She turned to me. “No one talked about it. A few weeks later, Mom died.”
Her fingers snapped away from the steering wheel, as if shoved by an unseen demon, flew to her face, grabbing, concealing. She bent forward, touched her brow to the steering wheel. The ponytail bounced, black curls fibril-lating. She shook like a wet puppy, and when she cried out the ocean blocked nearly all the sound. The man with the metal detector had moved fifty yards up the beach, back in his own world, hunched, probing.
When I reached through the window and placed a hand on Stacy’s shoulder, she shivered, as if repulsed, and I withdrew.
All those years listening to people in pain and I can do it like a pro, but I’ve never stopped hating it. I stood there and waited as she sobbed and shuddered, voice tightening and rising in pitch until she was letting out the raw keen of a startled gull.
Then she stopped shaking, went silent. Her hands flipped upward, like visors, exposing her face, but she kept her head low, mumbled at the steering wheel.
I bent forward, heard her say, “Disappearing.”
“What is?”
She shut her eyes, opened them, turned toward me. Heavy, labored movements. “What?” she said sleepily. “What’s disappearing, Stacy?” She gave a casual shrug. “Everything.” I didn’t like the sound of her laughter.
Eventually, I convinced her to get out of the car and we strolled north on the asphalt, following the shoreline, not talking. The man with the metal detector was a pulsating speck.
“Buried treasure,” she said. “That guy believes in it. I saw him up close, he’s got to be seventy, but he’s digging for nickels—Listen, I’m sorry for making you come all the way out here. Sorry for being bratty over the phone. For hassling you because you’re working with the cops. You’re entitled to do whatever work you want.”
“It had to be confusing,” I said. “Your father okayed it, but he didn’t tell you. If he changed his mind, he didn’t tell me.”
“I don’t know that he did. He was just getting peevy because the cop came to question him and he doesn’t like not being in charge.”
“Still,” I said, “I think it’s best that I drop off the—”
“No,” she said. “Don’t do it on my account. I don’t care—it really doesn’t matter. Who am I to take away your income?”
“It’s no big deal, Stacy—”
“No. I insist. Someone killed that man and we should be doing everything we can to find out who it was.”
We.
“For justice,” she said. “For society’s sake. No matter who he was. People can’t get away with that kind of thing.”
“How do you feel about Dr. Mate?”
“Don’t feel much, one way or the other. Dr. Delaware, all those other times we talked, I was never really honest with you. Never talked about how screwed up our family is. But we are—no one really communicates. It’s like we live together—exist together. But we don’t . . . connect.”
“Since your mother got sick?”
“Even before then. When I was young and she was healthy, we must have had fun together, but I don’t remember. I’m not saying she wasn’t a good mother. She did all the right things. But I never felt she … I don’t know, it’s hard to express. It’s like she was made of air— you couldn’t get hold of it. … I just can’t resolve what she did, Dr. Delaware. My dad and Eric blamed Mate, it was this big topic in our house, what a monster he was. But that’s not true, they just can’t deal with the truth: it was her decision, wasn’t it?”
Turning to me. Wanting a real answer, not therapeutic reflection.
“Ultimately it was,” I said.
“Mate was just the vehicle—she could have chosen anyone. She left because she just didn’t care enough to keep trying. She made a decision to leave us, without saying good-bye.”
Snapping her arms across her bust, she drew her shoulders forward, as if bound by the straps on a straitjacket.
“Of course,” she said, “there was the pain, but. . .” She chewed her lip. Shook her head.