Which is very, very wrong because there is no river there. The bridge with the river rushing under it is the bridge near the plant. The bridge between the church and the library, which is the bridge covered in Santas in this picture, is the bridge over the ravine.
I think about it for a long time, and here is what I think: Maybe there used to be many rivers in Bourne but most of them died or left or dried up, just like there used to be many people in Bourne but most of them died or left or dried up too. Maybe the river we know now is a twin of this old one, or maybe even there used to be more, triplet rivers, but the other ones did not survive. A lot of times when there is more than one baby in one womb only one of them lives long enough to be born, and even though I do not like to think about it, it is true anyway.
But this Santa river did not die in the womb. It lived for at least a while. Because here it is, alive and well, in 1963, but now, fifty-five years later, it is nowhere to be seen.
Three
Nora has her calendar on her phone, her computer, and longhand in a daily planner, and she still can’t keep it straight. But it lives in my head with just about everything else. This is how I know Apple Templeton is Nora’s last patient of the day, and it is why I go so far as to aspirate applesauce over breakfast: so Nora will definitely bring me to work with her.
I realize the odds are long that Apple will confess in therapy the nature and whereabouts of a piece of paper her father-in-law is desperate to keep us from finding because it’s incontrovertibly damning evidence Nora can give Russell who can present it to a judge who will stop the reopening of the plant and shut Belsum down forever. Not to mention anything she did disclose would be subject to doctor-patient confidentiality and therefore inadmissible in court. But it’s all we’ve got. So here I am.
Before we get to Apple, though, I have to sit through all her other patients for the day. I considered aspirating applesauce at school, getting sent home at lunch, and thereby skipping Nora’s morning patients, but I couldn’t risk her canceling her afternoon altogether to take care of me.
First up this morning is Pastor Jeff. He and Nora get together every week to take stock of their flock, to discuss who they’re worried about, who’s fallen off the wagon, who’s fallen into despair, who’s strong this week and could maybe help, who’s not and should be a recipient. They corner, between them, each Bourner’s holy trinity—Nora treats their minds, Jeff their bodies and souls—and they have decided, heart to heart, that neither the sanctity of the church nor that of the clinic is breached by their comparing notes and tag-teaming outreach. Working together is their only shot at handling their always overfull patient loads. It’s not as if either, at this late date, expects God to intervene.
This morning Pastor Jeff settles into the orange sofa, leans forward, and says quietly, “You know who I’m worried about this week, Nora?”
She opens her notebook to a clean page. “Who?”
“You.”
She closes the notebook.
“Jeff, I’m fine.”
“I don’t think you are.” He looks at me. “Mirabel, do you think your mother’s fine?” I teeter-totter my hand, an impressively comprehensive answer to a complex question.
Pastor Jeff nods like this is the profound wisdom of the sages. “See? Mirabel thinks so too, and she’s more observant than anyone. You seem”—he pauses and settles on understatement—“tired.”
She snorts. “Not sure that insight requires either a girl genius or a medical man of the cloth.”
“Tireder,” he amends, and when she doesn’t respond adds, “Than usual,” and when that still gets nothing, “Remember those weighted mats Tom gave Mirabel?”
“Yeah?”
“I think we can learn a lot from those mats.” My mother and I look at him like he’s crazy. “It might be time to lay it down and get over it.”
Nora’s face closes. “It’s not time.”
“It’s not good for you, the stress and anger you’re carrying around, have been carrying around for so long.”
“You’ve never supported the lawsuit, Jeff.”
“That’s true.” The whole heavenly justice thing. “But I’ve always supported you.”
“Yes. You have. So why quit now?”
“This is how I’m supporting you. I’m inviting you to lay it down and get over it. Admit you tried as hard as you could, and it didn’t work. You didn’t win.” He shrugs. “Sometimes that happens.”
“This lawsuit isn’t just some game it’s fine to lose. It’s not sour grapes. It’s not me being a spoilsport.”
“No one said it was.” And when she opens her mouth to protest, he raises a hand and rephrases his point before she can leap on it. “No one here said it was.”
“Everyone—everyone—dropped off the suit. I’ve been working on this for sixteen years. This was not meant to be my life’s work.”
“Your life’s not actually over yet,” he points out gently. “Sixteen years is what, Nora? Twenty percent of a life?”
“Depends.” She meets his wet eyes with her wet eyes. He nods. There is no arguing that. “We’re finally close, I think, and if I stop now, it dies. If I don’t do this, no one will.”
“I’m not disagreeing. I’m saying maybe letting it die is okay. In case what you need is permission to quit, to stop suing and stop fighting and just lose, I’m saying it’s okay.”
“Fine. Noted.” She rearranges her face from riled back to professional. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“How are you holding up?”
For he is her only therapist and she his only minister. “Oh, you know, the usual. Doctoring. Pastoring. Learning to sew.”
“You’re not getting a lot of rest either, Jeff,” my mother says gently.
“We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Agreed. So what are you giving me shit for?”
“That’s my job,” he says.
* * *
In the afternoon, Apple does a monologue. Most of Nora’s patients like the back-and-forth. She asks a question; they answer; she asks; they answer. But Apple is doing a monologue. More accurately, Monday would insist, Apple is doing a tirade.
“It’s all my mother’s fault I married Nathan Templeton. Isn’t that the point of therapy? Tracing your neuroses backward until you can blame it on your parents? Then good news: I’m cured. My appalling marriage is entirely my mother’s fault. She did warn me. This I admit. I’d like to say I had no idea what I was getting into, but it isn’t true. This is the problem with old-world wealth. It comes off as stuffy and priggish when you’re nineteen. First, she brought in my grandmother to talk to me. Grandma said, ‘You’re too good for him,’ but I thought she just meant she loved me so much no one would be good enough for me. Grandma said, ‘He’s got more dollars than sense,’ but she always did love a pun, obviously. But Grandma was—I don’t know—bohemian, I guess. What rich people call a free spirit. She never wore shoes. She was always packing picnics. Clearly she had a thing for trees. She was an artist, back when women—especially rich women from good families—weren’t artists, or anything else really. She was the one who designed the window in your library, you know.”