Woman in Black (54 page)

“No, of course not,” Abigail was quick to reply. Perhaps too quick.

Lila gave her an odd look, as if wondering whether to believe her. “So what's the problem? What's holding you back?”

“From what? It's not like we're ever going to get married. I can't even see us living together.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, we want different things out of life. What's it going to be like when he goes back to work?” Abigail didn't want to think about the alternative and knew Lila didn't either. “From what you've told me, he spends most of his time on the road.”

“So? Like you'd be waiting with his pipe and slippers whenever he comes home?” Lila said with a laugh, shaking her head. “Face it, Abby, you're two of a kind. You're made for each other.”

Abigail wished she could believe that. But the fact that they were both driven—she in her career and Vaughn in satisfying his wanderlust—wasn't enough to build a relationship on. She wanted more than a minor role in his life. When it had been her and Kent and the shoe had been on the other foot, wasn't that what had come between them, the fact that she'd been so unavailable? She wanted it to be different the next time—if there was going to be a next time. And from Vaughn's history with women, it was clear he hadn't exactly been a model of attentiveness. Look at Gillian, still hoping for a crumb off the table.

And, no, she couldn't ignore that he had cancer. What if it didn't go into remission? What then? To be at his side watching him waste away bit by bit would break her.

But to tell all that to Lila would only be opening a can of worms, so she changed the subject. “I stopped at the house on my way over,” she mentioned as the waiter cleared away their plates.

“How's the cleanup going?” Lila asked.

“Almost done. Karim and his crew even managed to salvage some things—mostly china and silverware. Everything else is pretty much gone. Though I still have my great-grandmother's sampler—for some reason, that survived. Karim and I were joking that she probably had something to do with it. My mom always said she was a tough old gal.”

“How is Karim, by the way?” Lila asked in a casual tone that didn't fool Abigail for a minute. She thought,
I'm not the only one with a tangled love life
.

“Fine. He asked after you.”

“What did you tell him?” Lila's tone was one of only mild interest, but no one could have missed the color blooming in her cheeks.

“That you were well and working hard in your new job. He said to say hello.” There had been no need for him to say more. Karim's unhappy face had told the whole story.

“That's it?”

“Was there something more you were hoping to hear?” Abigail asked with a hint of mischief in her voice.

“No, of course not. Don't be silly.” Lila chose that moment to duck under the table to retrieve her napkin, which had conveniently fallen off her lap. There was no further discussion of Karim or any mention of their aborted relationship.

They lingered over coffee and dessert, in no hurry to get back to the pressures and concerns that awaited them in the outside world. It was almost three by the time they took their leave. As they were hugging good-bye on the sidewalk, Abigail was struck by the simple fact of them standing there like any two old friends who'd just broken bread together, as if there had never been a rift between them. Was it possible that just a few short months ago, she'd felt only bitterness toward Lila? That she'd suspected her and Kent of having an affair? That she and Lila had been able to resume their old friendship as if the only thing that had interrupted it was time and distance seemed nothing short of miraculous.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Abigail remembered to add as she was turning to go. “I got a postcard from Señora Delgado the other day. Remember, I asked her to keep in touch in case I needed to reach her?” Abigail had been looking into the possibility of getting her a green card.

“How's she doing?” Lila asked.

“Actually, it doesn't look as if she'll need that green card after all. It seems she up and got married—to that nice guy who picked her up from the hospital. It turns out he's a citizen.”

Lila broke into a grin. “Really? That's great. Well, I hope it works out for her.”

“I have a feeling it will. She strikes me as a lady who wouldn't marry for anything but love.” Abigail decided to keep to herself for the time being the other reason she'd wanted to stay in touch with Concepción: the idea she'd been kicking around in her head of establishing a free clinic in Las Cruces in Milagros Sánchez's name. She didn't want to say anything, even to the girl's mother, until she knew whether she could pull it off. At this point, between her divorce and her current business woes, it was nothing more than a dream she hoped to one day realize.

“Love,” Lila echoed somewhat wistfully. “If she's lucky, that'll be enough.”

The dayroom
at Dewhurst Psychiatric Facility was cheerfully furnished, with cushy armchairs and sofas upholstered in bold prints, round tables with chairs for craft projects, and framed Matisse and Chagall prints on the walls. A basket of toys sat in one corner for when young children came to visit, and in the built-in bookcase that spanned one wall, a collection of popular titles was arranged alphabetically by author. Even the view was cheerful—a wide vista of manicured lawn where patients could be seen strolling along the sunny, flower-lined walkways or relaxing on benches, some accompanied by family members, others enjoying a quiet moment of solitude.

Abigail had collectively spent so many hours in this room that she was quick to pick up on even the smallest of changes from one visit to the next—a throw pillow out of place or a picture hanging askew, a new notice tacked to the bulletin board. Today her gaze was drawn to the half-finished jigsaw puzzle on the table by the window, which seemed to symbolize what she hoped to accomplish with this family session: putting together the pieces that would help solve the mystery of why Phoebe had wanted to kill herself.

“Relax,” Kent said, as she paced the floor, waiting for Phoebe and her therapist to appear. “You'll wear a hole in the carpet.”

Abigail came to a halt, swiveling to face him. “What do you suppose is keeping them?”

Kent, seated on the sofa, glanced at his watch. “It's only two past the hour. I'm sure they'll be along any minute.” Deeply tanned, wearing chinos and his brown corduroy blazer over a yellow Izod shirt (her best efforts through the years had failed to make a fashion horse out of him), he appeared relaxed, not just about the therapy session but about life in general. Specifically, life with Sheila. Abigail felt a tug of jealousy. It wasn't just that he was living happily with another woman. It was the apparent ease with which he'd moved on. Why couldn't it be that way for her? Why did everything always have to be so damn
hard?

“I just hope it goes well,” she fretted aloud.

“Dr. Ernst wouldn't have suggested it if he didn't think Phoebe was ready for it,” Kent reasoned.

“Being ready to sit down with us doesn't mean she's ready to open up.”

“It's a start, at least. Remember, Rome wasn't built in a day.”

“How can you be so damned philosophical about it?” A note of impatience crept into her voice. “This is our
daughter
we're talking about, not one of your patients.”

“I'm perfectly aware of that.” He gave a small sigh, and she could see from his expression that he'd made up his mind not to allow her to provoke him just so she'd have someone to take out her frustration on. “I just don't happen to have the same expectations as you, is all. I'm not looking for answers. I just want Phoebe to know we're here for her.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Phoebe's therapist striding into the room just then. Phoebe followed a few feet behind, walking at a slower pace with her head down and her arms folded over her chest. Dr. Ernst greeted them with his usual hearty handshake: a dry, firm clasp that always had the effect of instantly putting Abigail's fears to rest.
Don't despair. It gets better
, said those kind blue eyes behind the lenses of his wire-rim glasses. She found everything about him reassuring, in fact: his broad-shouldered athlete's build, his expertly cut hair the color of brushed stainless steel, the crispness of his French-cuffed shirt offset by the whimsical touch of a porpoise-patterned Hermès tie.

“Thanks for making the time,” he said to them, as if they wouldn't have dropped everything to be here.

“What's more important than our daughter?” Kent directed an encouraging smile at Phoebe.

Phoebe didn't smile back.

“Not all our patients are lucky enough to have a family as involved as you two,” replied Dr. Ernst with the air of someone who'd seen it all. “We've found it makes all the difference.”

“Phoebe, honey, why don't you come sit by me?” said Kent, sinking back down on the plaid sofa and patting the cushion beside him. He was eyeing their daughter with a kind of eager hopefulness that Abigail found vaguely disturbing, for it meant that, despite his reassuring words of a moment ago, he was no more sure of Phoebe than she was. She watched as Phoebe lowered herself onto the sofa beside him—just far enough away to put some distance between them without its looking too obvious—and felt her anxiety creep up another notch.

The one heartening note was that Phoebe looked healthier than she had in a while. Still thin, but no longer like a model in a heroin-chic fashion spread. So at least she was eating. That was something. On one of their earlier visits, Abigail and Kent had discussed with Dr. Ernst the possibility of her having an eating disorder, but Dr. Ernst seemed to think that Phoebe's food issues were more a sign of emotional distress than of a psychological disorder.

“All right, then. Why don't we get started? Please, have a seat.” Not until Dr. Ernst gestured toward Abigail did she realize she was still standing. He waited until she'd sat down before prompting, “Phoebe?”

Phoebe, her gaze fixed steadfastly on the carpet at her feet, didn't respond at first. She seemed nervous. There was a pimple on her chin that looked raw and irritated, as if she'd been picking at it, and her nails were bitten to the quick. It was all Abigail could do not to go to her and take her in her arms, the way she used to when Phoebe was little and had fallen down and hurt herself. But this wasn't some “boo-boo” that could be kissed away, she knew.

At last Phoebe brought her head up, her gaze skimming over her parents before lighting on a point just past Dr. Ernst's ear. “I don't know what I'm supposed to say.” Her voice was soft, tentative.

“Just say whatever's on your mind,” he coaxed patiently.

“Okay.” She straightened her shoulders, putting on a game smile. “How are you, Mom? Dad?”

“We're fine,” Abigail answered for them both, glancing over at Kent as she spoke. “Looking forward to having you home again. I have your room all ready at the new place. I think you'll like the way I fixed it up. All we have to do is buy you some new clothes.”

Phoebe shrugged, looking disinterested. “Sure, whatever.”

Kent cleared his throat. “We talked it over, and your mother and I agreed that it would be best if you lived with her for the time being,” he said. “I'd like it if you could stay with me on weekends, though. It doesn't have to be every weekend, at least not right away. You can take it at your own pace. I know it's a lot for you to get used to,” he added more tentatively, referring to his current living situation.

But Phoebe's mind clearly wasn't on her dad's new girlfriend. She glanced from Abigail to Kent. “So you two are, like, getting along now?” There was a note of distrust in her voice.

Kent cast a sidelong glance at Abigail, who replied evenly, “We're still your parents, no matter what. That's the main thing. We both love you and want what's best for you.”

Phoebe didn't respond. She just sat there, the muscles in her jaw working as if she were engaged in some sort of internal struggle. At last she seemed to come to a resolution, and in a voice reminiscent of the old days, before she'd become sullen and belligerent and, more recently, politely disengaged, she said softly, “I know you do, Mom. And I'm sorry if I let you down. If it helps any, it wasn't anything against you or Dad.”

Tears came to Abigail's eyes. She quickly blinked them back, determined not to let her emotions get the better of her. This was about Phoebe, not her. “I'm sorry, too,” she said. “I know I haven't always been there for you. But I promise it'll be different from now on.”

A corner of Phoebe's mouth hooked up in an oddly world-weary smile, that of a much older person who'd suffered too many disappointments in life to believe in fresh starts. “It's not just you, Mom. Or the divorce. It's … other stuff, too. Stuff that's got nothing to do with you guys.” She paused, appearing hesitant to go on.

“It's okay, Phoebe. You're in a safe place,” Dr. Ernst said gently.

Phoebe lowered her head, mottled blotches of color standing out on her cheeks as she sat twisting her hands in her lap. She said, in a low, unsteady voice, “I don't want you to hate me.”

“Oh, baby.” Kent started to put an arm around her, but when Phoebe stiffened in response, he quickly withdrew it, looking bewildered and more than a little hurt. “Don't you know there's nothing that would ever make us hate you?” he told her, his voice cracking with emotion.

“Whatever it is, you can tell us. It's okay,” Abigail urged.

Phoebe's eyes remained downcast. Her words, when she was finally able to continue, were directed at the floor rather than to anyone in the room. “I … I didn't think anything of it at first. There was this extra-credit thing I was doing for his class, and he said he'd help me with it. He's always helping kids with stuff like that, so it didn't seem like any big deal, you know? I just thought he was being nice.” She paused for a long moment, chewing on her lower lip.