Butterfield Institute - 01 - The Halo Effect (31 page)

“It’s possible.”

He didn’t say anything, just turned and walked toward the bathroom. Each step taking him farther away, making it more
and more possible that I was right. If I had been wrong he would have defended himself. He would have fought back. Gotten angry. But he was retreating. The way someone would if he was guilty.

I heard the water in the shower. And I started to imagine it hitting his skin the way I had with my fists the night before.

While he was in the bathroom I got dressed and left his apartment. I didn’t leave a note.

He had only wanted what he wanted. But I wasn’t going to give it to him. It wasn’t his to have. Cleo might still be alive. Her disappearance might not be tied to the other killings. I had to operate from that assumption.

I stomped down the steps. Angry with myself. I’d thought he’d been interested in me when it was the information he’d wanted all along.

I knew better. I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book.

When I got to the street I wiped away the tears. What? I didn’t cry. But I was crying. Over him? A man who had simply figured out where I was vulnerable? Good for him. No. Fuck him. Just fuck Detective Noah Jordain. And then I laughed, a choking sound with a mix of the leftover tears caught up in the ironic chuckle. That’s what I’d just done, wasn’t it?

I
went home, showered again, got dressed, made coffee, drank it, and it was still only ten o’clock. With two hours left before I was meeting Mitch and Dulcie, and nothing to fill them with, I went to the office.

There were messages on my machine, and as I listened, I made a list of whom I’d have to call back. The last one was from Elias, who sounded even more exhausted than the last time I’d heard from him. For a minute, I imagined him standing next to Noah. In their own way they were both attractive. But so different from each other. Elias was polished, every inch the corporate lawyer. I could have just as easily wound up making a fool of myself with someone like Elias, I thought. He’d have less reason to use me.

“Morgan, give me a call. I sent the police a ransom note early this morning. I know you told me not to. But something has to jump-start them into finding out where Cleo is.” Then he sighed. A beat of silence. In the silence I could hear what
sounded like a voice on his television. It was a woman—or a young girl—crying.

The way I felt. The way Elias felt.

I thought about calling him back and urging him to tell the police he’d planted the note, and then I thought about calling Noah and telling him that when the note came he should ignore it. But I didn’t want to talk to Noah. Except I couldn’t keep that information to myself. With all they had to do, I couldn’t allow the police to be sent off on a wild-goose chase when they were trying to solve real cases.

I called the precinct house and left a message. The operator told me that Noah was in, that I could talk to him myself, but I said no, I just had a message for him. And dictated it to her.

“Tell him the ransom note is fake. That Elias Beecher sent it to him to get him to take Cleo’s disappearance more seriously.”

She read it back to me and then I hung up.

As it turned out, it was the only smart thing I did that day.

M
itch and Dulcie were already waiting for me at the Boathouse restaurant in Central Park. Sitting on the deck, by the railing, both of them were twisted in their seats, looking out at the lake and the people rowing across its smooth surface. I stopped a few feet away, watching them, just enjoying the peaceful ease of the way they were together.

If Mitch and I had done a hundred things wrong, what we had done with Dulcie was right. The night with Noah bothered me even more now than it had earlier, and I yearned to go back in time to the moment Mitch had first said we should separate. This time I would have fought harder to keep us together.

My tears started up again. Damn. So before either of them noticed I was there, I turned and went to the ladies’ room.

After a few minutes of square breathing, and doing some internal talking with myself, I was okay. The therapist in me knew that the past twenty-four hours had been like a seismic
shift, and even if my head didn’t want to deal with it, my body did. My skin, my lips, my shoulders, my back, my thighs, were all suddenly aware. I had been seduced, explored, rubbed raw and made love to. I had opened up—to Noah. I couldn’t just take all the pieces of me that he’d shaken up and fit them back into place. They’d swollen and altered. They didn’t match up anymore.

By the time dessert came, my cell phone had rung twice, but I’d let both calls go unanswered. I checked the numbers, but only in case either was a patient in crisis.

Neither had been. One call had been from Elias. The other from Nina.

“Mom?”

This was a signal. Whenever Dulcie and I were together and she started talking to me by saying my name with a question mark at the end of it, I knew something serious was coming.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

She looked from me to her father. This was obviously a rehearsed moment. Something was coming. Something they had talked about.

The sun, which had been hidden behind clouds for the past half hour, emerged again and lit up the red highlights in her hair. There were some edges on her face that hadn’t been there a week ago. Or maybe they had been, but I hadn’t noticed them. Dulcie was moving toward being a teenager. It was something we would endure.

I loved my daughter. I loved her more than anything in the world. I would die for her. But I knew that the next few years were going to be impossibly hard, and as every parent of every teenage girl who is honest knows, these upcoming years would try our relationship.

“Mom, I have this incredible chance to get a lead in a great play.”

Why had there been collusion between the two of them over this? She was doing a play every other week at drama school, so this wasn’t something I needed to be prepared for.

“What play?”

“A new musical version of
The Secret Garden
.”

It was our favorite book when she had been younger. I’d read it to her out loud when she was only six, and when she was good enough at reading, it was the first book she’d chosen to read on her own.

“That’s terrific. What’s the problem?”

Another look between father and daughter.

“What is it—a nude production? Then, no, you can’t do it.”

We all laughed. But I could tell Dulcie was still struggling. In the silence that followed my question, she ran her finger up and down her water glass, making designs in the condensation.

“Dulcie?”

“It’s not a play at drama school. It’s actually on Broadway. On Broadway! The director came to the academy and watched us work. Then he asked me and two other girls to come and audition this week. So can I? Dad said we all have to agree.”

Damn Mitch. Would it have been so hard to give me a heads-up? He was still a kid, just like Dulcie. And in one split second I remembered that it wasn’t the boring sex and my work that had driven us apart and had kept me from fighting to stay married. It was this: his total inability to deal with difficult things in a grown-up way.

“When would this happen?” I asked.

“It’s on Wednesday at two,” she said.

“No, I mean the play. When would the play go to Broadway?”

Mitch took over now, explaining that it would be a fall premier and that the producers would provide tutoring for the run of the play.

I didn’t even give it a minute. Not even twenty seconds.

“No.”

“Mo-om.” It was a plaintive plea, but it had no effect on me.

“Don’t even try to talk me into this. How many times have we talked this through? It’s one thing if you want to be in school plays and do things like the academy for the summer. But you are not turning pro at twelve. No. It’s not happening.”

“Morgan,” Mitch said calmly, “I know that you think it’s too much pressure on Dulcie, on any teenager, to do something like this but—”

I interrupted him, turning to my daughter. “I know how talented you are. I know how good you are going to be at this one day. But it’s too soon. It’s not an easy life. You have your whole life ahead of you to do what you want, but it’s just too soon for you to become a professional actress.”

Dulcie was crying. Softly. Silently. But large tears were rolling down her full, peachy cheeks. I pushed my food away, my appetite gone, my stomach churning. I turned to Mitch. “This is the worst kind of thing we can do. You know that, Mitch. We can’t play good cop, bad cop with our daughter.”

“Look at her,” Mitch said, still trying to convince me. It would be like bending a steel cable with his hands. “She loves it. She’s great at it. The producers bring in the best tutors.”

I didn’t know what to do, what to say, how to say it. Watching my daughter cry as if her damn life were ending was as
painful as the memories I had of watching my mother come back from auditions that hadn’t gone well.

“Dulcie, you have to understand. I know it sounds like fun, but it’s work. It’s pressure. You will have to worry about things you don’t need to worry about now. Critics, fans. It’s crazy. It throws your life out of whack….”

She wasn’t listening to a word I was saying. She had shut down. Her face was a portrait of sorrow.

“Your father may not get it. But I do. I know what you are doing. Playing the part. You are so good at this, Dulcie. But I’m not capitulating.”

My perfect daughter, long, silky, russet-streaked hair, wide eyes sparkling with tears, rosebud mouth turned down at the corners. She looked so much like photographs of my own mother it made me shiver.

For a second she didn’t say a word. Held the moment. Where had she learned this stuff?

“You think you’re helping me? Like you help those people who come to your office? You aren’t. You aren’t helping them, you aren’t helping me. You just talk. Talk. Lots of talk. You used to help people before you went to the Butterfield Institute. When you were a regular shrink. You used to be fair then. You used to really do something. Not like now. Now you just worry about other people’s sex lives and come home and make me miserable. You can make all the rules you want, Mom. But you can’t make a rule about how I feel about you. And if you don’t let me do this, I’ll hate you forever.”

My hand flew up, as if powered with a force of its own, but I did not make contact with my daughter’s cheek. I had never hit her in my life. I wouldn’t now. But I wanted to. She had made me that angry. Now the tears came to my eyes.

She just looked at me. She glared. It was an adult look, full of compassion turned to anger and real dislike. My daughter
was staring at me the way I had seen people in prison look at the guards who admonished them.

Around our table there was an instantaneous hush. Other people had seen our little drama playing out and were watching intently, waiting for the next scene to start.

“Dulcie, I’m sorry I raised my hand. But when you say things like that—when you say you will hate someone forever—you have to understand how provocative that is. How hard it is to hear.”

“I don’t have to understand a single, solitary thing if I don’t want to.
You
don’t. You don’t understand a single, solitary thing about how I feel and why I want to do this play. You haven’t even asked me.”

The waiter, who had been hovering, came over now to clear our plates.

“I’d like a cup of coffee, please,” I said to him. And Mitch ordered one, too. “Dulcie, sweetie, do you want anything else?” I asked.

She looked up at the waiter as if nothing was wrong, as if she was on stage and this was one of her moments. “No. Thank you. Not now.”

He nodded, left. She turned to me, her small hands upturned on the table as if opening herself to me.

“Mom. The audition is on Wednesday. At two. If you aren’t there, I will find some way to live with that. But I won’t forget it. You know I won’t.”

It was an astonishing performance. Over the years she had heard enough of my jargon to be able to string the words together like that, but what was equally impressive was the presence she had when she said it, the way she spoke softly and then raised her voice just enough to make a point. If the room had been darkened and the spotlight had been shining on her, everyone would be clapping now.

The waiter brought the coffee.

“Morgan, are you all right?” Mitch asked.

I had been staring at Dulcie, trying to see her—not my daughter, but the person. The vulnerable, yearning child. Where did she pull the drama from? The characters? Why did she need to? That was the question that plagued me the most. Where had I failed her so that she needed this artifice?

Dulcie was now coolly eyeing me, sending me signals, and I knew, wishing me dead. I knew. I, too, had thought it would be easier if my mother had been dead and the burden of her love and her disappointments had been lifted from my shoulders.

But when she was dead, I was just left, another lost girl, wishing I could have her back. And now, in a way, she had returned to haunt me.

Dulcie was so like all the women, younger and older, who came to me for help. Except I couldn’t help them all. I hadn’t helped Cleo and now she was missing. I hadn’t overcome my own issues to help my daughter. And if I couldn’t, she might go missing, too. Her eyes were telling me that.

“You have to understand—” I said to Dulcie.

“No, I don’t. Not if I don’t want to.” She shook her head and her hair moved, catching the light. The tears had dried, but I could still see where they had stained her face. I wanted to dip my napkin into the glass of ice water and wash them away. But I knew she wouldn’t let me. She wasn’t my baby anymore. She was going to be thirteen in another few weeks. She had stepped up to the next rung, where you are half adult, half child.

“No, Mom, I don’t have to understand anything. But you do.”

A
s the taxi driver sped off, I turned around and watched Mitch and Dulcie walking in the opposite direction. I put my hand up to the window in a futile effort to touch her soft hair. But she was already far away.