Willow (11 page)

"Well, it's a study of the wealthy and how they distinguish between the real and the unreal, the important and the unimportant events in their lives,"
I
said, and held my breath in anticipation of his thinking it stupid or contrived.
Instead, he nodded and continued to smile. but I felt the need to elaborate.
"My question is whether money, so much money, creates bigger illusions and makes it more difficult to function down in the reality of everyday life."
"The old ivory tower. huh?"
"Yes, exactly,"
I
said.
"Well, you're right to come to Palm Beach for that research. I can't think of a more representative capital of wealth, but if you're here to learn whether money corrupts or not, my dear Willow.
I
can assure you, it does."
"I'm sure you can, but that won't do for a thesis conclusion my teacher will accept, even if it comes directly from a prominent psychiatrist."
I
said, and he laughed.
"Well, I'm a bit relieved to know you're not here for sorrow therapy," he said, sitting back. "Not that
I
wouldn't have been more than happy to have helped you, but I'm not quite sure what I can do for your project."
"Well, considering my topic and my major, I thought there would be no one better to recommend me, give me a letter of introduction, perhaps, than one of the more prominent psychiatrists in Palm Beach. People are naturally very reticent to speak with strangers and give them the kinds of answers, sincere and truthful answers, I'll need."
He nodded,
I
noticed he liked little pauses in the conversation. He was a man who obviously measured his words carefully, who knew the importance they often carried even in what some would call small talk.
"Okay." he said. "I'd be happy to do that for you-- depending on whom you want to meet, of course. In some cases, it might actually be
disadvantageous to have my name associated with your project. There are people who still believe psychiatry is a voodoo art form."
"Yes, and for that reason. I would like to remain incognito."
"Incognito?"
"My father had a national reputation, published a great deal, was honored by governors, even a president. People would just naturally associate my name with his and might be very unwilling to talk because of the fear of being analyzed."
"Interesting. Yes." he said. nodding. "That's possible. I suppose, but I'm not sure most of the people you might meet here would know who he was."
"Still,' I insisted. "it would be prudent to have a pseudonym, don't you think?"
"Maybe," he said thoughtfully. "Okay. What's your pseudonym?" he asked.
"Isabel Amou," I said. I thought it would be good luck to call myself that.
"Isabel Amou? Unusual name. Well, then, did your father help you design this project?"
"Yes. We talked about it, and he indicated he had some patients from Palm Beach from time to time and thought it would be a good place for the study."
Dr. Anderson nodded, still smiling, but his smile was a little less full,
He recalled one family in particular. and I remember him saying you had referred this woman to his clinic."
I
said it all quickly because
I
was afraid I might stutter and stumble.
"Oh?"
"And
I
wondered if she were still living here and if she were still in therapy with you and if she would be a good subject for my study."
"Well" he said, shaking his head. that is quite an unusual request. I don't really know how to react to that. I thought you simply meant letters of
introduction to prominent Palm Beach residents, but actual patients or families of patients. well..."
"I wouldn't ask you to tell me anything about her. My father didn't, of course. He just mentioned the family name. Montgomery. I think he called them one of 'the core,' is that right?" I asked quickly.
"Yes," Dr. Anderson said. laughing. "It's almost like the families who came over on the Mayfower, They are some of the original residents. the A-list, so to speak. He was correct about that."
I nodded. encouraged. "I believe he was going to call you for me right before he died."
"I see. Very unfortunate. He was still a young man." he added.
"Yes. Anyway, I wondered if that family is still living in Palm Beach."
"Well, yes, but the individual in question is not in therapy-- at least not with me, that is. However, it probably wouldn't look right for me to go sending students to my patients' homes." he said, scrunching up his nose, "even ones with pseudonyms. I hope you understand."
"Oh. yes. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you in any uncomfortable position because of my project."
"Oh, no, it was perfectly correct for your father to think of sending you to speak to me about your topic." He thought a moment.
"What I could do," he continued. "is introduce you simply as what you are... someone writing a paper on Palm Beach society. You'll find a number of people who will want to talk to you about that. I'm sure you'll find your own leads after speaking to one or two individuals."
"Yes. I suppose so," I said, not hiding my disappointment.
"However. I can see why your father suggested her family to you,
^-
he added.
"You can?"
My heart began to pound. He didn't know anything. He couldn't know anything, could he? Of course, he could. He could have had sessions with her after she had left my father's clinic, and she might have told him everything.
"Yes, especially in light of the topic you are researching. That's a family that has lost its wealth and social standing but has managed to remain living here."
"Oh. How?"
"They have rented out their residence to another family." He thought and smiled. "A family," he continued. "who would be perfect subjects for your study."
"Really?"
"Yes. I guess there's no problem about your speaking to them." he said. "I will make a phone call for you."
"But..."
"I'm not sending you off on a wild goose chase.

^{I'm sure they will be helpful. And I'd be happy to -}
contribute myself, in a more general way, of course. "Thank you."
"Is there anything I can answer for you right

now in that regard? I've been here for most of my professional life." he added. "I've had some interesting situations I could speak about: patients who were so devastated by the deaths of their French poodles that they actually attempted suicide, for example. I had a woman, the wife of a prominent billionaire, who was convinced she could never buy and wear anything original. She had such an obsession about it, she wouldn't leave her home and lived like a mad recluse, dressing only in one of her mother's old ball gowns. That was a challenge. I made house calls. Where else but in Palm Beach can you find a therapist making house calls?" he added with a laugh. "By all rights, she should have been institutionalized, but they would sooner have kept her locked up in a room.

"So," he concluded, "please feel free to ask me anything you want."
He sat back, waiting for my brilliant inquiries. I could feel the panic swirling around within ine, building into a tornado of hysteria.
"I think I'd like to see something of the world here first, get a sense of it so that
I
don't waste your time with generalities." I said.
He nodded but looked disappointed.
"I'd like permission to return as soon as rye begun my study," I quickly added.
"Absolutely. I'll find the time for you. I'd want to do it for your father." he said. "He did a great deal for me and was always available whenever
I
needed his expertise."
"Thank you."
I
stood up, and he rose and came around the desk.
"I'll have my receptionist write out the address you need, and as
I
said. I'll make a call and alert these people that you are coming to see them. I'll try to think of one or two other people who would be of some value to your project. The rest will depend on your own talents and abilities."
''As it should,"
I
said.
He smiled,
"I
see Dr. De Beers had a good influence on his own child. You are very fortunate to have grown up with him as a father, I'm sure."
"Yes, yes, I was." I said.
He opened the door and told the receptionist to write out the address for what he called Soya del Mar,
"Excuse me, but is that a hotel?" I asked the receptionist as she wrote on a slip of paper.
She looked up at Dr. Anderson, who laughed.
"No. You know you're in a core home in Palm Beach when the house and the grounds have a name. This one simply means "Jewel of the Sea." It has its own beach front. I suppose to most people in this country, it would look like a resort. But don't let me give any of this away," he said, winking. "You're about to discover another country, another world, which, as you might imagine, and as you just heard through some small examples, provides me with plenty of work."
His receptionist laughed.
I thanked them both and left.
Outside. I released all the hot, pent-up air in my lungs. I clutched the note with the address in my hand.
I had found out what I had come to find out. My mother was still here. She was not in therapy. She was out there somewhere, waiting for something to fill the empty spot in her life and never imagining, perhaps, what it was she was waiting for. Would she be disappointed when I appeared on her doorstep? Would she be angry because I was threatening her new life, her very sanity, perhaps? Would I bring too much pain along with me?
Aside from that one letter in which she had remarked about the pictures of me my father had sent, there was no other evidence that she had tried to find out about me. Perhaps she had come to terms with it all. She had traveled past her regret and her sadness. What right did
I
have to bring her back to it? 6
Joya del Mar
.
I
decided to return to The Breakers for some breakfast. My nerves kept me from haying much of an appetite. but I knew
I
should eat something before attempting to do any more. For a while
I
sat sipping my coffee, nibbling on a danish, and staring at the slip of paper on which Dr. Anderson's secretary had written the address that had been my mother's. What would the people who lived there now tell me that would matter to me? Why bother with them at all?
Wasn't I wasting my time pretending to be a student doing a study of Palm Beach life? Shouldn't
I
just find out where my mother was and go directly to her, shock or no shock? Was I just procrastinating? Now that
I
was actually here and I had gone forward with my first steps, the tension had my fingers trembling so much that I almost spilled my coffee twice. I sat there fighting with myself. truly a split personality.
One part of me was tiring me to check out of the hotel immediately and just return to college.
Go home,
the voice told me.
The dean
will fix everything again. Your teachers, your friends, maybe even Allan
would attribute your impulsive actions to the terrible grief following your father's death. After all, the
^-
woman you're attempting to see and get to know is really a stranger. What you're doing to her is unfair. Do you dare simply appear and explode in her face like some sort of bomb? What if you were responsible for driving
^-
her to another breakdown? Wouldn't the rest of her blame you and hate you and rightly so? What good would you have accomplished? Could you accomplish more than simply satisfying
^-
your curiosity, anyway?
The other side of me snapped back with just as much passion:
Your cowardice is making you selfish. Of course you should go. Why shouldn't she see you, get to know you and to know what happened during
^-
all these years? A real relationship is not a one-sided affair, You will give to her as much as, if not more than, she will give to you Maybe not having you, not having a family, has left her a broken, lonely person. You have the power to repair that, to restore some

Who do you think you are?
my counter self asked.
You can't do that, restore meaning to someone's life. You have enough trouble doing
^-
it for yourself much less for someone else. You're carrying, too much psychological baggage. You're like a handicapped person diving into the water to save a drowning victim.

Nonsense. Don't listen to that. You are your father's daughter. You have his backbone. You can do it.

"Excuse me," I heard a soft voice say. For a moment. I thought that was in my mind. too. "I know it's not any of my business, but are you all right, miss?"

I looked up and into the deepest, dark blue eyes I had ever seen. There was a brightness to them, a distinct glint of intelligence, but the way the young man lifted his eyebrows and curled his strong, straight lips at the corners indicated an underlying current of amusement in this handsome, well-tanned face. That complexion, his beautiful eyes, and his perfectly straight white teeth made the face seem positively electric. cinematic. His styled dark brown hair was just on the border between being distinguished and businesslike and a little wild, young, carefree.

He wasn't quite six feet tall, but he filled out his gray pinstriped suit jacket with athletic broad shoulders. It was a custom-made suit, fitted to his slim waist. I caught sight of a gold cufflink with a tiny diamond in the center. It glittered in the sunlight that seemed like a spotlight capturing both of us on some stage for the moment.

I saw him glance at another man at the table across from mine and wink. He, too, was in a suit and tie and looked about the same age, which
I
estimated to be thirty at the most.

He widened his smile. "My associate and I couldn't help but notice how troubled you looked," he explained. "I should add that I am a trial attorney and make it my business to read people's faces, especially when they are on the witness stand or they are sitting in a jury. I'm very good at it Can
I
help you in any way?"

That he was right about me suddenly annoyed me. I didn't like the fact that I was under observation, especially without my being aware of it. It was embarrassing. Had I been talking to myself? Were my lips moving? Did they think I was some sort of crackpot? The way my adoptive mother used to pounce on me if
I
spoke to my imaginary friends or my dolls came storming back.