Case of Lucy Bending (44 page)

"You know. He's always making jokes and just fooling around. Once he pretended he had forgotten my birthday, and I was ready to cry, but he hadn't, of course, and he hid my present under my pillow. This really beautiful bracelet with all kinds of shells on it."

"It sounds to me like both your parents love you very much."

"I guess."

"Then why did you say you would love your own little baby girl better than your mother loves you?"

But he could not pin her down; she slid away from him again.

"Well . . . maybe not better. But, you know,
different."

He had endless patience. He could fence as long as she.

"You'd love your baby differently from the way your mother loves you?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about it. How would you love your baby differently?"

"Well, for one, I'd never do anything to hurt her."

Levin didn't reveal his surge of interest in that answer. As casually as he could . . .

"But you just told me that your parents never hurt you."

"Well, that's true. They never whip me, if that's what you mean."

He looked at her narrowly. He thought there was something significant in her evasions. And even more meaningful might be her choice of words. He had a vague feeling that she was trying to tell him something without saying it.

"There are lots of ways of hurting people, Lucy," he said softly. "One way is to hit them, spank them, whip them. But we know your parents don't do that, don't we?"

She was silent.

"Another way to hurt people," he went on, "is to hurt their feelings. Disappoint them. Make them feel foolish."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Sure you do, Lucy. You know very well. If your father kissed another woman, for instance, you'd be disappointed in him and feel hurt, wouldn't you?"

"My father kisses other women all the time," she said defiantly. "All the grown-ups are always kissing, at parties and things. It's just fun. My goodness, that wouldn't hurt me."

"What if your father did something that proved he didn't love your mother. That would certainly hurt you, wouldn't it?"

"My father would never do anything like that."

"But
if
he did, you'd be hurt, wouldn't you?"

"I suppose."

"You might even cry."

"Maybe."

"Well, then, you agree that you can be hurt in other ways than spanking or whipping. Your feelings can be hurt."

"Oh, I know what you mean!" she cried, bouncing up and down. "Like once, on the beach, I saw Miss Carpenter, she's my homeroom teacher, well she was on the beach, and I waved to her, and she didn't wave back. And I thought she was mad at me or something, you know, and I felt real bad. But then it turned out she wasn't wearing her contact lenses, and didn't even see me. So that was all right. But it hurt my feelings when I thought she was mad at me and wouldn't even wave. That's what you mean, isn't it?"

Dr. Levin looked at her with wonder, convinced she was trying to hoodwink him again, and cleverly at that. Her slippery skill amazed him. But he was determined not to let her completely escape.

"All right, Lucy," he said quietly. "You know what hurt feelings are. Now let's get back to what we were talking about. Has your father or your mother ever hurt your feelings?"

She thought a moment. "You mean like not letting me watch TV when I want to?"

"No, I mean something more important than that. I mean something that really hurt you, that made you wonder if they really loved you as much as you thought they did."

She stared at him, eyes widening. As he watched, tears appeared, brimmed, began to course down her cheeks. She made no effort to wipe them away, but her soft lips trembled.

"I think you're mean and spiteful," she said.

He sat stonily and let her weep. There seemed to be no end to those tears; they poured down, dripped off her chin, onto the bodice of her new frock.

"I didn't think you were," she said, "but now I do."

"Why am I mean and spiteful, Lucy?"

"Because of what you said about mommy and daddy not loving me."

He caught that "mommy and daddy." He thought it might have been the first time she used the words. Heretofore it had been "mother and father" or "parents." The "mommy and daddy" sounded like a regression, the usage of a younger child.

"I didn't say your parents didn't love you, Lucy, and you know it. I just asked you if they had ever hurt your feelings, if they had ever made you wonder if they loved you as much as you thought."

"Well, they never did. They never hurt my feelings. So there."

"Then why are you crying?"

"I guess I didn't understand what you meant, Doctor Ted," she said blithely. She opened her plastic purse, took out a little hanky, dabbed at her wet eyes and cheeks. "My goodness, I must look a mess."

But he was in no mood for compliments, or even reassurance.

"Lucy," he said, "let's play a little game. All right?"

"What kind of a game?" she said suspiciously.

"I want you to tell me the first things you remember happening to you."

She puzzled that out. "You mean when I was just a little kid?"

"Correct. How far back can you remember?"

"Well ..." she said, happy again with this game, "once I fell down the stairs; I remember that."

"How long ago was that?"

"Oh, a long, long time ago. I was just a baby." "How old do you think you were when you fell down the

stairs?"

"My goodness, I'll bet I was like three years old. Maybe

two."

"Can you remember anything else?"

She pondered. "I can remember when Harry was a little baby. He was so chubby and pink and cute. He's five now, so that was over four years ago. I can remember my father tossing me up to the ceiling. He'd throw me up high and then catch me. I loved that. But then I guess I got too heavy for him to throw because he stopped it. And I . . ." Her voice faded.

"Yes?" Levin prompted.

"I think once, when I was very little, I had a bad dream or something, and my mother let me come into her bed. I'm not sure about that, but I seem to remember it. I remember how nice she smelled."

"That's fine, Lucy. You're remembering way back. Now, Harry was born five years ago; you remembered how he looked as a baby. What do you remember happening after Harry was, say, a year old? Do you remember things that happened four years ago?"

"I was in nursery school; I remember that."

"Do you remember anything that happened at home?"

"When I was four? Well, there were parties and stuff. It's all mixed up."

"Memories usually are," he said encouragingly. "Do you remember any special party?"

"There was one," she said vaguely, "with a lot of people."

"In your home?"

"Yes."

"What was special about it?"

"Well, it was the first party where they let me stay up past my bedtime. I could come downstairs and eat from the same table as the grown-ups."

"That sounds like fun."

"Yes, and I had a new dress. Not like this one," she added, plucking at her skirt, "but a little girl's dress—you know? And there was music. I remember now! And my father danced with me."

"See?" he said. "You do remember." "Just everyone was there," she said dreamily. "A big,
big
party, and I had a new dress. A white dress. With pink ribbons. And my father danced with me for the first time."

"And they let you stay up late," he added gently.

"Well, you know, just an hour, like, past my bedtime. Then I had to go around and say goodnight to everyone."

"And then you went up to your room?"

"Yes."

"I'll bet you were so excited," he said, "with the party, the new dress, dancing with your father, I'll bet you didn't go to sleep for a long time."

"Yes," she said in a troubled voice, "that's right. I remember now."

Levin was aware that he was telling the story. No, he was
creating
a story from Lucy's hazy memories and from Lucy's lips. And this story, he acknowledged, might be as fantastical as any of the yarns she had spun for him.

"I suppose," he said with a tinny laugh, "your mother or father came upstairs to undress you."

"I can undress myself," she said crossly.

"Then? When you were four years old?"

"Of course."

"Oh," he said. "Well then, your mother or father came upstairs to tuck you in?"

"I danced with my father," she said in a faraway voice. "Everyone said I looked so pretty."

"Yes, yes," he said, somewhat testily. "You were pretty, you danced with your father, and—"

"For the first time," she reminded him.

"You danced with your father for the first time. Then you went up to bed. In your own bedroom. Harry was asleep by then?"

"I guess."

"And Wayne?"

"I don't remember where he was. Maybe out somewhere. Like on the beach. Maybe down in the party."

"Oh my," he said heartily. "See how much you remember when you try? And then your mother or father came up to tuck you in?"

"I suppose."

"But you didn't go to sleep for a long time. You told me that."

"Did I?" she said. "I guess I didn't. Maybe I was all excited. The party and all."

"Of course. That's understandable. It was a while before you could get to sleep." Then, imagining it: "The music and voices and laughter from downstairs. All the grown-ups having a good time. It was hard to get to sleep."

"Yes, it was."

"And then what happened?" he asked, leaning toward her. "While you were lying in bed, in your own room, trying to sleep—what happened then, Lucy?"

He thought a film came over her eyes. He could almost see her dwindling away from him.

"I don't remember," she said in an echoing voice. "I guess I just fell asleep."

He stared at her, convinced that now she was not consciously deceiving him. If the incident he imagined had occurred, she did not remember it. The fragile tendrils of recall were cut. She had washed the happening from her mind. Why? Easy. The experience was too painful for her, inexplicable, frightening. Something to be interred.

It was at moments like this that Levin wished his ego were monumental. He wanted a granite surety that would enable him to press her, badger, bully, until he had torn the memory out by the roots, bloody and dripping.

But, being the kind of man he was, he could not do that. He thought wildly of hypnosis, drugs—anything to get inside her closed mind and open it up. He rejected such artifices. There was no way for him but to keep digging, peeling the layers away.

"Well!" he said, smiling as brightly as he could. "That must have been quite a party for you to remember it so well. Your dress and dancing with your father and all that . . ."

She looked at him, perplexed. "I didn't remember it at all, Doctor Ted, until you asked me about it."

It was the finest compliment she could have paid him.

"Lucy, do you remember that night, that party, as being happy? I mean, is it a happy memory for you?"

"Oh yes!"

"It gives you pleasure to recall it—correct? Your dress. Dancing with your father for the first time. Everyone saying how pretty you looked. That must be a happy memory."

"It certainly is."

He sprang the trap. "Such a happy memory. And how odd that you didn't recall it until I asked you about it. Don't you think that's odd, Lucy?"

He had her and she knew it. He watched her reactions with professional interest.

Ignorance:

"I don't know what you mean."

"Of course you do, Lucy. This was a joyous experience, wasn't it? But you didn't remember it until I dredged it out."

Bluster:

"Well, my goodness, I've had a lot of good times. You can't expect me to remember
all
of them."

"But this was a special time. That's what you called it: 'special.'"

Confession:

"Oh, I just forgot about it, Doctor Ted. It just slipped my mind. What's so important about it anyway?"

He smiled at her.

"Well, if it's not important," she went on, twisting her body nervously, "I don't see why you keep talking about that silly party."

It was close to the end of her session. He wondered if he should keep her over for a few minutes, but doubted if moments, at this juncture, would yield any more than he had already learned.