used to say?” Without waiting for my response, she plows on, rolling the words over one another, pulling them long and thin, like taffy stretching. “He always said, ‘There’s nothin’ better than a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade to put the zip back in your step.’”
“Come on, Mother. Let’s go.” Peter drapes an arm around her shoulders, supports her wispy frame against his.
Suzanne Donnelly glances back once more but this time it is not me she is after. Her gaze sweeps the table in the center of th e room, lands on the decanter, a bright light of desperation in her eyes that sparks, fizzles, dies. Then she turns away, her diamond-studded fingers clutching her son’s waist, and hobbles out of the room.
Chapter 11
“So, now you know.”
Peter doesn’t look at me as he says this. We are sitting on the back steps of his house and his gaze is pinned to the trunk of a weeping willow.
“I’m sorry.”
“My sister drowned in our swimming pool when she was two. My mother’s never gotten over it.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Mother was baking a cake for my father’s birthday. Chocolate fudge, his favorite. She ran in the house to take it out of the oven, just for a second, and she was hurrying so fast she burned herself on the grate so she grabbed an ice cube. She was in the house two minutes, three tops.”
“I —”
“ When she got back outside, Annie was floating face down in the middle of the pool.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“We all died that day.”
“What about your father?”
“The bastard goes on with his life, publishing his papers, collecting his awards, getting his newspaper write-ups about what a brilliant psychiatrist he is when his own fucking family is drowning in neglect. How normal is it to have a mother dressed like she’s going to a party every day but never leaves the house, not even to get the mail, except when she’s had too much wine and forgets why she can’t be part of the outside world?”
“She needs help.”
“He’s tried everything on her—pills, therapy, electroshock. Nothing works. Except the booze, that at least keeps her from trying to slit her wrists again. So, he buys it for her and we pretend it’s perfectly normal to sit in your dead daughter’s bedroom and have a conversation with her. Pretending.” He lets out a laugh that scalds and adds, “Pretending normal, that’s what we do best.”
I want to tell him that Frank drinks, too. I want to say this, make him realize he’s not alone. But I can’t. Not even for Peter. “I had no idea.”
“That’s the beauty of it, right? Nobody knows. How would it look for a psychiatrist who couldn’t treat his own wife? He’s got books of reasons why she can’t go here or there and who’s going to question a doctor?”
“How can you live this way?”
“She’s my mother.”
“But —”
“You know what the alternative is? They’d lock her up in some loony bin and she’d kill herself. I’m never going to let that happen.”
“What about Michael?” The fourteen-year old drug dealer.
“He gets the raw deal. Michael’s too soft.”
“He’s the reason I came here today.” There. It’s out.
“Michael?”
“There’s no easy way to say this…”
“Just say it, Sara.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the plastic bag. “I found these in Kay’s purse. She said Michael gave them to her.”
“What the hell was that little shit thinking?” He drags his hands over his face. “Christ.”
“Where’d he get them?”
“Are you serious? My old man’s a psychiatrist for Chrissake. He’s got everything in his office. Ludes, speed, you name it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Beat the crap out of him.”
“I mean, really.”
“Beat the crap out of him,” he says again.
And I believe him.
***
I find Rudy in the alley of Min noni’s Diner, smoking a cigarette. It is ten o’clock in the morning. His mother, Evangeline, sends me back here after she gives me
“Come on, Mother. Let’s go.” Peter drapes an arm around her shoulders, supports her wispy frame against his.
Suzanne Donnelly glances back once more but this time it is not me she is after. Her gaze sweeps the table in the center of th e room, lands on the decanter, a bright light of desperation in her eyes that sparks, fizzles, dies. Then she turns away, her diamond-studded fingers clutching her son’s waist, and hobbles out of the room.
Chapter 11
“So, now you know.”
Peter doesn’t look at me as he says this. We are sitting on the back steps of his house and his gaze is pinned to the trunk of a weeping willow.
“I’m sorry.”
“My sister drowned in our swimming pool when she was two. My mother’s never gotten over it.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Mother was baking a cake for my father’s birthday. Chocolate fudge, his favorite. She ran in the house to take it out of the oven, just for a second, and she was hurrying so fast she burned herself on the grate so she grabbed an ice cube. She was in the house two minutes, three tops.”
“I —”
“ When she got back outside, Annie was floating face down in the middle of the pool.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“We all died that day.”
“What about your father?”
“The bastard goes on with his life, publishing his papers, collecting his awards, getting his newspaper write-ups about what a brilliant psychiatrist he is when his own fucking family is drowning in neglect. How normal is it to have a mother dressed like she’s going to a party every day but never leaves the house, not even to get the mail, except when she’s had too much wine and forgets why she can’t be part of the outside world?”
“She needs help.”
“He’s tried everything on her—pills, therapy, electroshock. Nothing works. Except the booze, that at least keeps her from trying to slit her wrists again. So, he buys it for her and we pretend it’s perfectly normal to sit in your dead daughter’s bedroom and have a conversation with her. Pretending.” He lets out a laugh that scalds and adds, “Pretending normal, that’s what we do best.”
I want to tell him that Frank drinks, too. I want to say this, make him realize he’s not alone. But I can’t. Not even for Peter. “I had no idea.”
“That’s the beauty of it, right? Nobody knows. How would it look for a psychiatrist who couldn’t treat his own wife? He’s got books of reasons why she can’t go here or there and who’s going to question a doctor?”
“How can you live this way?”
“She’s my mother.”
“But —”
“You know what the alternative is? They’d lock her up in some loony bin and she’d kill herself. I’m never going to let that happen.”
“What about Michael?” The fourteen-year old drug dealer.
“He gets the raw deal. Michael’s too soft.”
“He’s the reason I came here today.” There. It’s out.
“Michael?”
“There’s no easy way to say this…”
“Just say it, Sara.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the plastic bag. “I found these in Kay’s purse. She said Michael gave them to her.”
“What the hell was that little shit thinking?” He drags his hands over his face. “Christ.”
“Where’d he get them?”
“Are you serious? My old man’s a psychiatrist for Chrissake. He’s got everything in his office. Ludes, speed, you name it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Beat the crap out of him.”
“I mean, really.”
“Beat the crap out of him,” he says again.
And I believe him.
***
I find Rudy in the alley of Min noni’s Diner, smoking a cigarette. It is ten o’clock in the morning. His mother, Evangeline, sends me back here after she gives me
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