They say a daughter becomes some variation of her mother. A different reading of an old script. A new interpretation of an existing character.
I studied the face so vigilantly preserved by creams and lifts and injections. By wide-brimmed hats in summer and long cashmere scarves in winter. The flesh was looser, the wrinkles deeper, the lids a bit droopy. Otherwise, it was the mirrored reflection I’d seen at the CMPD. The green eyes, the set jaw.
The air of tension. Of guardedness.
I knew I resembled my mother physically. But I’d always believed the similarity ended there. That I was an exception. A contradiction to the rule.
I was not my mother. I never would be.
Physicians, psychiatrists, psychologists. So many diagnoses. Bipolar. Schizoaffective. Schizobipolar. Disorder of the moment. Choose your favorite.
Lithium. Carbamazepine. Lamotrigine. Diazepam. Lorazepam.
No medication ever worked for long. No treatment ever stuck. For weeks my mother would be the warm, vibrant person I loved, a woman who brought sunshine into every room she entered. Happy, funny, clever. Then the demons would claim her again.
Bottom line: my mother is as loony as a bag of squirrels.
Throughout my childhood, each time the blackness descended, Mama would pack her Louis Vuittons; kiss my sister, Harry, and me; and disappear in the old Buick with Daddy at the wheel. Later Gran.
But there were no public hospitals for Daisy Brennan, née Katherine Daessee Lee. Over the years Mama visited dozens of private facilities, each with a name that promised healing in the bosom of nature. Silver Birch. Whispering Oaks. Sunny Valley.
Mama never made an encore appearance. Always something was lacking. The food. The room. The attentiveness of the staff.
Until Heatherhill. Here the menu suited, and she had her own room and bath. And after so many visits, she was now welcome to stay as long as she liked. As long as the Lee family trust ponied up.
Mama spoke without meeting my eyes, voice low and honeyed as Charleston in August. “ ‘In that other room I shall be able to see.’ ”
The quote sent cold rippling across my chest. “Helen Keller.” Mama loved Keller’s story, retold it often when Harry and I were kids.
Mama nodded.
“She was speaking of death.”
“I’m old, darlin’. It happens to all of us.”
Was this a ruse? A new ploy to gain my attention? A delusion?
“Look at me, Mama.” More stern than I’d intended.
For the first time she rotated to face me. Her expression was serene, her gaze clear and composed. The sunshine Mama.
When I was younger, I’d have tried to force an explanation. I knew better now. “I’ll speak to Dr. Finch.”
“That’s an excellent idea.” The manicured hand slipped free of mine and patted my knee. “No sense spoiling the little time we have together.”
Behind us, the glass door opened. Closed again.
“How about you, darlin’? What’s on your plate these days?”
“Nothing extraordinary.” Murdered children. A depraved killer I’d hoped to never encounter again.
“Are you still seeing your young man?”
That threw me. “What young man?”
“Your French-Canadian detective. Are you two still an item?”
The million-dollar question. But how did Mama know?
“Did Harry tell you I was dating?” Really? Dating? Did that term even apply to the complex rituals of those over forty?
“ ’Course she did. Your sister and I have no secrets.”
“Harry could use a bit of discretion.”
“Harry is fine.”
If four husbands, obsessive overindulgence, and an insatiable need for male attention classifies as fine.
Mama leaned close and did something with her eyebrows meant to encourage shared intimacy.
There was no point denying her. “I haven’t seen him recently.”
“Oh, dear. Did he dump you?”
“His daughter died. He needs to be alone for a while.”
“Died?” The perfectly plucked brows arched up.
“She was ill.” True enough.
“Oh, how very, very sad.”
“Yes.”
“Do you still hear from— What’s this gentleman’s name?”