Too Far Under (9 page)

The desperation in her voice made me
cautious. Is everything she wants an emergency for her? Clients
like that can be a therapist’s nightmare.

Saturday at 6:30 she had called again. She’d
gotten into a two-hour pattern. Her voice was shriller and even
more frenzied this time. “Cleo, this is the worst day of my life.
My dad overheard us saying that we think someone drowned Mom, and
he threw a fit and yelled at us that we were desecrating Mom’s
memory, looking to create a scandal and on and on. But we’re not
giving up. I promised Angelica I’d get you to help us. If my mom
was murdered, don’t you think she deserves justice? We have to find
out if Angelica is right that someone actually drowned Mom. After
all my mom did for this community, she deserves better than to have
someone drown her and get away with it. Please call me!”

Looking past the hysterics, I could relate to
having a difficult, demanding father. My dad never likes the
choices I make in life and is fond of letting me know how I could
do better. After the behavior I’d seen from Derrick Townes this
morning, I sympathized with Lacey and Angelica. Lacey’s argument
about Mirabel deserving justice also hit home. In fact I’d made
that exact argument to Elisa on Friday. If there was any chance
that Mirabel’s death wasn’t accidental, someone should take another
look.

Lacey’s next message came in Saturday evening
at 10:00 pm. She sounded sullen and angry. “Cleo, it’s me again.
Where are you? I can’t imagine you’ve gone to bed so early. Maybe
you went out and didn’t take your phone? By the way, the message
you have on your phone has a cold feeling to it. I wouldn’t think
you’d want to sound that way to your clients. It could hurt your
business. But maybe you don’t want business. At least I’m beginning
to wonder. Because you still haven’t called me back after all these
messages. My number is 303-819-8203.”

That message was a definite turn-off. I don’t
like it when people try to manipulate me. And her messages were
moving beyond manipulation to practically stalking me. Elisa and
Pablo’s warnings rang in my ears. But I also remembered Tyler
telling me I needed to help Angelica because “she’s out there
alone, body surfing in those mean waves.”

Lacey’s last Saturday message was at 11:30
pm. This time she sounded despondent and weepy. “Cleo, I sure hope
you get my messages tonight. I desperately need to talk to you
right now. Give me a call no matter how late it is. I’ll keep my
phone on all night right next to my bed. It’s 303-819-8203. Okay,
I’ll be waiting.”

The next message was early Sunday morning.
She was back to loud and desperate. “Cleo, how many ways can I say
this is a terrible crisis? You’re our only hope! My dad is such a
jerk—you have no idea. He hasn’t cared about Mom for a long time.
Angelica has a bad feeling about him. We can’t let him keep us
quiet. I’ll do anything, pay whatever you want. Please can’t we at
least meet and talk about this?”

No question Lacey was a drama queen. Her
emotions were all over the place. If I took her on, she would be a
challenging client, who I might regret ever having gotten involved
with. But she needed help and her story was compelling, and her
desperation was starting to haunt me. I knew very well what it felt
like to have your father dismiss as nonsense what seems important
to you.

I was also intrigued by what I’d seen of
Angelica. She was an oddly remarkable child. My heart and my gut
were telling me to sign on to help Mirabel’s daughters investigate
her death. And Tyler was sure pushing me in that direction.

Bottom line, I like to help people. I feel
all warm and tingly inside when I do it. All my life my friends and
family have been telling me to step back and stop getting drawn in
to other people’s problems. I’ve made some progress. I used to be a
sucker for anyone in despair who wanted my help, but I’ve learned
to set some limits. Unfortunately, I’m also on the high end of the
scale when it comes to curiosity. If a problem involves mysterious
circumstances—like last summer when I helped a young widow find out
who pushed her husband off the rim of the Grand Canyon—I can be all
over it before I take time to consider the risks.

Listening to those phone messages, I was well
aware that I needed to be cautious about what I was getting myself
involved in. Even so, I thought, it can’t hurt to just talk to
Lacey. So I called her back and made an appointment to meet her and
Angelica at my office on Wednesday.

After all that fuss about meeting with me,
Lacey and Angelica were fifteen minutes late for their appointment.
Not a good start. Lacey was panting and sweating as she dashed in
to the pinkish flat-roofed stucco former house that now serves as
my office. Angelica walked calmly at her side. I was amazed at how
much alike they looked—same fair skin, dark hair, wide blue
eyes—and yet how different they were. Lacey rolled her eyes,
frowned and waved her arms as they followed me through the waiting
room into my counseling room. “I thought we’d never get here,” she
said breathlessly. “I couldn’t find my keys, then we got stuck in
traffic, couldn’t find a parking place. It’s like the universe is
trying to put barriers in our way. But here we are, finally.” She
pushed past me into the room as if she could barely last another
second.

Angelica walked quietly behind me into the
counseling room, waiting until Lacey’s tirade was over before she
spoke. She looked slowly around, taking in the southwestern décor
and gazing intently at my Gramma’s colorful paintings on the far
wall. Then she turned to me with a welcoming smile. “Hi. I’m
Angelica. Thank you for letting us come,” she said quietly.

“We asked my brother Shane to come too, but
he’s obviously later than we are,” Lacey said, throwing up her
hands.

I wasn’t happy that they had invited Shane
without discussing it with me first, but decided to let it go so as
not to start our talk with a confrontation. There was enough going
on without that. “It’s good to meet you Angelica, and to see you
again, Lacey,” I said. “We don’t have a lot of time, so let’s go
ahead and start without him, and we can catch him up when he gets
here.” I motioned them toward chairs in my office. Lacey plopped
down on the brown sofa and Angelica sat next to her, leaving the
tan leather armchair for Shane. I sat in my usual cream-colored
wing chair and started with a question.

“Lacey, you said in your phone messages that
this is an emergency situation. Of course I understand the idea
that your mother was murdered is horrifying to you and Angelica.
But your mom died several months ago, so I need you to tell me why
it’s an emergency today.”

“Someone is out there getting away with
murdering my mother! Maybe you don’t see that as an emergency, but
I do. We have to find out who killed her and put that person in
jail.” Lacey sat rigidly, leaning forward and clasping and
unclasping her hands.

“I need to back up a little. What makes you
so sure your mother was murdered? Don’t you think the police would
have seen the signs?”

“Yes I’d think so—but apparently they didn’t.
We’ve tried to tell them, but they ignore what Angelica knows.”

I turned to Angelica, who was sitting very
quietly with none of the fidgeting usual for a ten-year-old.
“Angelica, can you tell me more about what you know about your
mother’s death and how you know it?”

She looked intently into my eyes and nodded
slowly. “I know she was murdered. I have a strong sense of her
being pushed under the water and held there. But I don’t know who
did the pushing. I’ve tried to reach her to ask her who it was, but
I can’t get close enough to her. That’s why we need your help.”

This child had such a presence, such
self-confidence that I found myself believing her at a gut level.
I’d done a little internet research and found that some people
believe Indigo children are unusually spiritually aware from birth
and can see and hear things most of us cannot. But she could also
be a depressed grieving child who had convinced herself she had
special powers. I knew I needed more detail from Angelica. “That
must be very upsetting for you. Can you tell me more about the
sense you have of her being pushed under? Is it mainly a feeling or
do you see it happening?”

Angelica squinted off to her left as if
trying to make out a distant image. Then she turned back to me. “No
it’s not like that,” she said. “It’s a feeling, a way I have of
knowing. It’s very strong, but no clear details.” She sat there
smiling softly like a Buddha, waiting for my response.

In contrast to Angelica’s calm demeanor, my
thoughts were racing. She was persuasive, but she was also ten
years old. And the police hadn’t thought her mother was murdered.
And in the clear light of day this situation looked like trouble.
Even though my gut was telling me to do what they wanted, my head
and my sensible friends were warning me to stay away—especially
from Lacey, who anyone would agree was a loose cannon. Some of my
most difficult clients have been people like her, who thrived on
drama.

Finally I said, “I’d like to help you, but
I’m not sure the Contact Project is right for this situation. It’s
about resolving grief, not solving murders. Also, like I told you
the other day, I can’t do private work with one of my
students.”

Lacey flew out of her chair and began pacing
the room, waving her arms. “I can’t stand any more of this,” she
screeched. “You don’t want to help us. If you did, you would. We
have nowhere else to turn. My dad and Judith think we’re crazy.
They don’t believe Angelica is an Indigo child—they don’t even
believe there is such a thing as Indigo children. Instead of
respecting Angelica as a highly evolved spiritual being, they
accuse her of being fanciful and not knowing the difference between
what’s real and what she makes up.” Lacey was standing right in
front of me by then and I felt like covering my ears to mute her
yelling.

Instead, I stood up and faced her. “Enough,
Lacey,” I said, managing to keep my voice calm. “You’re not going
to bully me into helping you. So please sit down.”

Lacey deflated as quickly as she had blown
up. “Sorry,” she mumbled, heading back to the couch. She sat down,
scooted closer to Angelica, and gave her a big hug. Then she turned
to me, tears streaming down her face, hands clasping and unclasping
rapidly. “I told you that we had another sister Kari who died two
years ago of anorexia. That almost killed Mom, but she finally
managed to get through it. No thanks to Dad and his girlfriend,
Judith. Then just when Mom was getting her life back together,
someone drowned her. It’s so unfair. All we want is justice for
her.”

Angelica remained calm, quietly stroking
Lacey’s arm. “I feel what you’re feeling, Lacey,” she said. “But I
know in my heart we will find out what happened to Mom.” Angelica
seemed surprisingly centered and calm, especially for a
ten-year-old who had recently lost both a sister and her mother.
The more extreme Lacey was, the calmer Angelica became. I worried
that she was comforting Lacey instead of the other way around.
Apparently this was their typical behavior pattern.

Lacey’s genuine expression of grief spoke to
the therapist in me. Yes she was difficult, but she was hurting and
at some level I wanted to help her. Then I mentally flashed on the
girl I had seen in the mirror at The Stanley. Was she the dead
sister Kari?

I continued to watch Angelica. Despite her
calm demeanor, I noticed three tiny tears trickling down her cheek.
She said nothing, nor did she move her hand from Lacey’s arm to
wipe the tears away. I felt tears welling up in my own eyes. I
could make myself stand firm against Lacey’s histrionics but this
little girl reached deep into my heart. Only ten years old and
she’d already lost two of the most important people in her life.
And the others weren’t doing much to help. Her father was more
interested in his mistress than his daughter. And her older sister
went off the deep end every other minute.

It looked like Tyler was right about Angelica
being out there alone and needing my help. How could I walk away
from this child?

“Yes,” I heard myself saying, “I’ll do what I
can to help you contact your mother. But Lacey, you’ll have to drop
my class. You’ll also have to restrain yourself when we’re working
together. The contact process requires focus. Also, you both need
to know that the contact process doesn’t always work and sometimes
you reach someone other than the person you’re trying for. There
are no guarantees.”

“No problem dropping the class. I’ll do it
tomorrow.” Lacey jumped up, clapping. “Thank you, thank you. You
won’t be sorry. And we understand. No guarantees. But I know it’s
going to work! I feel it!”

Before Angelica could add anything, we were
interrupted by a knock on the front door. I jumped up to answer it
and found Shane—wearing torn jeans, a black Lord-of-the-Rings tee
shirt and a charming smile.

“I’m Shane. Are my sisters here? Sorry to be
late.” He didn’t look sorry, but he did look agreeable so I took
him at his word and showed him into the counseling room.

“Shane, what took you so long? I was about to
give up on you,” Lacey said in an accusing tone.

“Chill, Lacey. I’m here. So what’s the big
emergency?” Shane stood in front of the couch where Lacey and
Angelica sat. Fortunately he sounded much more mellow than he had
been when Pablo and I saw him at the wedding last weekend.

“Shane, why don’t you sit over there,” I said
pointing to the tan chair between my chair and the couch. “Then we
can fill you in.”

He sat and looked inquiringly at Lacey. “So
this is more about you thinking Mom was murdered? You must know Dad
thinks you’re crazy the way you keep bringing this up. What do you
hope to gain by pushing this? Don’t we have enough trouble with Dad
being disagreeable already?”