She looked at me. “You know how I feel? Cheated. But I’ll get over it. And I’m still grateful to have him as a friend. Don’t worry about me, I may look wounded but it’s an illusion. All done with mirrors.” Smile.
She sat down. “Now let’s talk about the Great Man. What does he want, all of a sudden? What’s his game?”
“I don’t know, Lucy. Maybe to connect with you, somehow.”
“No,” she said angrily. “No way. He’s up to something, believe me. He’s a master manipulator, you have no idea. He loved hitting Puck when he was down.”
“Puck went to him for money?”
“After he cut off the trust fund.”
“He has that power?”
“Not officially, but the lawyers work for the family trust, and they do. One call from him.” Snapping her fingers. “They invoked some sort of spendthrift clause. After that, Puck had to go to him. Only a few times, as a last resort. And of course he demeaned Puck and made him beg for every penny. Lectured him about financial responsibility, as if he’s some expert. He lives off a trust fund, too. His mother’s father owned textile mills all over New York and New Jersey, made a fortune before income taxes. He’s never had to work a day in his life. If he did, he’d be sunk. He hasn’t published or sold a painting in years.”
She slammed a fist into a palm. “Forget him. Forget whoever played around with my undies and hung up on me and wrote that stupid note. No more fear, no more bullshit. I’m evicting it all from my mind. I don’t care what it looks like, I never tried to kill myself. I love life. And I want a real life—a regular, boring, ordinary life. This is a nice place, but in a few days I’m out of here.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere on my own. I’m not going to spend my life looking over my shoulder.”
She got up again. “Had the dream again last night. Ken came in, said he’d heard me crying out. I was sweating. It’s as if that damned incubus is sitting back there, just waiting to torment me. As if there’s a big pile of garbage stuck in my memory banks. I want to evict that, too. Get my head clear. How do I do that?”
I considered my answer. The delay brought panic to her eyes.
“What is it? Is there something wrong with me—did they find something on those tests in the hospital?”
“No,” I said. “You’re perfectly healthy.”
“Then what?”
Timing: the art of therapy.
Mine was off. I felt out of balance.
Her nails scraped the table.
“The dream,” I said. “Has it changed in any way?”
“No. What are you holding back from me?”
“What makes you think I’m holding back?”
“Please, Dr. Delaware, I know your intentions are good, but I’m tired of being protected.”
I thought of her head in the oven.
“Sometimes there’s nothing wrong with being protected.”
“Please. I’m not crazy—or do you think I am?”
“No,” I said.
“Then what is it? What aren’t you telling me?”
I continued to deliberate. She looked ready to jump out of her skin.
Feeling like a first-time skydiver about to step into space, I said, “Some things have come up. They may be related to your dream, or they may mean nothing. Given all your stress, I’m not comfortable dropping them on you, unless you can promise you’ll take them calmly.”
“What things?”
“Can you promise me?”
“Yes, yes, what?” Her hands were flexing. She stilled them. Forced a smile. Sat.
Waiting, like a child not knowing if candy was coming or the strap.
“You don’t remember any contact with Lowell,” I said. “But Ken says you spent a summer with him at Sanctum. All four of you did: you, Ken, Puck, and Jo.”
“What? When?”
“The summer the retreat opened. You were four years old.”
“How could—when did he tell you this?”
“The night he brought you into the hospital. I asked him not to discuss it with you. I wanted to pace things.”
“Four years old? How can that be? I’d remember that!”