Intensive Therapy Read online

  “Yes,” Jennie said.

  “How long?”

  “Too long. For months, I dragged myself to work. The girl’s voice was burned into my brain. As time passed, I felt angrier at myself for being such a victim than at Peter for being such a schmuck. We settled quickly. The divorce was quick. I could have blackmailed him for alimony, but I knew that would keep me tied to him.

  “My folks eased up on me. Mom wants to make things better between us—I know she feels guilty. Dad promised not to say, ‘I told you so.’ I told the people at work I needed time off. They said I could come back whenever I want.”

  “Does that mean you’re moving back to New York?”

  “Not necessarily. Sotheby’s has an office in Haverford. I could rent a place in Center City and reverse commute. The bulk of my job is on the road.” Jennie drew Jonas close to her. “I can’t believe I told you. You must think I’m such a—”

  “Don’t assume. If I told you half of what I did during my jeunesse …”

  “That’s a wonderful French word! Have you been studying?” Jennie sounded eager to move on from her story. She pulled out ski maps of Villars and Zermatt, which she shared with Jonas.

  After dinner, they staked out two empty rows of seats and lay down facing each other where they could brush hands and talk.

  A veil had lifted. Jonas knew he was traveling with someone very special. By the time the subject returned to skiing, Jonas knew it was a metaphor for their future. “Are you sure I won’t fall off a cliff in Zermatt?” he asked drowsily.

  “You’ll be fine. I know every trail like the back of my hand. I promise not to take you anywhere you don’t feel safe.”

  20

  Saturday, November 20, 2004

  Martin and Victoria spent Saturday trying to conduct business as usual even though Melinda had barricaded herself in her room. Martin got the names of several psychiatrists, but Victoria convinced him to hold off until Monday, saying there was someone she wanted to speak with first.

  When she wasn’t upstairs hovering about Melinda’s door, Victoria was in the office conferring with several former Duke’s staffers. The disgruntled employees delighted in the chance to see their ex-boss get his comeuppance. Everyone agreed that Horace Barlow had an arrogant, nasty streak. If the case wasn’t handled delicately, he would readily make a big stink.

  The Arrestias’ daughter was on the calendar, as well. She confirmed how convoluted the relationship was between Barlow—who used to be a frequent guest at her home—and her parents.

  Victoria and Martin took turns checking on Melinda, tacitly agreeing that she couldn’t be left alone. Not a sound issued from her bedroom, although the quiet felt like the silence before a cannon barrage.

  When she heard Melinda’s door open Victoria rushed upstairs, trying to sneak a peek at her elusive daughter, but by the time she got to the third floor, Melinda had already locked herself in the bathroom.

  Victoria waited on the landing, unsure whether or not to say something. Before she could open her mouth Melinda said through the closed door, “I know you’re out there. Stop following me.”

  Sometime during the late afternoon, Martin and Victoria ventured into the living room for some R-and-R. When the conversation turned to holiday plans, Victoria said, “You know we can’t go anywhere until Melinda is settled. I don’t know about Thanksgiving.”

  Martin said, “Well, the Cruickshanks will have their usual New Year’s Eve bash. We can always show up at the last minute.”

  “Ah yes, Martin, New Year’s Eve,” Victoria said dreamily.

  “What about it?”

  Victoria forgot her troubles for the moment; the tension in her face dissolved into a warm glow. “I was remembering my first New Year’s Eve away from home,” she reminisced. “It almost feels like it was another me.”

  21

  Thursday, December 31, 1981

  Winter vacation in Abington wasn’t nearly the nightmare Victoria had anticipated. Mornings, she sneaked out early and caught a train to be with her friends. In the evenings, Bucky drove her home.

  The morning of New Year’s Eve, Victoria bounced downstairs toting an overnight bag, which she deposited by the front door. Lorraine spotted the suitcase immediately.

  “Victoria, I didn’t know you had plans.”

  Victoria thought, Yes, Mother. I’m sleeping with my boyfriend for the first time tonight. She said, “You know the new friends I’ve made, Mother? Leslie—she helped me with biology—she’s throwing a party tonight. Bucky usually drives me home, but because it’s New Year’s Eve, Leslie said I could stay with her.”

  “I like this Leslie. She sounds like a girl with a good head on her shoulders. It’s reassuring that you’re in good hands tonight.”

  Victoria grinned, having carefully studied erotic massage in The Joy of Sex the night before.

  “How old is Bucky?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a neuroscientist and a psychiatrist. He was a gymnast at UCLA.” Victoria said, certain her mother would notice the allusion.

  “A gymnast? Like you see on TV? At the Olympics? They’re so … They’re so … I thought they were all gay.”

  “I really don’t think Bucky’s gay, Mother.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes mother. Very sure.”

  “Oh.” A moment later, Lorraine’s face turned pink. “Oh, I see.”

  “I’ll call you about the rest of the weekend. I might be staying more than one night,” Victoria said, departing gracefully before Lorraine could recover.

  Although the thermometer outside read 22 degrees, Victoria felt pleasantly warm.

  “Victoria?” Morris Schone called after her. “Would you like a ride to the station? I’m headed into the city, too.”

  Victoria hadn’t realized her father was still home. “Thanks, Daddy,” she said, recalling long ago when Morris used to twirl her in the air to their mutual delight. What happened to that man? she wondered. Where did he go? Victoria couldn’t recall the last time they had spent any time together, let alone side by side on the train for an hour.

  Morris dropped Victoria at the station and parked. By the time he caught up with her, she had already purchased her one-way ticket.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” he said.

  “Oh yes, I did,” she said, remembering the last time her father bought her something. “I’m never going to be on the receiving end of a rant like you pulled on me about the coat in Florence. Maybe you don’t remember, but I do.”

  Morris hung his head. “I felt bad about that.”

  “You could have fooled me. I can’t take that shit anymore. I don’t deserve it. Besides, it was Mother’s idea to take me shopping that day, not mine.”

  Morris shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s not easy living with your mother. She expects. She demands.”

  He father looked older, even frail. Victoria said, “That’s her. Not me. I never nagged you for things. All I wanted was for you to feel happy with me. You were the handsomest daddy around, and I was so proud to be your daughter. Look what’s become of you. You let her walk all over you. You drink yourself into oblivion, then you vilify me for getting the hell out so I can live a normal life around normal people.”

  “I didn’t know you felt that way. Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Because I love you. Otherwise, I wouldn’t care. It hurts that you don’t have the balls to stand up to her.”

  An icy wind lashed their faces on the train platform. Morris positioned himself aweather, to shelter Victoria from the cold. When the train arrived, he found adjacent seats and hoisted Victoria’s bag into the overhead compartment. She felt protected for a moment. Then, she laughed out loud.

  “What’s so amusing?”

  “I was thinking about my new friends and the party. They really like me, Daddy. Except for Leslie’s friend Charlese—she’s a nurse Leslie like
s a lot; Leslie’s pushing her to go to medical school—they’re all graduate students. It’s amazing how well they manage on very little money. We have so much fun.”

  “I’m happy for you, Victoria. I had a fraternity brother in college named Izzy Stein. Before we got married, your mother and I did things with Izzy and his fiancée, Lizzy. Everyone joked about their names. Izzy was a good friend. After they got married, they had a boy—Isaac. We had a birthday party for you at their house when you turned two. You probably don’t remember, do you?”

  “No. I wish I did.”

  “You and Isaac always played together. You were so happy. I can still hear you giggling.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “I lost touch. Your mother didn’t like something Lizzy said or did, and we didn’t see them again. I ought to look him up.”

  “Yes, you should. It would be good to have your own friends. And your own life.”

  Morris looked at Victoria seriously. “I want you to know I heard what you said before.”

  “Good. I meant it.”

  “About this young man you’re seeing?”

  “His name is Bucky.”

  “You’ve become an attractive young woman, Victoria. No matter what you think of me, I’m still your father. What does he do?”

  “He’s a psychiatrist-in-training, and a researcher. I respect him a lot.”

  “Does he treat you well?”

  “Yes, he’s a gentleman. I feel safe with him.”

  Morris winced. “Maybe I could take you two out for dinner after work some evening.”

  Victoria looked past her father. “We’ll see,” she said.

  “Is this about my drinking?” he asked.

  “I’ve made it clear how I feel about that,” she replied.

  They got off the train at Suburban Station and walked several blocks in silence. Approaching City Hall, Morris brightened. He produced his credit card. “Here, Victoria. Please take this. I’m really sorry about what happened in Italy. Stop at Wanamaker’s,” he said gesturing across the street, “and get something special for tonight. Okay?”

  “That’s sweet, Daddy. I know just what I want,” she smiled, thinking about some racy lingerie she had seen in Cosmopolitan.

  When they reached the compass in the City Hall courtyard, the heart of Old Philadelphia, she kissed her father good-bye, and they headed their separate ways.

  22

  Sunday, November 21, 2004

  Melinda remained in seclusion throughout the rest of the weekend. Frightened her daughter might have done something to hurt herself, but afraid to set off another explosion, Victoria didn’t know what to do. Martin agreed to check on Melinda but all he got through her closed door was, “I know you and Mother are trying to get rid of me.”

  “At least we know she’s alive,” Victoria said.

  Martin pressed Victoria about getting Melinda help.

  “I’m going to call Dr. Speller—my psychiatrist during college—tomorrow,” she said. “I trust him. He’ll know what to do … I hope. I’m falling apart, Martin. How can you just sit here reading your Sunday Times while I’m going out of my mind? I can barely keep my thoughts straight.”

  Victoria had never told Martin the details about her therapy and how ill she was during college. All she told him was that the relationship with her parents had been awful and that therapy helped with the transition from Abington to living on her own. Beyond that, Victoria never spoke of her feelings for the man she felt had saved her life.

  “I’m not just sitting here,” Martin said, moving closer to Victoria, who stiffened involuntarily.

  “Try and relax,” Martin said. “This Dr. Speller. Where is he?”

  Victoria moved to her favorite chair, a recliner from Grandma Jeanine’s apartment. Her fondest memories of childhood were sitting on her grandmother’s lap, listening to stories. She drifted into dissociation, her fingers tracing circles on the armrest. “He practices in New York City. I hope he remembers me,” she said, her voice trailing into a whisper.

  “He helped you?”

  “Yes. He helped me.” Martin’s cellphone buzzed once. Victoria asked, “Did we hear anything from Gregory?”

  “He just texted,” Martin said. “They’re done for the day. He had a great time. He wanted to know how your breathing exercises were progressing. He also said to tell you his skull is intact.”

  “Oh,” Victoria smiled. “Guess he wore his helmet.”

  “Breathing exercises?”

  “He said it would help me stop worrying so much.”

  “That’s a good suggestion. They’re just getting on the road now. Gregory won’t be home until late. How about take-out for dinner?”

  “I’ll go to Whole Foods and get something we can nuke,” Victoria said. “It’ll be good to get some fresh air. We should ask Melinda what she wants to eat, don’t you think?”

  Martin concurred.

  “I don’t want her feeling we don’t care. Then again, I don’t want to set her off, either. You go up and ask. The last time I got near her she thought I was following her around.”

  “‘Following her around.’ The last thing she told me was that she thought we wanted to get rid of her. Back in law school clinic, I had a case where a family argued that their son was incompetent to manage his trust fund, which he wanted to spend on electronic surveillance. I represented the son, who thought his brain was being controlled by a neighbor’s television remote. He said he heard voices commanding him to file a class-action suit unless the manufacturer recalled their devices. He was up night after night trying to get the telephone number and address of RCA’s CEO. He turned out to be schizophrenic.”

  “You don’t think …” Victoria shuddered.

  “God, I hope not,” Martin said. “Gregory’s right. Take some deep breaths. And get some air. You know how to read text messages, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Gregory showed me.”

  “Good. Why don’t you go to the store now? While you’re out I’ll speak to Melinda. Keep your phone in sight and I’ll text you whatever she wants.”

  “How am I ever going to get through this?” Victoria lamented.

  “Let’s just get through today. Hopefully your doctor will set us in the right direction tomorrow.”

  “Call me if anything changes with Melinda,” Victoria said on her way out the door.

  Whom should Victoria encounter in the prepared foods section but Denise Mather, her opposing attorney in the Duke’s case? Not that Victoria couldn’t hold her own, but Mather was a street-tough bulldog inside the body of a Sophia Loren. Typically, nothing bothered Victoria about work, but today was far from typical. Denise looked good in her open beaver coat, her dark hair shining and a handsome man on her arm. Enough to remind Victoria of another dark-haired woman from long ago.

  23

  Monday, April 5, 1982

  In therapy, Victoria and Dr. Speller worked hard to understand the dark-haired woman, who, in Victoria’s mind, epitomized power, grace, and womanliness—a sexual dynamo without compunction about satisfying her carnal appetite. Ten times tougher than her dainty nail polish, the dark-haired woman was just as formidable in tights and track shoes at the Penn relays as she was in an evening gown at the opera, or the naughty negligée she slipped into and out of if and when she wanted a nightcap.

  “There’s something we need to talk about,” Victoria began her Monday session. She blushed. “I realized it after Bucky and I had sex two nights ago. Understand, Bucky is cute, and I like him. But I want someone bigger. More manly. And I finally understand something about the dark-haired woman. No matter what I do, I’ll never be like her.”

  “Never?”

  “There’s more. It goes back to the summer before I turned twelve. You know I was such a tomboy. I acted cocky around girls; I liked showing them up. One day on the playground, everyone was admiring a new girl who was tumbling like a cheerleader. She landed perfectly after a cartwheel, ending in a twis
ting backflip. She goaded me into trying, but I got all dizzy and fell on my face. I get dizzy when my head moves too fast. It’s something I was born with.

  “The girl was a grade older, and she had dark hair and a contemptuous sneer like, ‘Who do you think you are?’ Her chest bulged, and she wore pink ribbons. I had always thought that pink looked silly on girls.

  “I wanted to outdo her, so even though my head was still spinning, I climbed up the swing set. The crossbar was really high. When I looked down, I remember thinking how easily I could fall. Sound familiar? The people on the ground yelled for me to come down.

  “I felt a tingling between my legs, but I ignored it because I had to concentrate on scootching across to the other side. Well, that night I felt the tingling again. I remember worrying that I had hurt myself, so I went to the bathroom and locked the door.”

  Victoria caught Dr. Speller’s eyes. “Please don’t laugh at me,” she said. “This part is so humiliating. I decided to look at my vagina in the mirror to see if anything was wrong—not that I knew what to look for. I brought a chair into the bathroom to stand on to see between my legs in the mirror.

  “Somehow, I touched myself in a way that made the tingling stronger. Then, I felt an ache inside. It got so intense, I almost screamed, but I didn’t want my mother to know because she’d make me go to the doctor. And he’d have to examine me down there, because that’s what doctors did when something was broken. And I didn’t want that.”

  Dr. Speller barely stirred.

  “Then, I went numb between my legs, and I figured I had really damaged myself, because it didn’t seem right that I should be tingling one moment and then feeling nothing the next. So I touched myself again, and the tingling and the ache came back stronger than ever. I didn’t know if I wanted to make it stop or keep going. My vagina felt dry, so I put some Vaseline on one of my fingers and found the spot that ached. I rocked back and forth, and when the ache finally went away—which felt so good—some liquid squirted out, which made me even more convinced I had done something to hurt myself.