An Act of Love (6 page)

“I’ve spoken with several of her teachers, and they all tell me that Emily started
the school year in good spirits. She worked hard and was alert. Responsive. Recently, though, her work was beginning to suffer, and she seemed inattentive in class. Again, this is common among adolescents. It seemed no cause for worry. One thing”—he cleared his throat—“I mention it only because it is one thing we can pinpoint as a change in Emily’s behavior—she has been attending church in Basingstoke. The Methodist church.”

Linda was puzzled. “We didn’t know that. We don’t attend church regularly at home, except at Christmas.”

Owen added, “The last we heard, Emily wanted to be a pagan.”

“The school holds a nondenominational service every Sunday morning,” Bob Lorimer continued. “People attend mostly for the music. I sing in the choir. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Emily there. I don’t know what relevance her church attendance has, if any, but I thought you should know.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

“Emily is a good student. Everyone likes her. We’re concerned about her, and what we’d like to propose is simply that we put her on medical leave for a few days. I’ve spoken with the Head about this. As I said, Emily’s grades have been on a downhill slide during the past few weeks, but we know Emily is an intelligent and responsible girl, certainly capable of missing some classes and still passing the courses. If she needs to remain at Basingstoke for a while, we will need to consider some other options. Is there anything else …?”

“We need to find Bruce,” Owen said. “We want to tell him about Emily and find out whether he knows anything that might help us.”

“Actually, I called Bruce into my office earlier this afternoon. I didn’t want him hearing gossip from the students. You can imagine how fast word flies around here.” Lorimer rose. “Come out to the main office. I’ll have Mrs. Echevera look up his schedule for you.” Holding the door open, Lorimer said to Owen, “Your son is a great guy. He’s really come a long way in three years.”

“The school has been good for him,” Owen replied.

But not quite so good for her daughter, Linda thought, at once chastising herself; Bruce was her stepson. She should be happy for him, proud of him. And she was. She’d never thought Bruce and Emily were in any kind of contest. And she didn’t think that now.

Chapter Five

As Owen and
Linda crossed the campus, they were so engrossed in their thoughts that it took a moment for Bruce’s voice to register.

“Dad! Hey! Linda!”

Coming toward them from the library beneath a canopy of shadows were a trio of healthy young men: Lionel with his shining blond hair, Terry in madras trousers, a flowered Hawaiian shirt, and heavy black Buddy Holly glasses, and Bruce in a sweater and khakis, looking so tall and fine and strong that Owen’s heart lifted with pride and Linda exclaimed, “Oh, Owen, isn’t he handsome!”

Owen and Linda waved. Bruce spoke briefly to his friends, then began to run toward his parents, a great wide spontaneous smile on his face. Then he stopped, remembering why his parents were there, and his smile dissolved.

“Hey,” he said somberly when he reached them.

“You’ve heard about Emily?” Owen asked.

Bruce nodded. “She okay?”

“Yes. But she has to stay in the hospital. Psychiatric ward.”

Bruce flinched. He looked stricken, his face at odds with the helplessly cheerful gleam of his uncontrollable curly red hair and the sparkle of sweat in the curly hairs on his arms. “Sucks.”

Linda asked, “Do you have any idea what could have caused this?”

Bruce shook his head. “I don’t see much of her. I mean, all our classes are different. Her dorm’s across campus from mine.”

“Have you heard anything? Could you ask around? She won’t talk to us at all.”

“Man, she
must
be sick if she’s not talking.” The words burst from his mouth before he stopped to think. Grimacing, he quickly added, “Sorry.”

“No,” Linda told him. “You’re right.”

They walked toward Bates Hall, passing beneath the shadows of great-limbed copper beeches and extravagant maples and oaks. Several students, enclosed by headphones in worlds of their own, jogged past. A golden lab lumbered along beside one
of the students and by the entrance to the dorm another dog lay blissed out in the late afternoon sun. From one direction came the throb of rock music, from another, a capella singing.

They entered Bates Hall through massive oak doors. Hedden had once been an all-male school, a stronghold for the elite, and the architecture reflected that. From the large foyer, wide stairs wound upward toward a landing baroquely radiant with stained-glass windows. The newel post was a carved and beaded shining gloss of mahogany. Oblivious to such elegance, Hedden boys rushed past the McFarlands, up the stairs to change from sports and prepare for dinner, nodding or mumbling greetings as they passed Bruce.

“Uh, you want to come up to my room?” Bruce asked. “It’s kind of a mess.”

“No thanks,” Owen replied. “We’re going to spend the night in Basingstoke. We’d better get over to the Academy Inn and get a room. Want to go out to dinner with us?”

“Well …” Bruce hesitated. His neck turned pink. “Could I bring a friend?”

Owen began, “I don’t think this is the appropriate—”

Linda intervened. “Sure. As long as you don’t mind that your friend knows about Emily.”

“Everyone knows about Emily by now,” Bruce said with blunt honesty. “It’s just the way it is here.”

“Linda and I will check into the hotel and get organized and come back for you in, how about an hour?”

“Great,” Bruce said. “See you then. Oh, uh, Dad—I know this is the wrong time to ask about this, but did you bring my clothes for New York?”

“We didn’t even think about it,” Owen told him. “I’ll go back to the farm tomorrow and get them to you sometime in the morning. Will that be okay?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“What time do you leave on Wednesday?” Linda asked.

“Vacation starts at noon sharp. Whit’s parents are springing for a limo to the airport,” he added, unable to check a grin.

“
Very
nice,” Linda told him.

Just then a tall, exotically handsome boy entered, clad in tennis whites, carrying a racket. His glossy black hair was held back at the neck in a ponytail, accentuating his
olive skin and dramatic cheekbones.

“Hey,” he said to Bruce.

“Hey, Jorge,” Bruce replied, all at once looking gawky and innocent, a boy in the presence of this man.

The man’s name set off a warning bell in Linda’s mind: Jorge. Cordelia had said Emily liked someone named Jorge.

The man took the steps two at a time. When he was out of earshot, Linda asked, sotto voce, “Who was
that
?”

“Jorge Avila.”

“Good Lord. Bruce, I think Emily had a crush on him.”

Bruce shrugged. “Every girl here has a crush on Jorge.”

“So we’ll pick you up in an hour?” Owen asked.

“Great.” Bruce looked up the stairs, half turning to go, then looked at his father and asked, “How long will Emily be at the hospital?”

“We’re not sure.”

“Can I visit her? Would it, uh, help?”

Tears sprang into Linda’s eyes. “Oh, Bruce. Thanks for offering. I don’t know what will help Emily. But why don’t you come to the hospital tonight. It might cheer her up to see you.”

“And Bruce,” Owen added, “try to think of anything, no matter how insignificant, that would help us figure out what’s troubling Emily.”

“Sure.”

Bruce headed off, up the stairs, leaving Owen and Linda to themselves as they stepped out into the dimming light of early evening.

Basingstoke, once
a colonial village, was now a bedroom community for Boston. The Academy Inn was situated on the main street of the small town of Basingstoke and existed mainly because of Hedden Academy and Basingstoke Hospital. A charming, stately Greek Revival building, its many small rooms were pleasantly decorated. The dining room in the front parlor served a limited menu of delicious food. One of the first
things the McFarlands learned when Bruce was admitted to Hedden was to reserve months ahead of time for rooms during Parents’ Weekend. Those who didn’t were relegated to one of the many chain hotels situated off Route 93.

So it was with a satisfying sense of familiarity that the McFarlands checked in and carried their bags through the wide hall to the curving, carpeted front stairs. Their room was pleasantly furnished in reproduction early American. Owen dropped into a wing chair; Linda sank onto the bed, near the bedside table with the telephone.

After a moment’s silence, she looked at Owen. “Do I have to call Simon?”

“I think you should.”

Linda called her ex-husband so rarely that she had to look through the small black address book in her purse in order to find his phone number. She didn’t expect him to be home; he traveled a great deal with his chamber quartet. But his newest wife answered and when Linda told her there was an emergency, she didn’t hesitate but quickly carried the phone to Simon; Linda could hear the other woman’s movements through the house, and then the sound of cello music as she entered Simon’s studio. For an instant Linda was surrounded by that life again, where everything was devoted to Simon’s music.

“Yes?” As always, his greeting was brusque.

“Simon, Emily’s in the hospital. In the psychiatric ward. She took some pills today and drank some alcohol, in what we think was a suicide attempt. She’s okay, but they want to keep her there for observation.”

“You have the information for the health insurance.”

“Yes, I do. But I also thought I should let you know.” Linda’s throat convulsed.

“Simon, perhaps it would help her if you came to see her. If you showed her you care—”

“I can’t. My schedule’s packed.”

“Perhaps you could call her, then. Would you like the number of the hospital?”

“No. I don’t think I could help and I don’t have the time.”

There was nothing more to say but good-bye.

Settling the receiver back onto the phone cradle, Linda hissed, “I
hate
him.” A thought struck her. “Do you think Emily hates herself for being, at least genetically, this man’s daughter? Or because he has ignored her all her life, do you think she feels rejected? Oh, I could kill him.”

“If that’s what’s going on with her,” Owen replied sensibly, “then it’s a good thing she is where she is. She can work it through, get some help.” He rose. “I’m going
down to the newsstand to buy a newspaper. Need anything?”

“No, thanks. I’ll just …” What? What could she do now that could be of any use? “I’ll just lie here a while.”

She settled back onto the pillows, taking deep breaths, trying to calm herself, but her mind was a scattered thing, mercury from a broken thermometer. Was that how her daughter felt? From this vantage point she saw that here and there on the ceiling the paint was curling off. This was oddly comforting. The same was happening to the ceilings on the farm. Humidity, old age. She had always felt at home with imperfection. She’d always admired peculiarities, change, eccentricities, challenges, found them more interesting than finished flawlessness.

So why did she feel so bleak and frightened for her daughter now? Perhaps because she had no control here. Her daughter’s life had been saved by strangers … and it would be strangers who would, with luck, heal her daughter’s soul.

Dark had fallen
by the time they returned to Bates to pick up Bruce and his friend. It was colder now, and the wind had risen, and when the car lights flared over the lawn, they illuminated two figures: Bruce in his overcoat, and a young woman, her hair tossing in the wind.

“It’s a girl,” Owen said, stupefied.

Linda laughed. “You didn’t guess?”

“How did you know? He didn’t tell us.”

“Well, Owen, he blushed,” Linda whispered the words, for the young people had rushed to the car and were crawling into the back seat.

“Dad, Linda, this is Alison Cartwright.”

The girl was lovely, with long blond hair and enormous blue eyes.

She lived in Manhattan. “I’m hoping when Bruce comes for Thanksgiving at Whit’s that he’ll be able to come by my place. I’d love for my parents to meet him.”