Bittersweet Dreams Read online

  She did such a good job on my father that he postponed an important business meeting to come home early. She was very clever about it all, too. When she picked up Allison and me, she never mentioned Mr. Martin’s call and how she had panicked my father. I even wondered if Mr. Martin had decided to wait to see how our little nontalk affected me. After all, he and the other professionals were being paid to handle the problems at school. In a private school like ours, they did all they could to avoid laying any concerns on the parents of these privileged children. The last thing they wanted to hear was something like “Why am I paying all this money to send her here?”

  Allison had been invited to a classmate’s birthday party this coming Friday. The mother was one of Julie’s garden party crowd, and of course wealthy and therefore, in Julie’s mind, very important. She wanted to be sure Allison had a new dress and matching shoes. That was all she talked about during the ride home; she had already gone to her favorite boutique and set aside a few things for Allison to try on. She wanted Allison to have her hair done on Friday after school and had made an appointment.

  “You’ll have a manicure, too,” she said. “You show your friends how much you care about them when you spend time on what you will wear and how you will look at their parties. It’s simply good etiquette. And,” she added, mostly for my benefit, I’m sure, “it’s very nice that you are invited to parties, the more important parties.”

  Allison glanced at me to see my reaction. I just smiled at her. She looked grateful for that. Lately, she had been trying to get closer to me. She asked me even more questions concerning her schoolwork. Even after I gave her answers or helped her understand something, she lingered, hoping, I was sure, for me to say something personal. Julie usually gave her a look of reprimand if she saw that she was spending too much time with me. All that did was make Allison nervous. The truth was that despite her friends and going to parties, Allison was as lonely as I was. I sensed that she missed her father and couldn’t condemn him as completely as Julie would like. It always would be a source of tension between them.

  Julie was destroying her own daughter, I thought, and she didn’t even know it.

  Maybe, in the end, she would destroy me, too.

  13

  I was surprised to see my father’s car at the house this early in the day, but then I thought about my meeting with Mr. Martin and imagined that he had reached him at work. I was still thinking that Julie didn’t know about it.

  “Oh, Daddy’s home,” Allison said, glancing at me. “He’s never home this early.”

  Julie was watching me in the rearview mirror. “He’s waiting for you in the living room, Mayfair. I called him immediately when I received the call from Mr. Martin,” she said with a cold smile. “Allison, I want you to go up to your room. This is something Mayfair’s father and I have to discuss with her and her only.”

  Allison looked to me immediately, but I gave her no hint of anything. In fact, I tried to look as uninterested and bored as I was with most things her mother planned. She got out quickly and hurried into the house.

  “Couldn’t wait to call him, could you?” I asked Julie as she started after Allison.

  “Of course. He’d be more upset if I had waited.”

  When we entered, I hesitated in the hallway. I had no idea what I was going to give him as an excuse for my new academic suicide. Of course I was expecting him to be very angry, especially after the way Julie had surely presented it all to him, but he surprised me.

  “Hey, May,” he said when I stepped into the living-room doorway. “C’mon in. I came home to talk to you.”

  I nodded at him and sat, still holding my books in my arms. Allison had already gone upstairs. Julie sat beside him on the settee, doing her best to look like she really was concerned. Why is he so blind?

  “Julie tells me that the school contacted us today,” he began.

  “School? How does a school contact someone?”

  “No games, okay? Your guidance counselor, Mr. Martin, phoned. Julie called me to tell me, and I called him back as soon as I could. Apparently, you have been on some kind of academic strike or something, and no one can understand why. So, why?”

  I looked away. There were so many other ways he should have known I wasn’t happy, but it was always my schoolwork, my intellectual achievements, that drew his attention first and foremost. Didn’t he notice the changes in me, my clothes, my whole demeanor? Didn’t he think it had something to do with deep emotion and not something intellectual? Was he that oblivious to my feelings?

  Maybe in his mind now, I was what my uncle Justin had once called me in jest, nothing more than a walking computer. Maybe he thought I plugged myself into the internet when I went to sleep, and kilobytes of information began flowing into my brain like a blood transfusion. Maybe he had given up on thinking of me the way a father would think of his daughter. I had metamorphosed into some alien creature living in his home.

  Daddy, Daddy, I heard myself cry inside like a little girl feeling herself fall into a dark and frightening dream. Can’t you see me anymore?

  “It’s very confusing to all of us, Mayfair,” he continued. “As far as I know, you were free to follow your own interests as long as you did what was required, and that was never much of a challenge for you. Is this all because of what happened with those girls?”

  First Mr. Martin and now him, I thought. Everyone always looked for the easiest solution.

  “I told you. I couldn’t care less about them and all that now. I’m not starving for friends and invitations to stupid parties. I don’t care if I ever make the social page,” I added, looking pointedly at Julie.

  “But what happened to change your feelings about all that? You did ask Julie to help you with your clothes, your makeup and hair, and—”

  “I thought it was important. I was wrong. I realized how vapid I was in danger of becoming.”

  “Vapid?” Julie said.

  “Dull, insipid,” I defined. “No one’s ever called you that?”

  “Stop it, Mayfair. We’re here to talk about you.”

  “Yes, we wondered why you stopped taking care of yourself,” Julie said.

  “We?”

  “Julie and I did discuss it, Mayfair.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly refer to it as taking care of myself,” I said.

  “You know what we mean, Mayfair,” my father said, looking disgusted with me.

  “I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t the most important thing.”

  “But feeling good about how you look is important,” my father followed. “And I saw that you did feel better about yourself. What happened to change your mind about it? Obviously, it’s affecting more than a potential social life now. Is it boy trouble?”

  I didn’t say anything. Why didn’t he ask me this earlier? Why did it take a call from the school to open his eyes? He glanced at Julie, who kept her lips pursed and her face stiff. She didn’t look at me; she just continued to face forward. I felt like getting up and slapping her to knock that mask off her face. I almost did. Maybe my father saw that in me, because his expression became a little fearful.

  “No,” I said sharply.

  “Because if it is, that’s nothing to be ashamed about, and Julie could—”

  “I’m not ashamed! And I wouldn’t go to Julie even if I was!”

  They were both deadly quiet, almost of one face. I could hear the miniature grandfather clock on the mantel ticking, or was that the beat of my heart?

  “Look, Mayfair,” he said after a deep sigh, “I’m not someone who is comfortable pretending he knows more than he does or trying to do things he knows he’s not qualified to do. We have a situation here, and—”

  “There’s that word again, situation,” I muttered. “And that other word, we?”

  “Yes, we, Mayfair. We’re all part of this family, and when something affects one of us, it affects all of us. Now, getting back to what I was saying. I recognize there’s a problem that is
more serious than I first thought, and I want to do something about it.”

  “Like what?”

  He hesitated for a moment. Julie looked at him, anticipating. “I think you should see a therapist. For a few times, at least,” he quickly added. “As I said, I’m not qualified to do that sort of work, and neither is Julie. We readily admit it, but we care about you, and we’re worried.”

  “So you want me to see a therapist,” I said. “You think that would solve the situation?”

  “It’s a start, Mayfair. Many people, good people, successful people, are in some form of therapy or another. Life is very complex today. You’re a unique individual, and you have problems and issues most people don’t have, that most couldn’t possibly understand.”

  “Because I’m so unusual?”

  “Whatever,” he said. “The problems are there because you are an exceptionally intelligent person. Everything in this life comes with its own baggage.”

  “Baggage? So now you think it’s a curse, is that it?” I asked him.

  “What is?”

  I was disappointed that he didn’t remember having once been told that I might be cursed or I might be blessed with such superior intelligence. “Nothing,” I said. I stood up. “Okay. I’ll see a therapist. It might be interesting. Let me know when I have an appointment.”

  “You have one tomorrow,” he said quickly.

  I spun around. “Tomorrow? What sort of therapist has an opening so quickly?”

  “One of Julie’s friends is good friends with a highly regarded therapist, Dr. Burns in Santa Monica. And—”

  “Oh, one of Julie’s friends? Maybe she is really one of his clients and not one of his friends. Therapy is in vogue, I know. It’s right under getting a facial on the list of priorities for her friends.”

  “You’re not funny, Mayfair. Your appointment is at two o’clock,” my father said firmly. “I have a car and a driver arranged to pick you up at school and take you home. I’d do it myself, but I have a full day.”

  “Therapy car service. Probably a booming business around here,” I said. “Fine.” I started to leave.

  “You don’t believe us, I know,” Julie said, “but we are very worried about you.”

  “Oh, I believe it, Julie. I’m just not convinced you both share the same reasons for it. Well,” I said, looking at my father, “maybe that’s no longer true.”

  My father looked at me sternly. “Two o’clock tomorrow, Mayfair,” he said.

  I glanced at Julie. She nearly smiled. I hurried out and up the stairs.

  Allison had her door open and quickly turned from brushing her hair and looking in her Snow White vanity mirror when I approached. “I could hear some of it from the top of the stairs,” she confessed.

  “Good. Then I can verify that I didn’t imagine it,” I said.

  She grimaced. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well,” she said.

  “That’s funny,” I said.

  “What’s funny?”

  “You’re the only one who is sorry.” Of course she was confused, but I had no patience or interest in explaining it to her.

  “What’s wrong with you? Why do they want you to go to a therapist?”

  “I’m round, and I can’t fit into the box.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t feel like talking about it right now, Allison,” I said, and went into my room. I didn’t sulk like a child, but I kept to myself as much as possible for the remainder of the evening.

  Julie didn’t say a word to me in the morning. My father told me he would be very interested in hearing about my first therapy session as soon as he was able to give me his full attention. I told him I would make a full report in triplicate if he wanted it.

  “I hope you take this seriously, Mayfair,” he said. “Or at least give it a chance.”

  I didn’t respond. Maybe I did need therapy. Maybe he was right after all. I mean, didn’t I push Joy into going into therapy? This might be one of those “Physician, heal thyself” sorts of things. Even therapists needed therapy.

  Later, in school, I suddenly became a little paranoid about it, however. There were other clues. It seemed to me the bitches of Macbeth weren’t ignoring me anymore. In the halls, in classrooms, and in the cafeteria, they were looking my way, smiling and whispering. Maybe they had overheard some of my teachers talking about me, or maybe Mr. Martin’s secretary gossiped about our meeting and my behavior. Another very likely possibility was that Julie had discussed me with Joyce Brooker’s mother, perhaps even telling her that I was going to see a therapist. Joyce Brooker’s mother might even be the therapist’s client.

  If that was true, these girls could tell everyone how right they were about me. “See? She really is crazy. We told you so.”

  Something more was definitely going on. I could sense it. Carlton James wore a look of deep self-satisfaction. He, too, whispered to his buddies and looked at me while doing so. Then he strutted with pride and threw me a condescending smile that said, “You should have accepted my invitation, bitch. Now look at where you are.”

  Even Joy looked at me differently. Her “Are you all right?” now seemed planted.

  “If you ask me that one more time, I won’t talk to you again, understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Don’t,” I said, as she started to explain herself. “Just forget it.”

  She bit down on her lower lip and followed me around in silence. I thought I saw her talking with Cora, one of the bitches, between classes. Why would any of them give her the time of day? Maybe she was promised something, like an invitation to a party, if she spied on me and got them some juicy gossip to spread. My paranoia was exploding. I had to get hold of myself.

  However, by two o’clock, I told myself it didn’t matter that I was paranoid. I was convinced Joseph Heller’s famous quote from Catch-22 that “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you” was true, especially for me. All that I believed was happening was really happening. My stepmother, Julie, had sabotaged me at school. Whether it was true or not, I convinced myself that it was at minimum a credible theory.

  I saw Allison in the hallway and pulled her away from her friends.

  “Did your mother know you overheard the conversation with me in the living room yesterday?” I asked her. “Well?”

  She nodded.

  “Did she tell you not to say anything in school or to any of your friends?”

  “No,” she said. “I only told . . .”

  “Don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter,” I said, and left her.

  In a way, Julie had done me a favor. My self-pity turned into raw rage. By the time I got into the car to go to Dr. Burns’s office, my strategy was formed. I was tired of being the victim here. My old self was returning. I could feel the surge of energy and glee.

  I’ll show my father’s new wife how to play this game, I thought.

  Dr. Burns had a small but very comfortable and bright office. There was a large bay window in his lobby that faced the ocean, so the afternoon sun beamed through the translucent curtains and tinted windows. There were two dark brown leather settees that faced each other, with a glass table between them. Everything was immaculate and neat, including the artificial flowers that were strategically placed to supplement the brightness and warmth. The light blue walls had framed prints of country scenes, fields, rivers, and mountains. Everything was designed to make someone feel relaxed and safe, including the elevator music piped in but kept so low it was almost subliminal.

  His secretary sat in a small inner office with a window facing the lobby. I could see the file cabinets, copy machine, fax, and printer behind her. She had a name plaque that read “Sylvia Jones.” I thought she was about Julie’s age but less plastic-looking. She was even permitting some gray strands to infiltrate her neatly styled dark brown hair.

  “I’m Mayfair Cummings,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said, smiling with that superficial warmth surely desi
gned to let the doctor’s clients feel relaxed and calm about the fact that they were here to see a therapist, that they were admitting something wasn’t right with them. “I’ll let Dr. Burns known you’re here. He’s just finishing up a phone call.”

  “Don’t I have to fill out anything?”

  “No, dear. Everything’s been done.”

  Probably by Julie, I thought. Maybe even a year ago.

  I went to sit, but before I could, the second inner office door opened, and Dr. Burns called to me.

  “Hi there,” he said.

  If a director were looking to cast an actor for the role of a modern-day psychotherapist in a play, he’d have chosen Dr. Burns. It reinforced a theory of mine that people often grew to look just like people expected them to look. Dr. Burns, who probably was no more than forty, was the new hip psychotherapist, with long black hair, wearing jeans and a light blue long-sleeved denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to suggest he was going to get down to real work. He even had a small diamond stud earring.

  In honor of Dr. Freud, maybe, he had a neatly trimmed goatee and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that rested on the bridge of his nose. He looked to be about my father’s height but much slimmer in build. I thought he had almost feminine hands. He extended his right hand, and I took it to shake, but he held on to mine and stepped back to have me enter his office, not letting go until I walked in and he could close the door. Maybe he was afraid that after taking one look at him, I’d turn and run. Perhaps he had potential clients who had done just that.

  I gazed around. He had a large, dark-cherrywood desk, a window that also looked out on the ocean, and another behind his desk with the drapes drawn closed. There was an oversize chair in front of his desk, walls of filled bookshelves, and only one picture, a print of the famous Christina’s World by Andrew Wyeth. It showed a young woman lying in a field and looking like she’s crawling or wants to start crawling toward a gray house on the horizon.