Private Eyes

I nodded and waited.

She said, “She feels so guilty, but really she was wonderful. Patient. Never grumpy. She never raised her voice. When I was little and couldn’t sleep- before you cured me- she’d hold me and kiss me and tell me over and over that I was wonderful and beautiful, the best little girl in the world, and that the future was my golden apple. Even if I kept her up all night. Even if I wet the bed and soaked her sheets, she’d just hold me. In the wet sheets. And tell me she loved me, that everything would be okay. That’s the kind of person she is and I wanted to help her- to give some of that kindness back.”

She buried her face in the tissue. It turned into a sodden lump and I gave her another.

After a while she dried her eyes and looked up. “Finally, after months of talking, after we’d both cried ourselves dry, I got her to agree that if I found the right doctor, she’d try. A doctor who would come to the house. But I didn’t do anything for a while because I had no idea where to find a doctor like that. I made a few calls, but the ones who phoned me back said they didn’t do house calls. I got the feeling they weren’t taking me seriously, because of my age. I even thought of calling you.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was embarrassed. Pretty foolish, huh?”

“Not at all.”

“Anyway, then I read the article. It sounded perfect. I called their clinic and spoke to her- the wife. She said yes, they could help, but that I couldn’t arrange treatment for someone else. The patients themselves had to call to set it up. That they insisted upon that, only accepted patients who were motivated. She made it sound like applying to college- as if they got tons of applications but only took a few. So I talked to Mother, told her I’d found someone, gave her the number and told her to call. She got really scared- started to have one of her attacks.”

“What’s that like?”

“She turns pale and grabs her chest and begins breathing really hard and fast. Gasping, as if she can’t get any breath in. Sometimes she faints.”

“Pretty scary.”

“I guess,” she said. “For someone seeing it for the first time. But like I said, I’d grown up with it, so I knew she wasn’t in any danger. That probably sounds cruel but that’s the way it is.”

I said, “No, it doesn’t. You understood what was happening. Could put it in context.”

“Yes. Exactly. So I just waited until the attack was over- they usually don’t last more than a few minutes and then she gets really tired and goes to sleep for a couple of hours. But I wouldn’t let her sleep this time. I held her and kissed her and started talking to her, very quietly and calmly. About how the attacks were terrible, how I knew she felt terrible, but didn’t she want to try to get rid of them? Not to feel like that anymore? She started crying. And saying yes, she did want that. Yes, she would try, she promised, but not right now, she was too weak. So I let her off the hook, and nothing happened for weeks. Finally, my patience ran out. I went up to her room, dialed the number in front of her, asked for Dr. Ursula, and handed her the phone. And stood over her. Like this.”

Rising, she folded both arms over her chest and put on a stern look.

“I guess I caught her off guard, because she took the phone, began talking to Dr. Ursula. Doing a lot of listening and nodding, mostly, but at the end of it she’d made an appointment.”

She let her arms drop and sat back down.

“Anyway, that’s how it happened, and it seems to be helping her.”

“How long’s she been in treatment?”

“About a year- it’ll be a year this month.”

“Does she see both Gabneys?”

“At first they both came to the house. With a black bag and all sorts of equipment- I guess they were giving her a physical. Then only Dr. Ursula came, and all she brought was a notebook and a pen. She and Mother spent hours together up in Mother’s room- every day, even weekends. For weeks. Then finally they came downstairs, walked around the house. Talking. Like friends.”

Punctuating friends with just a hint of frown.

“What they talked about I couldn’t tell you, because she- Dr. Ursula- was always careful to keep Mother away from everyone- the staff, me. Not by actually coming out and saying it- she just has a way of looking at you that lets you know you’re not supposed to be there.”

Another frown.

“Finally, after about a month, they went outside. To the grounds. Strolling. Did that for a long time- months- with no progress that I could see. Mother had always been able to do that by herself. Without treatment. That phase seemed to be going on forever and no one was telling me anything about what was going on. I began to wonder if they- if she knew what she was doing. If I’d done the right thing by bringing her into our home. The one time I tried to ask about it was pretty unpleasant.”

She stopped, wrung her hands.

I said, “What happened?”

“I caught up with Dr. Ursula at the end of a session, just as she was getting into her car, and asked her how Mother was doing. She just smiled and told me everything was going well. Clearly letting me know it was none of my business. Then she asked me if anything was troubling me- but not as if she cared. Not the way you’d say it. I felt she was putting me down- analyzing me. It was creepy. I couldn’t wait to get away from her!”

She’d raised her voice, was nearly shouting. Realized it and blushed and covered her mouth.

I gave a reassuring smile.

“But then afterward,” she said, “I could understand it. I guess. The need for confidentiality. I started to think back and remembered how it had been with my therapy. I was always asking you all those questions- about other kids- just to see if you’d break the secret. Testing you. And then I felt very good, very comforted, when you didn’t give in.” She smiled. “That was terrible, wasn’t it? Testing you like that.”

“A hundred percent normal,” I said.

She laughed. “Well, you passed the test, Dr. Delaware.” The blush deepened. She turned away. “You helped me a lot.”

“I’m glad, Melissa. Thanks for saying so.”

“Must be a pleasant job,” she said, “being a therapist. Getting to tell people they’re okay all the time. Not having to cause pain, like other doctors.”

“Sometimes it does get painful, but overall you’re right. It is a great job.”

“Then how come you don’t do it anymo- I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “No topic’s off limits here, as long as you can tolerate not always getting an answer.”

She laughed. “There you go, doing it again. Telling me I’m okay.”

“You are okay.”

She touched a finger to the paperweight, then retracted it. “Thank you. For everything you did for me. Not only did you get rid of my fears, you also showed me people can change- they can win. It’s hard to see that sometimes, when you’re stuck in the middle of something. I’ve thought of studying psychology myself. Maybe becoming a therapist.”

“You’d make a good one.”

“Do you really think so?” she said, facing me and brightening.

“Yes, I do. You’re smart. You care about people. And you’re patient- from what you’ve told me about getting your mother help, you have tremendous patience.”

“Well,” she said, “I love her. I don’t know if I’d be patient with someone else.”

“It would probably be easier, Melissa.”

“Yes, I guess that’s true. ’Cause to tell the truth, I didn’t feel patient while it was happening- all her resistance and stalling. There were times I even wanted to scream at her, tell her to just get up and change. But I couldn’t. She’s my mother. She’s always been wonderful to me.”

I said, “But now, after going to all the trouble of getting her into treatment, you have to watch her and Dr. Ursula stroll the grounds for months. With nothing happening. That really tries your patience.”