By Blood (9 page)

Her! Her! Her!
My crows mocked me throughout the weekend, even into Monday and Tuesday.
Her! Her!
they taunted, laughing, and put before me constantly the face of the Indonesian girl; the doe eyes of her brother, which haunted me with their cool, adult disdain.
Do not go to the patient
, whispered my unshakable companions as Wednesday morning dawned.
You are not worthy of her
.

Yet, as the hours of the morning progressed, my disquiet rose, to the extent that I preferred the mockery of my Furies to the doom-beat of my own heart. I hurriedly dressed; I raced to the streetcar; the next I knew, I was stepping down at the corner of Market and New Montgomery. My gargoyles came into view, crouched and dirty as they shouldered the roofline; then my cherubim, whose circling eyes I watched in alarm as I realized the time, which was so close to the top of the hour and the start of the patient’s session. I had to reach my office immediately! At last one angel eyed the large
L
of the lobby; finally the elevator opened its doors, disgorged its passengers, and waited to be filled again.

I entered first; a few others followed me; the doors began to roll closed. Then one hand after another poked through, forcing the doors to roll back again. Hand by hand, passenger by passenger—the cab filled so slowly I thought I might scream. I was pushed to the back wall; bodies pressed in all around me. Finally it seemed we would leave when—there was but a three-inch slit to go—a slender hand knifed through.

I had but a moment to see her face—a delicate young woman,
brown-haired
, brow sweated, cheeks flushed—but a shock went through me. For reasons that made no sense, I was instantly certain she was my dear patient. Now, as the elevator swept up the shaft, I had to think quickly. Was that hair an ordinary brown or the “dirty blond” of my patient? Was she the right age? Did she seem to match the alto voice that flowed through the adjoining door? If only she would speak! Say “getting off” or “excuse me.” And if she were indeed the patient, my problem was more acute, I realized. What would I do? Follow her out of the cab, then try to disappear down a hallway as she turned toward Room 804? If so, I would not be able to get into my office unheard—I would miss the session and never know what happened at her visit home for Thanksgiving!

The elevator stopped at the mezzanine. The young woman (my patient?) stepped out to let others leave, then deftly stepped back in, performing this little dance as we stopped floor by floor, each time giving me a momentary view of her profile, which was nearly hidden behind an unruly shock of hair. Did the patient ever speak of having curly hair? I could not remember. And I still did not have a plan of action as we rose and the woman remained with me, the back of her head now right before my eyes, so that a scent of something floral—camellias—rose from her. But I could not recall my patient ever giving off a strong scent! Surely I would have noticed a scent so sensual—nearly the scent of my Indonesian girl! Was this an olfactory mirage, the very air mocking me? We came to floor five, then six, and the young woman remained with me yet, my heart racing all the while, in panic or excitement—I could not tell which.

There were but four of us left in the cab. We came to floor seven. The elevator seemed to float, taking minutes to find its stopping place. At last the doors rolled open—and my young woman stepped out.

I leapt out of the elevator at floor eight and moved swiftly down the corridor. The sound machine still played! I had time, then, to perform the careful legerdemain of keys and plastic card that allowed me to enter Room 807 unheard.

My heart had barely stilled itself when, taking my customary chair, I realized the woman’s exit on the seventh floor meant nothing. She might indeed be my patient. She might simply be visiting the ladies’ room—available on seven but not on eight—before coming to her session. And so it was that, as the sound machine was silenced, and the patient did arrive at last, I could not concentrate on the opening words of the session.

For a sudden double-mindedness came over me. Two images of my dear patient began to war in my mind: first the rather ordinary face of the young woman in the elevator (a flushed cheek, a sweaty brow), then the vague yet delicate and lovely place in my imagination in which my dear patient had always lived. First one image then the other vied for ownership of the creamy sound penetrating our wall, the images alternating with great frequency, back and forth, the mundane to the heavenly, until it seemed the effort of holding in my mind one, then the other, would cause me to disintegrate.

I made a decision: The young woman on the elevator was not my patient! Such plainness could never be attached to the whiskey voice that filled my ears with pleasure. No scent of camellias—this was the evidence that fed my certainty. All at once, the plain face withered away; I was bathed in the cool, dark pool of my imagination wherein floated my dear patient; and I heard her therapist laugh and say:

Of course I can.

And the patient reply: I don’t know how to begin.

Start anywhere, said the therapist. Go in any direction.

No, no. That’s what’s making me crazy, replied the patient. It keeps coming back to me in pieces, flashes. I thought that here—with you—here, the only place … I need to unravel it. Go in order. In my mind. In line. Straighten it out.

All right.

Make it coherent. It’s all incoherent.

All right.

The patient said nothing for some seconds.

It’s so noisy here, she said at last. Funny how you don’t notice it, and then you do.

A chorus of horns suddenly rose from the street.

Did I make that happen? asked the patient. You see, don’t you, how weird I am.

I see you are distressed.

Yes.

A long pause.

Distressed, said the patient.

Just start at the beginning, said the doctor.

But what is the beginning? My mother told me what she knows, but it’s not the beginning. It’s a middle. Somewhere in the middle of a middle. A long way from the beginning. I don’t know if I’ll ever find the beginning.

They were in the den as before. It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving, early evening. The trees had lost their leaves but for a few ugly stragglers, “wrinkled shapes against the twilight,” said the patient, who then laughed at her attempted poetry.

We had the same seats, she went on. Mother on the recliner, me on the loveseat, the table full of glass figurines between us. The television was on—
Miracle on 34th Street
, that sentimental piece of crap. Can’t they even wait until December to trot out the crappy Christmas movies?

I’d held off saying anything, she went on. Maybe it was self-protective. I didn’t want a big blowup, and then still have to be there for three more days, or else have to change my flight, pack a bag, rush off in some noisy, dramatic scene. So if I was going to say something on this trip, it was now or never. Father and Lizabeth were at the mall. Mother and I were alone for the first time all weekend.

Earlier that day, we’d visited the Rushstons—you remember, my parents’ old friends. Mother was still all put together: tomato-red bouclé skirt, white silk blouse, pearls. She even kept on her high heels, Bruno Maglis, red fabric to match the skirt. She sat with her feet tucked under her—heels and all—smoking, sipping a cup of tea, watching that terrible movie as if she’d never seen it before. Never took her eyes off the screen. Maybe she was nervous, too. Yes, now that I think of it, I suppose she was as afraid as I was.

Afraid? asked the therapist.

To break … I was going to say, To break the ice. But the break would be more … thorough.

In what way?

With the whole conception of who I am … Was.

The patient stopped for several seconds, as if her silence could ward off what was about to happen.

Well, she said, rousing herself. So we come to the part of the movie where all the mail addressed to Santa Claus is brought into court, where Kris Kringle is on trial, or whatever the bearded fat guy’s name is. The post office has sent all the Santa mail to Kringle. Then the judge has to rule that, well, since the United States Post Office believes he’s Santa Claus, he really must be Santa Claus. And Mother starts to tear up. Then comes the part where the little girl gets her dream house with her dream parents, and the fat guy’s eyes are twinkling, and by then Mother is outright weeping.

And I was suddenly really pissed off—it came out of nowhere, bang, one minute I’m simply annoyed and then—what? Pissed as hell. There we were with a real-life drama between us, and she’s lost in this—what? This fantasy sorrow. That crap emotion. She never shows emotion, WASP that she is, except times like this: fake feelings, show feelings, canned tears.

So she’s crying, and she says to me: Honey, you’ll bring me the tissues.

The tissue box was on the bookcase, closer to her than to me, but she had to sit there and command me in her future imperative: You’ll bring me the tissues.

I went and picked up the box, but I didn’t hand it to her right away. I stood there with the box just out of her reach and said: You know, Mother. You’re going to have to tell me more about my adoption than the
Catholic-agency
thing.

She looked up at me as if she were coming out of a deep sleep.

What was that, dear? she said, wiping a cheek.

The adoption. You can’t just drop the “Catholic” business on me, then say nothing else.

Give me the tissues, dear.

You have to tell me more. I know you know more than you’ve said.

The tissues, dear! You will give me the tissues!

I handed her the box, and she started wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. I could tell she wanted to hand me the dirty tissues, as if I’m the mother, taking away baby’s snot rags, but I’m sure she saw the look on my face and didn’t dare.

You have to tell me more, I said.

Oh, my darling, she answered. Why do you want to go into all that business? It was so long ago, I don’t even think about it.

You don’t think about it. But you dropped something on me, now
I
have to think about it. So you can’t just leave it there.

But why, dear? It means nothing, as I said.

Because it explains how Father feels about me—or doesn’t feel, to be more exact.

What are you talking about?

He … He’s uneasy with me. About me.

What are you saying? Father loves you!

I was still standing over her. The television was still playing, and all this is happening with the commercials blaring behind us. A really loud one came on, and I had to yell over it:

He hates Catholics! And every time he looks at me, he sees a Catholic baby. So he hates me! It explains everything!

Mother’s face dropped. Her head fell back on the recliner. She stared at me, for a second or two almost uncomprehending. Then she began shaking her head slowly, back and forth, her mouth open, but no voice was coming out, just her lips mouthing, Oh, no, Oh, no. Until finally she said:

Oh, my God, baby. You don’t really think that. Oh, no. God. Oh, God, no.

She picked up the Space Commander and clicked
MUTE
.

It was suddenly very quiet. I could hear the branches scratching at the windows, the wind rustling through the hedges. Mother began looking around her seat, and I realized she was looking for all her used tissues, which she balled up and put in the empty teacup.

You know, darling, she said, handing me the teacup with the balled-up tissues, you’ll put this in the dishwasher, and then you’ll make me a martini.

What—now?

You make the best ones, dear. Everyone says so. It’s so good to have you home. I always sleep better when the children are home. Make me a good martini—and one for yourself—and then I’ll tell you everything.

The patient found the Smirnoff in the freezer, behind the Beefeater gin her father’s pals liked to swill. The bottle, then the ice: everything felt burning cold. What had she said to change her mother’s mind so quickly? She felt like a child who’d made the big mistake: step on a crack, break your mother’s back. It was all she could do to put the ice and vodka in the shaker, add a drop of vermouth, swirl around the ice cubes then toss them out, spear the olive with a toothpick. It had to be made just so: just as Mother had taught her that summer when she was thirteen, when she had carried the martini glasses so expertly on a tray, never spilling anything, serving Mother’s friends as they lounged on the patio, smoking cigarettes in long plastic holders.

Isn’t the first sip always the best? said her mother, taking the martini in two hands and holding up the glass for scrutiny. That first one you have to take carefully or else spill it? She bent her lips to the rim and siphoned off the top quarter inch. Ah, darling! No one makes these quite like you do. What—you didn’t make one for yourself?

By then the sky had become quite dark, and the branches were black against the windows. Her mother looked up to exclaim, My, how dreary it is to have the sun down at five o’clock!

The patient sat listening to the scratch of the leaves and watched her mother sip her drink. It seemed to her that many minutes passed in this way, in a suspense of scratching and sipping—little clawing sounds, she said to her doctor.

I felt that everything was very fragile, she said, that if I moved, everything would fall apart.

What everything? Dr. Schussler asked.

Everything, everything, the patient said. My life, my identity, all the things you think are solid—suddenly you realize you could have been someone else. Anyone else, depending on the family that took you in. Rich or poor. State junior college or Ivy League M.B.A. Catholic or Protestant. Or, God knows, maybe Baptist, Holy Roller, the child of tongue speakers or snake handlers. I felt like I was back at the foundling hospital, sitting there in the overheated lobby with my wet clothes in my lap, waiting for Mrs. Waters. Sitting there afraid, afraid of being exposed.

Exposed as what? the doctor asked.

A fraud. A construction. An arbitrary set of facts.

(How glorious! I thought, as I listened on my side of our common wall. She knows she is self-created!)

But is it not also true, said the therapist, that we discussed some core inside you, something that felt alien to your family, something that remained unchanged despite the pressures put upon you to be one thing or another?

(Yes! Self-driven, immune to the mere circumstance of birth!)

The patient breathed in and out. Yes, she said at last. But there was something else. I looked at Mother, in her lovely outfit, with her perfect yellow ball of hair, her nails polished a pale pink, her red high heels, all this on a Sunday evening at home. I watched her drink; I saw the way she put the glass down on the tabletop so carefully. And I knew then that she was afraid. I suddenly wanted to protect her—and realized I’ve always been protecting her.

Protecting her from what? the doctor asked.

Oh, from all the pain opening up this subject would cause her.

Cause
her
pain? Dr. Schussler asked.

I’m assuming it had to be hard, to get a child to adopt, to suddenly have this little alien put in your arms. You don’t know where she came from—a human meteor dropped from the sky. Maybe she’s a demon seed, the patient said with a laugh.

Well, perhaps, said the doctor gently. Perhaps it was hard for your mother at the beginning. But then she was rewarded for whatever difficulties she might have gone through. After all, said the therapist after a long pause, she had
you
.

The patient gasped. Me! she said.

She fell back into her chair.

Me, she repeated softly.

She was silent for some time. I’d never considered that, she finally said.

And your mother then goes on, said the doctor, to find that she is a fortunate woman, who has been given not a demon but a treasure.

The patient laughed. Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.

Yet there was no doubt that the thought of her worth had fallen upon the patient with the force of revelation. The timbre of her voice brightened; the cadence of her speech strode forthrightly on. For now, fortified with her new understanding, she seemed to take courage as she resumed the story of her mysterious birth.