Willow (10 page)

Despite not living all that far away. I had never been to Palm Beach, My adoptive mother had visited with some friends. She often took vacations by herself, complaining that Daddy worked too hard and wouldn't take the time off. and she wasn't going to suffer because of him. Aside from the occasional shopping spree, I never traveled with her anywhere. The few times we took vacations when I was younger, we usually went to one of the Caribbean islands and once all the way to Hawaii. but Amou always came along to look after me. It was almost as if we were on a separate holiday, eating our meals apart from my parents and visiting sites children would appreciate.

To book my plane tickets and a hotel. I called my father's travel agent back in South Carolina. Every time I spoke with people who had known my father and, of course, knew what had happened to him. I heard the underlying tone of surprise in their voices at hearing mine and the underlying curiosity about what I was doing. My father had just passed away, and here
I
was asking his travel agent to make arrangements for me to visit one of the world's most famous luxury playgrounds. All of the travel agent's questions were attempts to solve the puzzle and satisfy her curiosity.

"How long will you be staving? It's expensive. Do you have to be in Palm Beach itself?
I
can find you very nice lodging in West Palm Beach." she suggested. "unless you have to be close to people you're meeting or something."

I
thought it was important to dive right into what was, or had been, my mother's world. Daddy always said you can learn about people by learning about their environment first. What were the forces that shaped and influenced them? He was a strong believer in the effects of the social and physical world on the character and personality of his patients: that was why he had spent so much time learning about the families and, if possible, actually visiting their homes. Many of his colleagues were moving toward an emphasis on genetic and chemical influences while he remained firm in his beliefs.

"Well. I can find you a hotel that has apartment facilities, your own kitchen, if you like, and if you don't mind being a little distance from the beach and from Worth Avenue. I can save you a lot of money.

If you want to be right in the Palm Beach world,
I
would probably look for a room at The Breakers or the Four Seasons, the Palm Beach Hilton. See what I mean? Upscale resorts like that. They're expensive." she warned. "That's why you have to tell me how long you intend on staying, what you want to do, et cetera."

Her questions did set me back for a moment. Really, what was I doing? Was I falling under the hypnotic power of my fantasy, a dream in which I saw this beautiful woman who was so overwhelmed and excited by my appearance that she insisted I move in with her immediately and live in a plush Palm Beach estate? We would spend every day together, learning about each other. We would breakfast, lunch, and go to dinner at fine restaurants. In the afternoons, we would sit around her magnificent pool and talk and talk until we were both exhausted.

In the evening, we would take long walks on the beach together. With the ocean, silvery and calm, in the background, she would knit one story about my father into another, creating a tapestry of their history. She would make me laugh and cry.

We would drink wine and listen to music and reminisce about him in ways I never dreamed, and in the end, we would love each other just the way a mother and daughter should love each other, Miraculously, I would make up for all the lost time without her and compensate for the hard life my adoptive mother had inflicted upon me. My real mother would feel just terrible about all that and declare firmly that she and my father had made a mistake.

"We should have taken them all on." she would say. "We should have defied everyone and remained together. He would have gotten a divorce and maybe moved down here to start his career all over We would have been a family, a real family."

"We will be," I would tell her, and quickly plug up the leak in our dam of newfound happiness that kept out all the sorrow of the past. She would smile, and we would walk on, hand in hand, both of us wrapped in contentment, protected. saved. This was truly Daddy's greatest legacy to me, his gift of a new life and a new family.

"No," I told the travel agent. "I'm not interested in any small apartment. Book me a room in The Breakers for a week." I said decisively. I remembered my adoptive mother had stayed there every time she had gone to Palm Beach. I wasn't going to treat myself any worse than she had treated herself. "I'll see what I need after that."

"I'll try. Willow, but you have to remember it's the season down there. Even the three- and four-star hotels get filled up quickly."

She was quiet a moment. "Of course." she said. "I thought you were in college." she finally had the courage to blurt, "Is there some sort of mid-semester break?"

This is my telephone number." I replied instead of answering her question. "Please call me back within the hour."

Was everyone's life so dull that they just had to poke their noses into mine, or anyone else's for that matter? People like her resembled pigs to me, pigs dipping their snouts in the trough of gossip.

"I'll get right on it." she said, her voice smarting from the rebuff
She called back in twenty minutes, sounding surprised herself that she had been able to get me into the hotel at such a late hour.
"Someone must have canceled at the last moment. You're lucky."
"Yes. I'm lucky," I said dryly. "Please arrange for a car for me as well."
"Do you want a convertible?"
She was offering me luxury now almost as a punishment for daring to be happy so quickly.
"It's not important." I said.
Right after I made my travel arrangements. I called and made an appointment with Dr. Anderson. He knew who
I
was, of course and, according to his secretary, had moved his schedule around to accommodate me.
It occurred to me after
I
hung up that he probably thought I wanted to see him for sorrow counseling. He surely knew by now that my father had died. He was adjusting his workload as a professional courtesy.
Who knows
, I thought. Maybe I do need counseling,. Maybe Allan wasn't all wrong. I certainly had a right to question my own sanity after learning all the secrets buried in my home and my father's past. I was like someone in a boat rocked so hard I was still spinning even in calm waters.
Not knowing how long I would actually be staving in Palm Beach. I didn't know how much to pack. but I ended up with two suitcases. It was only when I turned to leave my small college apartment that the enormity of what
I
was attempting to do weighed on me. Would I make a total fool of myself and come running back, too late to be reinstated in my classes? How could
I
ask for that. anyway? I'm in: I'm out: I'm in. Would everyone think
I
had gone mad? Dean Thorne looked as if he had thought so. Allan certainly did.
I
was still smarting from that disappointment, but it was like getting a scratch after you had suffered a far more serious wound. I was too numb from what had happened to really feel the pain he had inflicted, even though
I
had hoped for and even expected his support Instead, he had given me threats and ultimatums. He did leave me feeling I was a highstrung, emotionally unstable young woman, and that took from my vault of self-confidence, leaving me vulnerable and insecure just when I had to be the complete opposite.
.
It was a short flight to the West Palm Beach airport. My father's travel agent was right: it was the season and very busy. The airport was jammed with tourists from all over western Europe as well as the northern and midwestern United States. It took me nearly a half hour to get my luggage and then more than that to get my rental car. By the time I headed for Palm Beach itself. it was close to seven P.M.
I followed the directions the rental car agent had given me. They weren't difficult at all, but even so. when I crossed over the Flagler Bridge, named for one of the founders of this ritzy community.
I
looked for a sign and couldn't find one. I pulled over to the side and called to a woman who was walking what resembled a miniature hippopotamus. It had loose skin in thick, wrinkled folds, especially on its forehead.
I
later learned it was a very popular dog here. a Chinese sharpei. The dog's leash as well as its collar seemed to be made of mink; the collar was also studded with jewels.
The woman stopped and turned to me. It was what
I
would consider a warm, humid evening, but she wore a chic designer knit pantsuit with a shawl over her shoulders and strutted in a pair of highheeled shoes that looked rather formal for taking a dog for a walk. She pulled her head back as if automobile smelled bad and said. "What is it?"
"I wanted to be sure I'm in Palm Beach," I said.
"Of course you're in Palm Beach. If you do not know that, you certainly do not belong here," she replied through a mouth so tight she looked as if she had lockjaw. She turned and continued walking without offering any more assistance.
I
smiled in astonishment, shook my head, and drove on, following the directions to the Breakers that
I
had been given at the rental car desk.
I
was soon driving the wide streets lined with tall coconut palm trees. If wealth had an aroma, it would undulate through the air around you in Palm Beach and make it impossible to breathe any other scent.
I
thought,
I
couldn't count how many chauffeur-driven limousines were parked along the streets or moving around me. I suddenly felt self-conscious driving a midsize, inexpensive rental. It was like going to a party in a pair of jeans and a blouse and finding out everyone else was formally dressed. Some pedestrians who looked my way appeared absolutely indignant. It's just my imagination,
I
told myself, my imagination and my nervousness.
Finally. The Breakers hotel came into view. The palms along the entrance were lit with colored spotlights, and the illuminated twin towers with pennants snapping in the breeze made it look more like a castle than a resort. Maybe I was entering a fantasy after all, I thought, falling through some tunnel like Alice in Wonderland.
The valet parking attendants and the porters swarmed over me when I pulled in. Moments later. I was at the desk, gazing around the lobby and wondering how I had gotten myself here. how I had left my tiny apartment heavy with sorrow and sadness and come so quickly to this glamorous place. The hand-painted ceilings, Venetian chandeliers, and fifteenth-century tapestries showed that the hotel's builders had clearly been heavily influenced by the Italian Renaissance.
'What opulence, I thought. The Breakers was as luxurious a resort as any in the world. There were many women in fancy, expensive dresses and men in tuxedos and designer suits moving through the lobby, their laughter like music building the excitement around me. No wonder my father's travel agent was so interested in why I wanted to come here so soon after my father's passing. This was no stopover and no place for someone in mourning to use as a quiet retreat.
My room had an ocean view. For a few moments after the porter showed me my room and brought in my luggage. I stood by the window gazing. I was mesmerized by the sea. The sight of some vacationers walking on the beach and the sounds of the music I could hear below made me feel strangely invisible.
I
couldn't be part of all that
I
saw and heard-- and yet. I was here.
I
was hungry but decided to remain in my room and just order room service.
I
tried distracting myself with television, but my mind was determined to keep all my fears and questions streaking across the marquee of my attention. Had I made a terrible mistake? Was I foolish to leave school on an impulse? Was I wrong to ignore Amou and Dr. Price and Allan? What was
I
doing here?
I
felt as twisted and knotted inside as a ball of rubber bands. Later, it seemed they were all stretching and snapping in my stomach.
I
was sorry
I
had eaten anything. Pretty soon.
I
vomited: then I curled up in the bed and cried until I welcomed the exhaustion that would carry me off into a few hours of sleep.
My eyes snapped open many times during the night, and when the sunlight penetrated the curtains, they opened again, but
I
was so groggy I forced myself to remain in bed.
I
fell back to sleep, a deeper sleep this time, and when I woke. I glanced at the clock and realized I had only a little more than a half hour to get over to Dr. Anderson's office.
Thrown into a panic.
I
rose, showered, and tried to dress and brush my hair all in less than fifteen minutes. Having any breakfast was out of the question.
I
barely had time to swallow a glass of water. I rushed out of my room and into the lobby. It took longer than I had anticipated getting my car. too. Mercedes, B.M.W's, and Rolls-Royces were all brought up before mine as if they had to get the wellto-do guests away before they were contaminated.
Finally, my car came. and
I
asked directions, trying desperately to absorb what I was being told. Nevertheless. I did get lost. Fortunately, I spotted a police car parked near a curb, and the officers directed me well enough to get me to Dr. Anderson's office only five minutes late.
When I shut off the engine.
I
took some deep breaths and glanced at myself in the visor mirror. I looked like a wild madwoman, just the sort of person who would be coming here. perhaps.
I
closed my eves and swallowed back a lump. It was really like someone experiencing stagefright. For a moment. I couldn't move. Then
I
opened the car door and stepped out.
If ever there was an attempt to hide the real purpose of an office, this was it. The building looked like a residence, and there were no signs announcing whose offices were in there, nothing but simple nameplates near the front door. Apparently, a dentist and an accountant were in the same building. I went inside and found the door to Dr. Anderson's offices on my right.
Dr. Anderson's receptionist looked like someone who was on her way to a formal dinner party. She was at a computer, but she was wearing an elegant knit skirt suit and a pair of what looked like flawless diamond teardrop earrings. She was a very attractive woman, maybe in her mid-thirties, with soft blue eyes and straight, light brown hair.
"Willow De Beers?" she asked before I approached the desk. "Yes. I'm sorry I'm a little late. but I got lost," I explained.
"Late?" She widened her smile. ''Most of Dr. Anderson's patients consider twenty minutes to a half hour late to be on time. We build it into our schedule," she said. "Let me tell him you are here. He'll probably be surprised you're so close to your appointment," she added, and rose to knock on the inner office door. She opened it, leaned in, and announced my arrival.
My heart was thumping so hard I thought I wouldn't be able to take the next step. Would he be like Daddy and see right through my contrived story? But
I
couldn't very well tell him what my father had told only his closest associate and me in his diary. Who knew how he would react, what he would think? If my mother was still in some form of treatment, he might very well blame it on my father's actions, actions any other psychiatrist would certainly consider unprofessional.
I
would be devastated if all I accomplished was to embarrass my father, even though he was gone. In fact, it would be even worse because he was no longer here to defend himself.
"Please show her in," I heard Dr. Anderson say, He had a deep baritone voice.
His receptionist nodded at me and stepped aside as I entered, Dr. Anderson started around his light oak desk. Amou would call him
Uma bebida longa de agua
, "a long drink of water," I thought. He was well over six feet tall, probably six-foot-six or -seven, very slim with a prominent Adam's apple and a sharply jutting chin. His brown eyes were set deeply under a wide forehead, creased with small ripples that reached into his temples. He had a long thin nose but thick lips under a neatly trimmed mustache that had more red in it than brown-- quite similar to my father's. actually. He extended his long hand to me.
"How do you do." he said. "Please," he added, practically tugging me to the soft leather chair in front of his desk. "I heard about your father only a few hours before you phoned my office." he explained, standing there for a moment and nodding at me. "I'm so sorry. He was actually somewhat of a mentor to me. I think I've read everything he's written. What a loss to the world of psychiatric medicine."
"Thank you," I said.
He had a way of folding his arms over his chest and pressing back on his upper torso as if that were the only way he could keep his shoulders straight. Very tall people had a tendency to slouch and diminish the distance between themselves and everyone else, but his posture made him look like an old statue of a cigar-store Indian.
"How can I help you?" he asked, still not moving back to his chair.
Here I go, 1 thought, like some drama student about to step onto the stage for her first performance before a real audience.
"My father taught me that the only way to deal successfully with disappointments, sadness, tragedy, and defeats in life was to immerse yourself
immediately in some productive activity. One thing he would definitely not want is for me to sit at home and mourn him for days and days and drop out of social and educational activities. He would say I was fanning the flames," I added. "Stoking the hot coals of my own misery."
"Yes," Dr. Anderson said, smiling as if he fondly recalled my father saying something similar to him, and then he started around his desk, which looked as if everything on it were arranged in some sort of geometric pattern.
I
glanced around. Unlike Daddy's office, this looked like someone's sitting room at home. The curtains coordinated with the carpet and furniture, as well as the carefully chosen artwork, the vases, and even the artificial flowers that were in those vases. Everything was in harmony.
I
told myself this was actually a place to treat patients, and therefore helping them feel comfortable was important. Daddy's was a work office: all that was in it was arranged for his needs and his pleasure.
"So how are you keeping yourself busy?" Dr. Anderson asked. "I attend the University of North Carolina,
I
was in the middle of a project at school when he passed away."
Dr. Anderson nodded. His eyes seemed to move forward in his shill as he studied me. His staring without speaking began to make me even more nervous. As far as I knew, Daddy never made his patients feel like specimens caught under a
microscope's lens.
I
remember one of his patients' fathers remarking that his daughter thought she was simply having an informal conversation with him. "You don't even realize you're telling him the most intimate things." she'd remarked.
It was a work-study research project. I mean, it is, and it's very important to me,"
I
told Dr, Anderson,
"What is your major?" he asked.
"Oh. Sorry. I am going into psychology"
"I should have guessed," he said, smiling. He put his elbows on his desk and pressed his palms against his chest, as if he were once again doing something to keep his shoulders back. "What's your project?"