Lifelines: Kate's Story (11 page)

“I
should have known better than to ask.”

“You
want to find your father. What could be more natural?”

“She
says I’ll ruin her life.”

“That’s
bull.”

“But
she hooks me every time. We had a lunch date Monday. When I left her on Sunday,
I was stupid enough to say I’d be back for lunch Monday. I called afterwards
and said I had to go to the dentist. I can’t seem to deal with my mother
without lying.”

“How
would you assess her if you had her in your office?”

“You’ve
never asked that before.”

“I’m
asking now.”

Kate
stared at the coffee stain on Sarah’s floor, just to the left of the tiled
pattern of a rose. If she tilted her head, the stain blended with the rose.
“Being around her makes me feel confused and guilty. I couldn’t handle her as a
client.”

“What
would you think about a client who made you feel confused and guilty? Let’s
take Rachel Hardesty. She makes you feel confused, doesn’t she? Give me your
assessment of her.”

“You
think Rachel’s like my mother?”

“Sum
her up for me.”

“I
don’t think—when I had the session with Rachel, at the end I felt hard and
unsympathetic.”

“And
are you hard, unsympathetic?”

“Sometimes.
With my mother.

“Tell
me about Rachel.”

Outside
Sarah’s office, Kate heard footsteps. Grace coming in, settling at the
reception desk.

“I
don’t know Rachel well enough to judge her.”

“We’re
not taping this conversation, Kate.”

This
felt dangerous, wrong ... but tempting. “Self-centered. The world revolves around
Rachel, maybe early childhood abuse locked her in the narcissistic stage. She’s
charming, intelligent, probably a liar.” Kate shoved one hand through her hair,
shook her head. “If I believe all that about Rachel, why did I tell you I’m keeping
her as a client?”

“Perhaps
because you’re grown up enough to admit you might be wrong, and compassionate
enough to want to help even though narcissistic liars are the patients from
hell.”

Kate
sipped her coffee. Unpleasantly cool; Evelyn would probably love it.

Sarah
said, “Now I’ll describe your mother.”

“You
don’t know my mother.”

“She’s
self-centered, believes the world revolves around her. She’s charming,
intelligent, and expert at evading direct questions—in short, a habitual liar
when it suits her purposes.”

Kate
thrust the coffee away. “My father sent us away; she had to look after me
alone. I’ve told you all the bad things and none of the good. If she came into
your office as a client, you’d like her. People do.”

“Do
you?”

They
both stood at the same time.

Kate
said, “I’ve got to get ready for my client.” She was running again, couldn’t
get out of Sarah’s office fast enough. “I’m not ready to deal with this. My
relationship with my mother is the worst side of me.”

“Honey,
your mother is probably at least fifty percent to blame for whatever happened
to your family.  Unfortunately, you were the only person available for her to
use as a scapegoat.”

Kate
thought of the way she’d felt so distant while her hand rested on her mother’s
shoulder. She remembered one moment, when Evelyn stared up at her with hate in
her eyes. But it wasn’t always hate. Sometimes love, and often need.

“I
intend to find my father. I’m calling a detective agency.”

“Good.”

But
the detective didn’t return her call until Wednesday morning at noon, and when
he did, she couldn’t answer his questions. Kate knew her father’s birth date,
but not the city where he was born. Apparently somewhere in Montana wasn’t a
good enough answer, and she didn’t have his social security number.

“I
can check around,” said the detective without enthusiasm. “I’ll need a seven
hundred and fifty dollar retainer.”

She’d
just sent most of her checking account balance to Jennifer, but if she intended
to find her father, she needed to start somewhere.

“Do
you take credit cards?”

She
gave her credit card information, but wondered if she was being taken. Robert
Denmark of Denmark Agencies might have powerful investigative skills, but his
people skills stank. She should have looked for someone else, but whoever she
went to would ask the same questions. She’d never known Han’s social security
number. She suspected it might be on some piece of paper in her old bedroom at
Evelyn’s. The room was full of boxes. Amongst the mess there might be an old
tax return, or some other clue.

She
hadn’t the stamina to force her way into her mother’s spare room over Evelyn’s
protests, but if the detective didn’t find anything, she would try to work up
her courage. Either that, or sneak in when Evelyn went to the senior’s center
for her weekly bridge game. If she ever went back to her bridge games.

Great,
now she was plotting to break into her mother’s house.

That
night, she pulled out David’s portable and connected to the Internet. She
clicked on “Search”, then typed in her father’s name. The results came back
with fifty-two links about boating and stewards; nothing about a man named Han
Stewardson. She typed in “find a person” and ended up at a nationwide telephone
directory site. No luck there either.

As
a child, she hadn’t spent more than three years in the United States. Han could
be in Venezuela or Timbuktu. She found two web sites that guaranteed they could
find anyone, anywhere. They both read like shysters; both wanted her credit
card information. So much for the Internet being an easy way to find anything
you wanted.

She
went back to the phone listings and typed in Anchorage as a location, although
she knew her father would never stay anywhere for thirty-two years. She
searched for Stewardson with no first name because he might have remarried and
listed his phone under his wife’s name.

Not
even one listing, so she couldn’t phone strangers named Stewardson in Anchorage
to ask if they were related. She hoped Robert Denmark had better sources than
she did.

Socrates
harrumphed
and walked out of the living room, condemning her
investigation skills.

“I
said I’d search,” she called after him. “I didn’t say I’d give my credit card
to every shyster on the Internet.”

Socrates
turned back to glare at her.

“All
right, we’ll go for a walk. If Mac’s at the construction site we’ll ask him for
ideas on how to find a construction worker. After all, he’s in the business.”

Satisfied,
Socrates ambled to the front door and stood with his nose to the crack.

Are
you sure this is progress, Kate? Letting a dog judge your performance?

The
new foundation was deserted when Kate and Socrates got to the end of the road,
and Kate felt a ridiculous sense of loss. Childish to feel rejected by an
acquaintance who didn’t even know she’d come out to see him. She needed
information about the construction business. Where and how did companies hire
for those far-off jobs? How could she find out the name of the company that
built a veterinary hospital in Anchorage thirty-some years ago?

Mac
seemed like the kind of guy who didn’t ask personal questions, so she hoped he
would help her figure out how to find her father without asking why.

Socrates
settled his hind end on the dirt beside the concrete foundation.

“I
know, Socrates. If wishes were horses ... Come on, it’s time to go back.”

W
ednesday
at one she had a counseling session with Jessie Quane, who sat in the chair
nearest the door, legs crossed, face animated, hands moving in tempo with her
voice.

“You’re
looking energized, Jessie.”

“My
new book’s doing really well.” Jessie was a children’s novelist who’d come to
counseling a year ago because fear had crippled not only her ability to travel
freely, but her writing. “We just got back from Hawaii.”

“I
guess you didn’t drive.”

Jessie
grinned. “We flew.”

“How
did it feel?” Kate watched Jessie’s face for signs of tension, signs of
assisting drugs. Her eyes were clear, her voice bubbling.

“Still
a bit scary, but I used the breathing exercises. I told Todd—I mean, I really
sat him down and explained how the terror—the blackness swims up ...” Her voice
went breathless with remembered sensations, and her hands clenched. “You know
how good Todd’s always been, but I was afraid he would lose patience with me.
And now ... I used the Hawaii flight as a test. I had to really focus on
breathing during the take-off, and then we hit some turbulence over the
Pacific, but I did it. And I flew back too.”

“I’m
proud of you, Jessie.”

Jessie
let a whoosh of breath out and shoved her hand through her hair. “So the thing
is, my publisher got a request for me to speak in Australia, and I said okay,
I’ll do it. Eighteen hours from Seattle to Sydney—well, part of it on the
ground at Honolulu, but eighteen hours from the first takeoff until the
landing.”

“You
don’t need to keep the plane up.”

“No.”
The giggle brought part of her sparkle back. “I can do it, but I want to book a
session the week before we leave. Todd’s flying to Australia with me, and he
says he’d like to come too—to our session. He wants to know what he can do to
help. He wants to understand better.”

“How
do you feel about it?”

“Can
I have the first half of the session alone with you? I do know I have to do
this alone; I can’t use Todd for a crutch. But I’d like him to join us at the
end of the session. He’s curious about how it works, the whole panic thing, and
it would reassure him to be able to ask you some questions. Is it okay?”

“Absolutely.
If you want him here, tell him to come.”

Jessie,
she told herself, was different from Rachel, who wanted Kate to instruct her
husband on how to behave—when Kate believed the real problem was Rachel
herself.

Friday,
Kate arrived at work ready to tackle Rachel Hardesty again. She spent fifteen
minutes reviewing her notes from their first meeting and realized the session
itself hadn’t gone badly. The problem was Kate’s own reactions, her feelings
about Rachel.

Was
Sarah right? Did Rachel remind Kate of her own mother? If there were
similarities, she needed to notice and choose her responses carefully.

But
at two-fifteen, Rachel still hadn’t showed up. Kate normally gave no-shows
fifteen minutes, but she waited another twenty minutes before she slipped out
of the office for a short walk in the rain.

As
she opened her umbrella, she realized she felt guilty leaving. It felt a lot
like the guilt Kate always seemed to feel after dealing with her mother.

“Y
our
mother can kiss her ten thousand dollars good-bye,” said Jerry Glendennan’s
gravelly voice.

Through
her office window, Kate watched silent rain fall on the naked willow tree.
Around Jerry’s telephone voice, she heard some sort of commotion at the police
station. Shouts, a noise that might mean a chair knocked over. Whatever it was,
Jerry didn’t seem disturbed.

“What
did you find out, Jerry?”

“He’s
an ex-con. Fraud.”

Kate
didn’t want to hear this. If Noel Wilson had a criminal record, Kate would have
to do something. “My mother gave him ten thousand dollars. What can we do?”

Papers
rustled through the phone. The shouts seemed to have stopped.

“Does
your mom live in Madrona Bay?”

“Bellingham.”

“I’ll
call Bellingham, get them to send an officer. You might want to be with her for
the interview. Once she’s laid a formal charge they can pick him up. If he
hasn’t spent all the money—”

“She’s
furious at me for asking about the money. She won’t lay charges.”

Someone
shouted Jerry’s name and he muttered, “Yeah, give me a minute here—Look, Kate
...”