What You Remember I Did (10 page)

"Well, I had some weird dreams." Jordan scrunched up her face, and Nan guessed she was trying to come up with something that would end the interrogation.

Nan's heart pounded so heavily she could almost see her blood pressure shooting upward. "What kind of weird, Jordan? Tell me, Sweetie."

"It was about your friend Matt," Jordan said. "He was standing in the doorway, watching me–"

"–Watching you?"

"Not in real life. In my dream."

"You're sure?" Nan demanded again, knowing full well that by now Jordan might not be sure of anything she was saying.

The child nodded. Nan hugged her and reminded herself that both dreams and children were vague and open to interpretation, including that they meant nothing at all.

Despite her niggling concern over Jordan's dream, Nan's resolve to keep Matt at arm's length lasted about as long as her latest diet. Half a dozen telephone calls, a couple of lattés and biscotti left for her in the morning, and the passage of several days softened her attitude enough that she agreed to think about going out to dinner with him. As if to compensate for her weakness, she spent the next few days on her search for the therapist and her continuing research about False Memory Syndrome.

It occurred to her finally that contacting the Foundation might be the quickest route to finding the name she needed. She was right. One telephone call was all it took.

Dr. Tonya Bishop, a transplant from California, had an office in a small medical building down the road from the Holiday Inn. She was neither a psychiatrist nor a psychologist. Her PhD was from Santa Cruz University. A call to records told Nan that though her doctorate was in the humanities, she was practicing as a psychiatric social worker and had written a much-lauded book on repressed memory syndrome, from which she had gained many disciples.

Nan had already answered some of the questions recommended by Paul
Ciolino
:
Does the therapist have a degree? If so, what kind of degree and where did the therapist get it? Does the therapist have any publications?

Her next move was to visit the local bookstore in search of Bishop's book. They had none in stock, so Nan went to the library where she found a copy. She read it that night. It was mostly filled with anonymous and fascinating case histories, each one followed by a detailed analysis. They read more like fiction than fact, but that didn't mean they weren't true.

After a night and a morning of thinking things through as best she could, Nan called Tonya Bishop's office to make an appointment. The woman who answered the phone seemed pleasant enough. "Friday at four, then," she confirmed. "Oh, and may I ask who recommended Dr. Bishop?"

For a fleeting moment, Nan was tempted to say Eliot Mullen, but managed instead, "I can't honestly recall."

"No problem. We'll see you on Friday."

The one thing she didn't anticipate was that she would like Tonya Bishop. Kind, professional, and by all appearances normal, the therapist had striking Latina looks, unexpected in someone with a name like Tonya Bishop.

Parallel to the large antique table that served as a desk was a leather sofa, obviously designed to be the place for patients to sit. She sank into its comfortable depths and thought about demitasse and homemade cake served on European china.

"Jump in when you're ready." Bishop sat back in her chair. "Tell me why you're here and why you chose me."

"Why I chose you?" The question took her by surprise. "Does that matter?"

The therapist laughed lightly. "No, it doesn't matter at all. It's just a trivial question to put you at your ease. Didn't work, did it?"

With great effort, Nan managed to smile back. She had rehearsed her opening. "My father hardly noticed I was there," she began, and it sounded awkward, childish. "Then he died when I was ten."

"I'm so sorry." It seemed she really was.

To her surprise, Tonya's eyes were brimming with unshed tears.

"And my husband left me after twenty years together. For another man."

"Oh, my dear."

"It's not fair."

"No. It isn't."

Encouraged by the few words and the unpressured silences, Nan talked and cried and laughed and talked some more. Every now and then the thought crossed her mind that she hadn't expected this, this wasn't really why she'd come, but it flew right out of her mind again as she thought of something else to say about men who went away.

"Loss," Bishop observed. "Abandonment. I bet those are important themes for you." This seemed an obvious deduction and Nan would have expected to be scornful. Instead, she felt oddly comforted, as if she'd finally found somebody who understood her. Telling herself that one of those computer therapy programs could have done the same thing did nothing to diminish what was clearly eagerness to talk to this attentive and vibrant woman.

So she kept talking.

Tonya Bishop asked exactly the right questions to move her along in her narrative, and sat in compassionate silence when tears made it impossible for her to talk at all. When the session was over, Nan was drained, but found she did not want to leave. "May I come again next week?"

"Of course."

"Do you think I–I need therapy?" She didn't know whether she wanted Bishop to say yes or no.

Bishop said neither, exactly. "I think," she said, meeting Nan's gaze, "that we have plenty to talk about."

"Like what?"

"Oh, mothers, for instance." Nan saw her glance at the photo on her desk, and waited to see if this meant anything. The therapist was silent for a moment, then continued evenly. "Memories. Dreams. You'll tell me what we're going to talk about."

Dr. Bishop picked up the phone as if to make a call and waited, looking at Nan, eyebrows slightly raised. After a moment Nan took the hint and left the office, shutting the door behind her. Passing through the waiting room, she chanced a quick appraising look at the next patient, a woman probably in her sixties who was already crying. What, she wondered, was the woman remembering in there? And did it have anything to do with what had really happened to her?

"Her mother died this week," the matronly receptionist said softly.

Irritated by this breach of confidentiality, Nan wondered what was said about
her
to other patients.
 
Surely a lack of chattiness was part of the job description for a receptionist in a shrink's office.
 
She should complain to Tonya.
 
"Sad," she said, and resisted the urge to go into the room and comfort the patient.
 
Annoyed with herself for not resisting the temptation to gossip, she nonetheless asked, "How did she die?"

The receptionist gave an ill-defined shrug. "She was in a geriatric ward at West Nyack. Seems she managed to get out of bed and pull the plugs."

For the next few weeks, Nan kept a close watch on her mother, not only because of the severity of the recent asthmatic attack but also because Catherine had taken to complaining about her daytime care provider.

"She just doesn't pay
attention
. She just doesn't
care
."

"What hasn't she done that she's supposed to?"

"She's
mean
."

"What has she done? Has she hurt you?"

But that was hopeless. Her mother lost track of what they were talking about in the middle of a sentence, and couldn't give anything like a specific.

Nan saw no evidence of any physical abuse or neglect. If she came home at unexpected times during the day, things seemed to be going smoothly. Her panic and resentment grew. She really could not stand to be in yet another situation where she couldn't judge whether accusations were true or false, and where judging was up to her.

Most nights after dinner, Nan chatted with Jordan, something the two of them had done since the child first learned to speak. During the day, she paid attention to her job. In any found time, she haunted the library at RCC, and twice drove into the city to visit the New York Public Library.

She saw Tonya once a week and was working her way through
Ciolino's
list of "Questions for the Therapist." Some of them required no effort, like asking if Tonya was writing more books or articles and what they dealt with and did writing pay better than therapy. One day she asked if Tonya was married–she wasn't–another she asked whether she paid a lot for liability insurance–she did. From now on, the questions would get progressively more pointed; they would require triggers during the sessions if they, and she, were to avoid suspicion.

All this left very little time for Matt, whom she had decided to date again, but no more than once a week and sometimes not even that. His regular offerings of latté and biscotti had not hurt his cause, but it was mostly her reawakened libido that had widened the boundaries of her forgiveness. RCC had rented him a townhouse in a park-like setting on the fringes of Suffern. She'd have chosen a full-service residential motel like the Candlewood Suites, but he seemed to like the homey atmosphere of the rental. They had already spent one evening together this week, thanks to her sister's willingness–or at least availability–to stay with Catherine. Now the weekend loomed, void of diversion.

When she got home on Friday, she heated up leftovers for Catherine and settled her in front of the television with Judy Garland's "Meet Me in St. Louis." Then she washed her hair, gave herself a pedicure, and snuggled up on her bed to read a novel. She hadn't done that in ages and felt only a little guilty about not doing something useful. When the phone rang, she stretched lethargically. Continuing to read a page of the latest Paul
Auster
novel, she picked up the receiver.

"Nan?"

"Matt! Everything all right?"

"Everything's fine. Have you eaten?"

"Not yet, but–"

"But nothing. Let's have dinner. I thought we could go to the Holiday. Maybe have a swim before we eat."

The Holiday Inn. The place where Eliot had said he stayed when he came to see Tonya. What if– "I'll have to find someone to stay with Mother."

"Bring her along if you like."

That won her over. "I'll see if I can get someone. Call you back. But it has to be just dinner," she added, a little too late to beat the click that signaled his hang-up.

Ashley, she thought, though she didn't generally ask her.

"Ash? Hi. Listen, feel free to say no, but I don't suppose you're sitting around doing nothing, waiting to be asked to come over and stay with your grandmother for a few hours?"

Ashley chuckled. "Cutting to the chase, as always. Sure, Mom. It happens Kevin has a poker game. Okay to bring Jordan?"

"Of course. When is that ever not okay?"

Less than an hour later, Nan put her newest swimsuit in her handbag. She had absolutely no intention of going swimming, but threw it in at the last minute just in case. She kissed Catherine and Ashley and Jordan, and left to meet Matt.

They met in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn and greeted each other warmly. Too warmly for
only dinner
. His next words confirmed he really hadn't heard her say that. "I got us a room. We can change in there and take a swim before dinner."

"I don't want to swim and I can't stay for...anything else." She wasn't sure whether to feel annoyed at his presumption or pleased by his anticipation. "And I'm hungry."

The center of the hotel was a large swimming pool beneath an atrium and surrounded by palms and ferns. Tables were set for dinner with white linen cloths, good cutlery, wine glasses and water goblets. Each table had a small vase with a single red rose. Hokey, but pretty.

Quieter than usual and less overtly appreciative of Matt's presence, she people-watched. Matt tried. He shifted into the seat next to her. He kissed her elbow, teasing, "To prevent tennis elbow." He worked to find a route into the easy camaraderie they had shared before Eliot's emails began. Finally, he said, "Seems I overstepped the mark booking a room. I'm sorry."

"I'm just not up for it tonight." Nan smiled at him, not altogether pleasantly. In truth, after the major fuss she'd made about secrets, she was feeling a little guilty and more than a little hypocritical for not having told Matt about seeing Tonya. "Once upon a time I really liked surprises," she said, taking his hand. He held it tightly at first, but within moments she felt him relax. The tension between them seemed to be passing.

They chatted easily over uninspired salads and passable baked salmon, mostly about President Clinton's bid for re-election, which they both supported. Dessert, shared cheesecake, was being served when she saw him stiffen. He stopped talking and eating and, with a trembling hand, refilled his coffee from a table pot.

"Matt? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Why should something be wrong?"

He snapped out the words like a kid caught passing notes in a classroom. He was looking down at the carpet next to his left foot, a sure sign that he wasn't telling the truth. Left for a lie, right for the truth–one of the small facts she had discovered along her research path.

The band from the bar was playing a set of old standards. "Let's dance," she suggested. He shook his head.