“Does he like Stanford?”
“He likes it, it likes him.”
“Your parents went there?”
“Family tradition.”
“Does that put pressure on you to go there, as well?”
“I’m sure Dad would be thrilled. Assuming I’d get in.”
“You don’t think you would?”
“I don’t know—don’t really care.”
I’d put some space between our chairs, careful not to crowd her. But now her body arched forward, as if yearning for touch. “I’m not putting myself down, Dr. Delaware. I know I’m smart enough. Not like Eric, but smart enough. Yes, I probably could get in, if for no other reason than I’m a multiple legacy. But the truth is, all that is wasted on me—smarts are wasted on me. I really couldn’t care less about intellectual goals or tackling challenges or changing the world or making big bucks. Maybe that sounds airheady, but that’s the way it is.”
She sat back. “How much time do we have left, please? I forgot my watch at home.”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Ah. Well…” She began studying the office walls.
“Busy day?” I said.
“No, easy day, as a matter of fact. It’s just that I told my friends I’d meet them at the Beverly Center. Lots of good sales on, perfect time to do some airhead shopping.”
I said, “Sounds like fun.”
“Sounds mindless.”
“Nothing wrong with leisure.”
“I should just enjoy my life?”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly,” she repeated. “Just have fun.” Tears welled in her eyes. I handed her a tissue. She took it, crushed the paper, enveloping it with a fine-boned, ivory fist.
“Let’s,” she said, “talk about my mother.”
I saw her thirteen times. Twice a week for four weeks, then five weekly sessions. She was punctual, cooperative, filled the first half of each session with edgy fast-talk about movies she’d seen, books she’d read, school, friends. Keeping the inevitable at bay, then finally relenting. Her decision, no prodding from me.
The final twenty minutes of each session reserved for her mother.
No more tears, just soft-spoken monologues, heavy with obligation. She’d been sixteen when Joanne Doss began falling apart, remembered the decline, as had her father, as gradual, insidious, ending in grotesquerie.
“I’d look at her and she’d be lying there. Passive— even before, she was always kind of passive. Letting my father make all the decisions—she’d cook dinner but he’d determine the menu. She was a pretty good cook, as a matter of fact, but what she made never seemed to matter to her. Like it was her job and she was going to do it and do it well, but she wouldn’t pretend to be … inspired. Once, years ago, I found this little menu box and she’d put in all these dinner plans, stuff she cut out of magazines. So once upon a time, I guess she cared. But not when I was around.”
“So your dad had all the opinions in the family,” I said.
“Dad and Eric.”
“Not you?”
Smile. “Oh, I have a few, too, but I tend to keep them to myself.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’ve found that a good strategy.”
“For what?”
“A pleasant life.”
“Do Eric and your father exclude you?”
“No, not at all—not consciously, anyway. It’s just that the two of them have this … let’s just call it a big male thing. Two major brains speeding along. Jumping in would be like hopping on a moving train—good metaphor, huh? Maybe I should use it in English class. My teacher’s a real pretentious snot, loves metaphors.”
“So joining in’s dangerous,” I said.
She pressed a finger to her lower lip. “It’s not that they put me down…. I guess I don’t want them to think I’m stupid…. They’re just. .. they’re a pair, Dr. Delaware. When Eric’s home, sometimes it’s like having Dad in duplicate.”
“And when Eric’s not home?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you and your father interact?”
“We get along, it’s just that he travels and we have different interests. He’s into collecting, I couldn’t care less about accumulating stuff.”
“Collecting what?”
“First it was paintings—California art. Then he sold those for a giant profit and got into Chinese porcelain. The house is filled with walls and walls of the stuff. Han dynasty, Sung dynasty, Ming dynasty, whatever. I appreciate it. It’s beautiful. I just can’t get into accumulating. I guess he’s an optimist, buying porcelain in earthquake country. He putties it down with this wax the museums use, but still. If the Big One comes, our house will be one big crockery disaster zone.”