table, facing a female patient. Only the back of the patient’s head was visible. Gabney’s mouth was open, in speech. His wife seemed to be looking at him out of the corner of her eye. Both doctors wore expressions of extreme earnestness. The caption read: DRS. LEO AND URSULA GABNEY COMBINE THEIR SKILLS TO WORK INTENSIVELY WITH “MARY,” A SEVERE AGORAPHOBIC. The last word had been circled in red.

I studied the picture. I knew Leo Gabney by reputation, had read everything he’d written, but had never met the man. The camera revealed him to be sixty or close to it, with bushy white hair, narrow shoulders, dark, drooping eyes behind heavy black-framed glasses, and a round, smallish face. He wore a white shirt and dark tie, had rolled his sleeves up to the elbow. His forearms were thin and bony- almost womanish. My mental image had been something more Herculean.

His wife was brunette and good-looking in a severe way; Hollywood would have cast her as the repressed spinster, ripe for awakening. She was dressed in a cowl-neck knit top with a paisley kerchief draped over one shoulder. A short perm fit nicely around her face. Glasses hung from a chain around her neck. She was young enough to be Leo Gabney’s daughter.