“She won’t speak to me,” I interrupt. “But I won’t allow him to keep Penelope from me.”
“Keeping her from you?”
Vera is a writer. She picks words apart. Keeping her—the expression bothers her, I can tell. Keeping her implies he’s physically restraining her somehow. It seems like an odd realization, the possibility of such a thing.
“You believe Edward is keeping Penelope from you?”
“When I say he’s keeping her from me, I don’t mean physically, I mean maybe he didn’t tell her where I am. Or he told her lies about me. Or maybe . . . maybe she isn’t well.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Marleen . . .” I pause. How do I tell her about the voices I heard? The pills Marleen gives me. The key she hides. Do I say a series of strange and unsettling incidents has occurred over the past few days? No, that sounds melodramatic.
“Vera, I need you to do something for me.”
“Okay?”
“Your driver.” I pause briefly. I must think this through, slow down. “I want your driver to take me to see Edward. I want him to take me to Edward.”
“Do you even know where he lives? I thought you haven’t been speaking to him? He might be remarried. Have you ever thought about that?”
“I don’t care, I need to talk to him.”
“Maybe Marleen—”
“No, I don’t trust her,” I cut Vera off. “I don’t trust her anymore.”
Vera takes in a deep breath and blows it out. She isn’t fond of Marleen.
“That one,” Vera says and her lips turn downward, “I’ve never been sure what to make of her. I have an eye for such things, you know.”
My phone beeps. It says, your appointment with Dr. Jacobson is in 10 minutes. I have all but forgotten about it. I need to talk to somebody about what’s been happening to me and what’s been making me so anxious. Restless, Marleen called my mood and made an appointment.
Vera stares at my phone and chuckles. “Jacobson, huh? Quacks they are, all of them.”
“Please call your driver, Vera.”
“Of course, dear. Don’t you worry.”
* * *
• • •
Dr. Jacobson’s office is in the west wing of the main building. There’s also a dentist and a chiropractor. Right next door is a movie theater made to look like one of those old-timey cinemas with Art Deco features back when movies were a big deal. It has velvety red curtains and a carpeted floor and I have to say they keep it immaculate. No lopsided seats or abandoned popcorn boxes—I used to take Penelope to many movies when she was young—but I’m not fond of the movie nights Vera tries to talk me into. Too much whispering and overly air-conditioned, people stepping on your feet when they pass. I have seen a couple of movies with Vera but I always show up late to avoid the previews.
I pass the marquee of the theater and enter Dr. Jacobson’s office. Her waiting room smells of some artificial fresh linen scent, nothing one would encounter in real life. I might tell her a bamboo plant would go a long way in freshening up the air but seconds after I push the button to indicate my presence, the door opens. I hardly have enough time to look around.
Dr. Jacobson is younger than I expected. Black, shiny hair, not a single line of gray disturbs the perfection. Her front teeth overlap, which gives her a touch of approachability. She’s petite, her skin flawless. We shake hands and hers is cool to the touch as the alcohol of the hand sanitizer wafts off her skin.
“We haven’t met yet, have we, Mrs. Pryor?” she asks.
“You must know everything about everyone living here? Oh, the gossip you could share,” I reply. Vera would never forgive me if I didn’t ask.
“I can’t tell you any gossip, you know that,” she says and winks at me with her left eye. “Let’s get acquainted, shall we?”
Dr. Jacobson’s office is a beautiful space. I assess the candleholders and the paintings, the rug, the desk. Everything is styled to perfection, the color scheme is taupe, white, and sapphire blue. The chair is a deep azure velvet, her couch the finest Italian leather. I sit and my hands stroke the cushions. Its soft surface is, like her, exquisite. The windows are set high so there’s really no view to speak of. I wonder if she wants her patients not to get distracted. I assume her to be in her late forties, maybe early fifties, her face too slim and structured for jowls to give her age away, one of those women who has never gained or lost a single pound, which is really the only way to keep a face in shape. She wears lots of eye makeup, which distracts from her slightly drooping lids. I decide on forty-five, which seems like a safe bet.
“Tell me why you wanted to see me.”
“There’s been some anxiety lately,” I start off and cross my legs. Ten years ago we might have been friends, yet here we are, doctor and patient.
“I haven’t heard from my daughter in over a year. I’m not sure what is going on and my husband . . .” I pause then correct myself. “My estranged husband won’t return my calls.”
A pause. “Are you divorced or estranged?”
“I wouldn’t know. Estranged for sure, the rest is just a formality, right?”
She writes down every word. Entire sentences—I can tell by the way the pen stroke reaches from the very left of the page all the way to the right—not just bullet points. I can’t imagine that I’m telling her anything that needs writing down.
“Tell me about Penelope?”
I don’t remember having mentioned her name. I give her the story in a nutshell: my marriage, Penelope being a difficult child, a trying teenager, the ensuing tension. My accident. The shattered hip. The subsequent depression. My recovery.
“What role did Edward play in all of this?”
I don’t recall having told her his name either but maybe I have. I must have, how else would she know? Assigning guilt is difficult. It challenges the limits of my memory—which is not the same thing as lying at all—but I don’t know what to make of his role.
“We did not not split on good terms.” I remain vague and uncross my legs. “But I think he was trying to get rid of me. That’s why I have a suspicion that he’s keeping my daughter from me. Or maybe he told her lies about me. And there is a possibility that everyone is in on it but me.”
She remains quiet and takes notes.
“Everyone,” I repeat and watch her closely.
“Your daughter is how old?” she asks, ignoring my comment altogether.