Hope and Other Luxuries (35 page)

“We're not done here,” Joe told him. “You brought up confidentiality. Okay, let's talk about confidentiality.”

“That's right,” I said. “Let's talk about the confidentiality laws your staff have to follow.”

The principal looked puzzled. “I'm not sure I understand you.”

But I didn't speak to him. I turned to Mr. Temple, and the unhappy look on his face told me everything I needed to know.

“I spoke to you the other day,” I said, “about confidential matters. I had every right to assume that you would protect my daughter's privacy. But I happen to
know
that you shared my daughter's medical information with a man whom you knew was not her doctor.”

“He has training I lack,” Mr. Temple said. “I defer to his training.”

“You
knew
that man wasn't her doctor,” I repeated, staring him down.

But Joe looked as if he could hardly believe what he was hearing. “So you admit it!” Joe said. “You
admit
that you broke patient and student confidentiality laws.”

Mr. Temple didn't look as if that's what he had intended to admit at all, but he couldn't very well take it back now. “He's a specialist, an expert,” he explained stiffly. “I often consult with him.”

“So, you picked up the phone,” Joe ground out, “and you discussed details of my daughter's
psychiatric
and
medical care
with—what? With a
buddy
of yours? You weren't consulting about hypothetical cases here.
You used her name!
”

Mr. Temple opened his mouth. But then he shut it again.

“You
knew
that man wasn't her doctor,” I reminded him. “You
knew
that we wouldn't agree to that man knowing
anything
about her care.
And
you know perfectly well why!”

Mr. Temple looked away from us, and from the keen stare his boss was giving him, too. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I knew that. I did know that.”

Joe drew himself up. Not for nothing had my husband spent years in management. He looked formidable, and he knew it. “You violated every rule that exists,” he said, “concerning patient and student confidentiality!”

Mr. Temple started to speak, but Joe wasn't done.

“You turned us in for child abuse!” Joe said. “You instigated a completely unfounded investigation. We would have been
happy
to meet with
you to answer any concerns you might have had. We would have been down here the minute you said the word! But you
didn't
ask. You
didn't
let us know you were concerned. Instead, you discussed the details of our daughter's care with that
quack
, and
you broke the law
!”

Mr. Temple started to speak again. Again, he changed his mind. He looked as uncomfortable and upset as a grown man can look.

As uncomfortable as
we
were supposed to look
, I thought,
if that child-abuse case had gone differently
.

But that brought me out of my anger. I found my good mood again, and I began to feel sorry for Mr. Temple. He wasn't the enemy here. He was just another victim of Dr. Petras's lunacy. I had no doubt that Dr. Petras had managed to convince him that Joe and I were dangerously obstructive. He had probably whipped the whole situation into a frenzy.

Mr. Temple wasn't a bad man. I felt sure of that. He'd made a terrible mistake, and he shouldn't have done it, but he hadn't meant to cause our daughter harm.

“You did what you did because you were concerned for Elena,” I said. “I'm sure you had her best interests in mind. But if you had concerns, you could have brought them to us.”

Joe swept all of Elena's records into a pile and stood up with them under his arm.

“We are
done
here,” he said in clipped and distinct tones. “If you have
any
further concerns about my daughter—for
any
reason—you had
better
bring them up to me. And if you ever—
ever!
—violate confidentiality laws again,
I
will know what to do about it!”

Joe and I walked out of the room, and that was the end of the Summer from Hell.

But it wasn't the end. That's what I came to realize. It couldn't end—not anymore.

We couldn't repair what the Summer from Hell had broken.

E
lena's eighteenth birthday fell on a weekday just a few weeks after the start of school. She had invited over a few good friends to help her celebrate. But fifteen minutes before they were supposed to arrive, I found her in bed, sound asleep. I hated to wake her up. She got so little rest these days.

“Elena,” I whispered.

She didn't stir. She hardly seemed to be breathing.

My daughter was running herself ragged, wedging into her busy schedule as many committee meetings, study sessions, and volunteering opportunities as she possibly could. She didn't allow herself to rest. She seemed to be saying,
No senior year? I'll show you a senior year!

It was a battle, and I wasn't sure who was winning.

“Elena,” I said again. “They're almost here.”

She opened her eyes and blinked at me without recognition. Then she closed her eyes again.

I hesitated. Could I call off the get-together? No, by the time I could find the right phone numbers, it would be too late. And besides, what would Elena think if I did that? Wouldn't she just think I was interfering?

These days, that's all she thought I did.

“The party,” I said, prodding her. “It's in fifteen minutes. Your friends will be here soon.”

This time, Elena's eyes stayed open.

“Why?”
she wailed. “Why do you have to bother me when I'm sleeping? I hurt so much, I couldn't get to sleep all night long last night! You woke me up. I was finally asleep!”

These days, everything on Elena seemed to hurt: her chest, her head, and her bones. Scoliosis had started curving her spine several years ago, but it seemed to be getting rapidly worse.

“You're right,” I said. “I can tell your friends that you're sick. They can come over some other time.”

That got Elena scrambling out of bed. With quick, angry movements, she straightened the sheets and the pillows. I helped her from my side.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” she snapped. “You don't think I can do anything!”

“I think you're exhausted,” I said. “In fact, I know you're exhausted.”

Elena arranged the throw pillows at the head of the bed. Her room was charmingly girly and impeccably neat. Nonetheless, she stalked around the room, dissatisfied with everything. She moved a Korean doll half an inch this way and a glass cat sculpture half an inch that way. Her face was as grim as if she were scrubbing toilets.

“So what if I'm exhausted!” she hissed. “Like that makes any difference! You don't think I can get anything done. You think I'm a complete failure!”

“That's ridiculous!” I said, following her into the bathroom. “I just want you to get some rest.”

Elena's bathroom was a jewel box of shiny, pretty things: nail polish jars in every pastel shade, sequined photo frames around smiling faces, and a rose-pink Tiffany-style lamp shaped like a dress. Taped to the big mirror were pages of bright crayon artwork from the children she babysat.

Elena leaned toward the mirror as she fixed her makeup. “I'm an officer in the Future Business Leaders of America. I'm making As in every single class. Major Meadows says he would
hire
me to work in the ER because I'm such a valuable member of the team. But does that mean anything to
you
? No!”

This was familiar ground.

“Of course it does,” I said doggedly. “I'm proud of you. I am! I just wish you could slow down and enjoy it.”

“You always criticize me!”

“I don't . . .”

“You
do
! Nothing I
ever
do is good enough for you!” Elena was shouting now. “No matter what I do, you're always back there with that look on your face. Just once, I wish you could
actually
be proud of me!”

Now I was shouting, too. “Elena, I'm proud all the time! I just
said
I'm proud of you!”

The doorbell rang. Elena dropped the lipstick she had just finished applying into the silk-covered box that held its mates. She slipped past me and disappeared down the stairs. “Barbara!” I heard her exclaim, her voice honey-sweet—a tone of voice she didn't use with me.

I trudged downstairs after her to play host to her friends, feeling like I'd been hit by a truck.

The next morning, Elena announced over breakfast, “You may as well cancel the appointment you made for me with that German psychologist. I'm not going. I'm eighteen. You can't force me to go.”

Joe and I exchanged worried glances.

“But you know Dr. Harris said you need to work with a therapist,” Joe said.

“I don't care,” she said. “Doctors held me against my will—twice! They didn't even try to work with me. I walked in the door for a one-hour counseling session, and I didn't get home till over a month later. Nobody is ever going to do that to me again.”

It was obvious that Elena had been thinking about this for weeks. In fact, it seemed to be the biggest lesson she had taken away from the Summer from Hell.

“Dr. Harris worked with you, though,” I reminded her. “He didn't lock you up.”

“I like Dr. Harris,” she admitted. “But I'm not going to risk it. Some psychiatrists and psychologists might not do that kind of thing, but there's no way to know until it's too late. Cancel the appointment. I'm not going.”

As the months rolled by, our days fell into a very unhealthy pattern. Dead tired, Elena dragged herself out of bed and outlined a day with far
too many commitments. If I tried to persuade her to slow down or skip something, she chewed me out. For everyone else, she had a smile or a laugh—even for her father. Only to me did she show her constant exhaustion, misery, and bitterness.

I am the stepping-stone she pushes off to keep from getting stuck in the mud
, I thought.
Her anger toward me keeps her going
.

But it brought me almost to a standstill.

Martin's new story wasn't going well. I didn't know why. I was fond of him and his bright, affectionate dog, and I liked the colorful, dangerous world he lived in. But I couldn't keep up with Martin on his adventures anymore. He would take off to go do something, and I would be left behind, asking myself,
Why did he do that? Where did he go? Do I even know Martin anymore?

But this story was already sold. We already had the money in savings. I couldn't back out on it now.

Guilt and worry started to needle me. I began to set word counts. Never before had I needed to force myself to write. But the next day, when I read what I had written, half of it would turn out to be garbage. I could tell that I'd written it only to fill up the word count.

So I began to set a timer: twenty minutes to start with. Any more than that, and I couldn't stay focused.

Maybe it's Alzheimer's
, I thought.
Maybe it's incipient dementia. Martin's world is hazy now, and I can't figure out what he's doing. I can barely even spell anymore!

As the weeks passed, I developed elaborate writing rituals. First, I had to brew the perfect cup of tea. Then, I had to check my email. Then, I had to check three news sites, always in the same order. Then, I had to set my timer. Then, I had to play a game of FreeCell. (And the longer I took on my FreeCell game, the less time I would have to write.)

Finished with my game, I would check the tea temperature. Was it too cold? I would get up and warm it in the microwave. Then I would have to check my email again. Then the news sites, one—two—three.

Sometimes, this ritual ate up the whole twenty minutes.

Even when I did manage to get some pages done, it didn't seem to matter. “Do you want to read what I wrote today?” I asked at dinner. But, as it turned out, nobody did.

“You know I don't have time,” Elena said. “I have an essay plus thirty study questions to get through by Friday, and I promised Jason I'd help him with his college application.”

“Sure,” Joe said absently. “Why don't you email it to me? I'll read it at lunch.”

But I didn't want Joe to read it at lunch. I wanted him to read it
here
, right in front of me, the way he used to do, while I peeked over his shoulder and read it along with him.

I didn't want to send my story off in an email. I wanted to
share
it.

“Never mind,” I said. “It doesn't matter.”

But it did matter. It mattered a great deal. The next time I sat down and opened my laptop, poor Martin wouldn't get anything done.
Why go on a journey
, he would tell me,
if nobody cares what I do?

They'll kill you if they catch you
, I would remind him.

I'm dead anyway. Who cares?

At which point, I would notice that my tea had gotten cold. I would get up and reheat it. And then I would check my email. And the news sites.

And repeat.

One sunny winter afternoon, I picked up my laptop and brewed myself a fresh, hot cup of tea. The cats were stretched out in the garden room, and I carried my tea and computer into the sunlight to join them. I curled up in one of the big brown chairs, brought up Martin's Word file, set the timer ticking, and—
Ring!

It was Elena's phone number.

“Hello?” I said, wincing.

“I need a ride to the hospital,” she said.

“But I'm working right now. Can't you just take the bus home, and I'll take you in an hour?”