Read Online The Drowning Tree by Carol Goodman - Free Book Online
Authors: Carol Goodman
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Suspense, Psychological fiction, Thrillers, Suspense fiction, Mystery Fiction, Mentally Ill, Missing Persons, Female friendship, Universities and colleges, College stories, Women art historians, Class Reunions
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making pacts with herself) never to strain them. So whenever she does mention an interest in a material good I try to satisfy it. Besides, I’ve only got another week of her before she’ll be gone for eight weeks—the longest we’ve ever been apart.
After getting her the backpack and a fleece jacket at North Face I take her to an Italian restaurant on Route 9 and we linger over our cappuccinos and Italian cheesecake. How often do you get to linger with your fifteen-year-old? Especially one like Bea, who’s in accelerated motion from the minute she opens her eyes in the morning to the moment she crashes—usually with her kayaking gear still on—on the floor of her bedroom. We talk about the rivers she’ll be rafting on, she tells me a story that Kyle told her about rafting down the Yampa River in Colorado (he’s told me the story already but I act like I’m hearing it for the first time), and I try to pretend that the idea of my daughter whipping down a chute of churning water and sharp rocks doesn’t fill me with dread. Driving home, I’m congratulating myself on the good job I did hiding my fears when Bea’s sleepy voice startles me from the passenger side of the car.
“Someone told me in school today that Aunt Christine talked about that insane asylum up near Poughkeepsie during her lecture. Isn’t it where Dad is?”
“Who at your school knew about the lecture?” I ask.
“Denise Levitan. Her mother was in your year at Penrose. Did you know her?”
I shake my head, but then sneaking a look at Bea out of the cornerof my eye, see she’s not looking at me. She’s closed her eyes and I realize she’s giving me a chance not to answer.
“Yes,” I say, “Neil was at Briarwood, but I don’t know for sure if he’s still there. Since your grandma Essie died I haven’t had any updates and that’s … what? Almost three years ago.”
“Oh.” That’s all she says. Then she lifts her hand to a curl of hair at her temple and begins twirling it around her finger. The same gesture she’d made as a baby when she was soothing herself to sleep.
“Do you want me to find out if he’s still there?” I ask, my voice suddenly hoarse. The sound it makes in my throat reminds me of the moaning sound the Lady window made today when it scraped against its stone setting.
“I don’t know … yeah, I mean I’d like to know where he is at least. Do you think he might have gotten … better? We learned in Health about all these new drugs they use for mood disorders. Maybe one of those would work for him.”
I imagine Bea studiously copying down pharmaceutical names in her spiral notebook and making a pact with herself to bring up the subject with me. “I’ll call your aunt Sarah tomorrow and ask her,” I tell Bea. “I’ll see what I can find out before you leave.”
It’s eleven when we get back to the loft. Bea heads straight for her room, but I sit out on the roof for a while, staring at the lights on the train tracks and the dark water of the river beyond them. Across the river the hills where Penrose had built his grand estate are dark, thanks to the fact that Penrose specified in his will that the property couldn’t be developed.
Surely if there’d been any change in Neil’s condition someone would have let me know, I tell myself. But who? Neil’s sister, Sarah, who married an Orthodox rabbi the year after Neil’s breakdown and has since refused to eat at her mother’s house? Essie Buchwald, on her twice-a-year calls to me, had bemoaned her daughter’s newfound religious zeal with almost as much drama as her son’s mental incapacity. I’d dreaded those calls from Essie, but since her death I’ve missed them and I realize now that there is no one in Neil’s family who would feel obliged to call me. For all I know, Neil could have been released from Briarwood a year ago.
I get up and lean against the railing at the edge of the roof. Fromhere I can see the park and boathouse and the
After getting her the backpack and a fleece jacket at North Face I take her to an Italian restaurant on Route 9 and we linger over our cappuccinos and Italian cheesecake. How often do you get to linger with your fifteen-year-old? Especially one like Bea, who’s in accelerated motion from the minute she opens her eyes in the morning to the moment she crashes—usually with her kayaking gear still on—on the floor of her bedroom. We talk about the rivers she’ll be rafting on, she tells me a story that Kyle told her about rafting down the Yampa River in Colorado (he’s told me the story already but I act like I’m hearing it for the first time), and I try to pretend that the idea of my daughter whipping down a chute of churning water and sharp rocks doesn’t fill me with dread. Driving home, I’m congratulating myself on the good job I did hiding my fears when Bea’s sleepy voice startles me from the passenger side of the car.
“Someone told me in school today that Aunt Christine talked about that insane asylum up near Poughkeepsie during her lecture. Isn’t it where Dad is?”
“Who at your school knew about the lecture?” I ask.
“Denise Levitan. Her mother was in your year at Penrose. Did you know her?”
I shake my head, but then sneaking a look at Bea out of the cornerof my eye, see she’s not looking at me. She’s closed her eyes and I realize she’s giving me a chance not to answer.
“Yes,” I say, “Neil was at Briarwood, but I don’t know for sure if he’s still there. Since your grandma Essie died I haven’t had any updates and that’s … what? Almost three years ago.”
“Oh.” That’s all she says. Then she lifts her hand to a curl of hair at her temple and begins twirling it around her finger. The same gesture she’d made as a baby when she was soothing herself to sleep.
“Do you want me to find out if he’s still there?” I ask, my voice suddenly hoarse. The sound it makes in my throat reminds me of the moaning sound the Lady window made today when it scraped against its stone setting.
“I don’t know … yeah, I mean I’d like to know where he is at least. Do you think he might have gotten … better? We learned in Health about all these new drugs they use for mood disorders. Maybe one of those would work for him.”
I imagine Bea studiously copying down pharmaceutical names in her spiral notebook and making a pact with herself to bring up the subject with me. “I’ll call your aunt Sarah tomorrow and ask her,” I tell Bea. “I’ll see what I can find out before you leave.”
It’s eleven when we get back to the loft. Bea heads straight for her room, but I sit out on the roof for a while, staring at the lights on the train tracks and the dark water of the river beyond them. Across the river the hills where Penrose had built his grand estate are dark, thanks to the fact that Penrose specified in his will that the property couldn’t be developed.
Surely if there’d been any change in Neil’s condition someone would have let me know, I tell myself. But who? Neil’s sister, Sarah, who married an Orthodox rabbi the year after Neil’s breakdown and has since refused to eat at her mother’s house? Essie Buchwald, on her twice-a-year calls to me, had bemoaned her daughter’s newfound religious zeal with almost as much drama as her son’s mental incapacity. I’d dreaded those calls from Essie, but since her death I’ve missed them and I realize now that there is no one in Neil’s family who would feel obliged to call me. For all I know, Neil could have been released from Briarwood a year ago.
I get up and lean against the railing at the edge of the roof. Fromhere I can see the park and boathouse and the
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