forward.
Augusta shuddered, possibly at the idea of this doctor getting too close, at the prospect of him knowing anything too personal about the family. Caroline had met him before, seen him at a retrospective of her father’s work.
“Hi,” Caroline said, shaking his hand.
“Do you know each other?” Augusta asked.
“I collect your late husband’s work,” Dr. Henderson said.
“Really?” Augusta asked, lightening up slightly. “That’s good to hear. Then you probably know that Skye takes after him. She’s an artist herself.”
The doctor nodded.
“She’s a genius, doctor. Truly brilliant, and I am not saying that just because I am her mother.” Augusta looked around the group for confirmation. Her eyes were glittering, as if tears were close by. “She’s a sculptor. She was recognized by the art world years ago, when she was very young. Right, girls?”
“She was,” Clea said. Caroline said nothing. She felt her mother lean against her slightly, and she held her hand for support.
“She’s so talented…” Augusta choked up. Touching her throat, she pulled herself back together. “But she seems to be blocked.”
“Blocked?” he repeated.
“I’m not an artist, so I don’t know,” Augusta said, “but her father used to say he’d kill himself if he couldn’t paint. An artist who can’t make art…She’s suffering so. Right, Caroline? We can see it, can’t we?”
“Mom…”
“That’s all it is,” Augusta said, trying to convince herself and everyone else.
“Hmmm,” Dr. Henderson said noncommittally.
“Mom, let’s wait for Skye to wake up,” Caroline said. “Let her talk to the doctor herself.”
Augusta shook Caroline off.
“Artist’s block,” Augusta said, her voice trembling. “It explains everything, I think. She’s so afraid she can’t work anymore. And her husband left her. It’s awful, it’s just so terrible….”
“Yes,” Dr. Henderson said inscrutably.
“Who wouldn’t drink a little under such trying circumstances? And I’m sure you know, alcohol fires the creative spirit. My God, could Hugh put it away! Skye takes after him even there, perhaps a little too much. If she could just moderate—”
“Excuse me?” Dr. Henderson asked.
“Perhaps you could suggest moderation!” Augusta said gingerly, offering the doctor his solution. “Half-measures don’t come easily to any Renwick, that’s for sure—”
“Mom,” Caroline interrupted, stopping her.
“I believe moderation would help Skye. If she could just cut back a bit. You know, just stick to cocktails and wine with dinner. Don’t you agree?” Augusta continued, unfazed, her hand cupping her chin as if she were a consulting physician.
“No, I’m afraid not,” the real doctor said.
“Excuse me?” Augusta asked.
“Moderation rarely works with alcoholics. Total abstinence is the only way.”
“Skye is not…an alcoholic, ” Augusta said, shocked and wounded.
Linking arms with Caroline and Clea, she glared at the doctor. Insulated by her family, she felt safe. She wanted him to see that the Renwicks were good people who loved one another. She wanted him to understand that although eccentric, they were not crazy, not the sort of people who became alcoholics. Bad things had happened to them, but adversity had built their characters. Caroline ached for her mother, recognizing that in her vulnerability she was terrified for Skye.
“Last night,” the doctor said, “she told me about the hunting incident.”
“Well,” Clea said, holding Peter’s hand. “Then you know.”
Just then the doctor’s beeper went off. He gave everyone an apologetic look, shook Augusta’s hand, and hurried down the hallway. Everyone watched him go. Caroline had expected her mother to look relieved at his departure, but instead her pallor had increased. She had a thin film of sweat on her brow.
“Augusta, sit down,” Peter said, leading her to a cluster of chairs at the end of the
Augusta shuddered, possibly at the idea of this doctor getting too close, at the prospect of him knowing anything too personal about the family. Caroline had met him before, seen him at a retrospective of her father’s work.
“Hi,” Caroline said, shaking his hand.
“Do you know each other?” Augusta asked.
“I collect your late husband’s work,” Dr. Henderson said.
“Really?” Augusta asked, lightening up slightly. “That’s good to hear. Then you probably know that Skye takes after him. She’s an artist herself.”
The doctor nodded.
“She’s a genius, doctor. Truly brilliant, and I am not saying that just because I am her mother.” Augusta looked around the group for confirmation. Her eyes were glittering, as if tears were close by. “She’s a sculptor. She was recognized by the art world years ago, when she was very young. Right, girls?”
“She was,” Clea said. Caroline said nothing. She felt her mother lean against her slightly, and she held her hand for support.
“She’s so talented…” Augusta choked up. Touching her throat, she pulled herself back together. “But she seems to be blocked.”
“Blocked?” he repeated.
“I’m not an artist, so I don’t know,” Augusta said, “but her father used to say he’d kill himself if he couldn’t paint. An artist who can’t make art…She’s suffering so. Right, Caroline? We can see it, can’t we?”
“Mom…”
“That’s all it is,” Augusta said, trying to convince herself and everyone else.
“Hmmm,” Dr. Henderson said noncommittally.
“Mom, let’s wait for Skye to wake up,” Caroline said. “Let her talk to the doctor herself.”
Augusta shook Caroline off.
“Artist’s block,” Augusta said, her voice trembling. “It explains everything, I think. She’s so afraid she can’t work anymore. And her husband left her. It’s awful, it’s just so terrible….”
“Yes,” Dr. Henderson said inscrutably.
“Who wouldn’t drink a little under such trying circumstances? And I’m sure you know, alcohol fires the creative spirit. My God, could Hugh put it away! Skye takes after him even there, perhaps a little too much. If she could just moderate—”
“Excuse me?” Dr. Henderson asked.
“Perhaps you could suggest moderation!” Augusta said gingerly, offering the doctor his solution. “Half-measures don’t come easily to any Renwick, that’s for sure—”
“Mom,” Caroline interrupted, stopping her.
“I believe moderation would help Skye. If she could just cut back a bit. You know, just stick to cocktails and wine with dinner. Don’t you agree?” Augusta continued, unfazed, her hand cupping her chin as if she were a consulting physician.
“No, I’m afraid not,” the real doctor said.
“Excuse me?” Augusta asked.
“Moderation rarely works with alcoholics. Total abstinence is the only way.”
“Skye is not…an alcoholic, ” Augusta said, shocked and wounded.
Linking arms with Caroline and Clea, she glared at the doctor. Insulated by her family, she felt safe. She wanted him to see that the Renwicks were good people who loved one another. She wanted him to understand that although eccentric, they were not crazy, not the sort of people who became alcoholics. Bad things had happened to them, but adversity had built their characters. Caroline ached for her mother, recognizing that in her vulnerability she was terrified for Skye.
“Last night,” the doctor said, “she told me about the hunting incident.”
“Well,” Clea said, holding Peter’s hand. “Then you know.”
Just then the doctor’s beeper went off. He gave everyone an apologetic look, shook Augusta’s hand, and hurried down the hallway. Everyone watched him go. Caroline had expected her mother to look relieved at his departure, but instead her pallor had increased. She had a thin film of sweat on her brow.
“Augusta, sit down,” Peter said, leading her to a cluster of chairs at the end of the
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