Private Eyes

in terms of her concern about you. Worry that leaving you at this point in your therapy might upset the progress you’ve made. So it’s important for her to hear from you- explicitly- that you’ll be okay. That you’ll continue to make progress with her gone. That you want her to go. If you do.”

“Dr. Delaware,” she said, looking at me straight on, “of course I do. And I have told her that. I’ve been telling her since I found out she’d been accepted. I’m thrilled for her- it’s a wonderful opportunity. She must go!”

Her intensity caught me by surprise.

“What I mean,” she said, “is that I see this as a crucial period for Melissa. Breaking away. Starting a new life. Not that I won’t miss her- of course I will. But I’ve finally gotten to a point where I can think of her the way I should have been doing all along. As the child. I’ve made tremendous progress, Dr. Delaware. I’m ready to take some really giant steps. Look at life differently. But I can’t get Melissa to see that. I know she mouths the words, but she hasn’t changed her behavior.”

“How would you like her to change?”

“She overprotects me. Continues to hover. Ursula- Dr. Cunningham-Gabney- has tried to talk to her about it, but Melissa’s unresponsive. The two of them seem to have a personality conflict. When I try to tell her how well I’m doing, she smiles, gives me a pat, and says “Great, Mom,’ and walks away. Not that I blame her. I let her be the parent for so long. Now I’m paying for it.”

She lowered her gaze again, rested her brow in one hand, and sat that way for a long time. Then:

“I haven’t had an attack in over four weeks, Dr. Delaware. I’m seeing the world for the first time in a very long time, and I feel I can cope with it. It’s like being born again. I don’t want Melissa limiting herself because of me. What can I say to convince her?”

“Sounds like you’re saying the right things. She just may not be ready to hear them.”

“I don’t want to come out and tell her I don’t need her- I could never hurt her that way. And it wouldn’t be true. I do need her. The way any mother needs any daughter. I want us always to be close. And I’m not giving her mixed messages, Doctor- believe me. Dr. Cunningham-Gabney and I have worked on that. Projecting clear communication. Missy just refuses to hear it.”

I said, “Part of the problem is that some of her conflict has nothing to do with you or your progress. Any eighteen-year-old would be anxious about leaving home for the first time. The life Melissa’s led up till now- the relationship between the two of you, the size of this place, the isolation- makes moving out scarier for her than for the average freshman. By focusing on you, she doesn’t have to deal with her own fears.”

“This place,” she said, holding out her hands. “It’s a monstrosity, isn’t it? Arthur collected things, built himself a museum.”

A trace of bitterness. Then quick cover:

“Not that he did it out of ego- that wasn’t Arthur. He was a lover of beauty. Believed in beautifying his world. And he did have exquisite taste. I have no feel for things. I can appreciate a fine painting when it’s placed in front of me, but I’d never accumulate- it’s just not in my nature.”

“Would you ever consider moving?”

Faint smile. “I’m considering lots of things, Dr. Delaware. Once the door opens, it’s hard not to step through. But we- Dr. Cunningham-Gabney and I- are working together to keep me in check, make sure I don’t get ahead of myself. I’ve still got a long way to go. And even if I was ready to dump everything and roam the world, I wouldn’t do that to Melissa- pull everything out from under her.”

She touched the china pot. Smiled and said, “Cold. Are you sure you don’t want me to call down for fresh? Or something to eat- have you had lunch?”

I said, “I’m sure, but thanks anyway.”

“What you said before,” she said. “Avoiding her own conflicts by mothering me. If that’s the case, how can I pull that out from under her?”

“She’ll come to grips with your improvement naturally- gradually- as you continue to make progress. And to be honest, you may not be able to persuade her to go to Harvard before the application deadline’s up.”

She frowned.

I said, “It seems to me there’s something else complicating the situation- jealousy.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “Ursula’s pointed out how jealous she is.”

“Melissa’s got lots to be jealous of, Mrs. Ramp. She’s been hit with a lot of change over a short period of time, besides your progress: Jacob Dutchy’s death, your remarriage.” The return of a madman… “What makes it even rougher for her is the fact that she takes credit- or blame- for initiating a good deal of the change. For getting you into treatment, introducing you to your husband.”

“I know,” she said. “And it’s true. She did get me into therapy. Nagged me into it, God bless her. And therapy’s helped me cut a window in my cell. Sometimes I feel like such a fool for not doing it sooner, all those years…” She shifted position suddenly, showing me her complete face. Flaunting it.

Saying nothing about her second marriage. I didn’t pursue it.

She stood suddenly, made a fist, held it in front of her, and stared at it. “I’ve got to convince her, somehow.” Tension blanched the scarred side, marbling it again, bleaching the stripes on her neck. “I’m her mother, for God’s sake!”

Silence. The distant whir of a vacuum cleaner.

I said, “You sound pretty convincing right now. Why don’t you call her in and tell her that.”

She thought about that. Lowered the fist but kept it clenched.

“Yes,” she said. “Okay. I will. Let’s do it.”

***

She excused herself, opened the door on the rear wall, and disappeared through the doorway. I heard padded footsteps, the sound of her voice, got up and looked.

She sat on the edge of a canopied bed, in an immense off-white bedroom with a muraled ceiling. Mural of courtesans at Versailles, enjoying life before the deluge.

She sat slightly stooped, bad side unprotected, pressing the mouthpiece of a white-and-gold phone to her lips. Her feet rested on plum-colored carpeting. The bed was covered with a quilted satin spread and the phone rested on a chinoiserie nightstand. High crank windows flanked the bed on both sides- clear glass under pleated, gold- fringed valances. Gilt-framed mirrors, lots of lace and toile and happily pigmented paintings. Enough French antiques to put Marie Antoinette at ease.

She nodded, said something, and put the phone back in its cradle. I returned to my seat. She came out a moment later, saying, “She’s on her way up. Do you mind being here?”

“If Melissa doesn’t mind.”

Smile. “She won’t. She’s quite fond of you. Sees you as her ally.”

I said, “I am her ally.”

“Of course,” she said. “We all need our allies, don’t we.”

***

A few minutes later footsteps sounded from the hall. Gina got up, met Melissa at the door, took her by the hand, and drew her in. Placing both hands on Melissa’s shoulders, she looked down at her solemnly, as if preparing to confer a benediction.

“I’m your mother, Melissa Anne. I’ve made mistakes and been weak and inadequate as a mother, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m your mother and you’re my child.”

Melissa looked at her quizzically, then whipped her head in my direction.

I gave what I hoped was a reassuring smile and shifted my glance to her mother. Melissa followed it.

Gina said, “I know my weakness has put a burden on you, baby. But that’s all going to change. Things are going to be different.”

At the word different, Melissa stiffened.

Gina saw it and drew her close, hugging her. Melissa didn’t fight it, but neither did she yield. “I want us always to be close, baby, but I also want us to live our own lives.”