It’s ten o’clock in the morning. I’m ironing clothes, one of my favorite activities, while Valerie’s Home Cooking plays on our TV. Valerie’s dedicated her Food Network show to budget-stretching casseroles, an important part of our nutritional strategy. I’m not paying all that much attention. I’m thinking of Tina and I’m intensely proud. Tina vanished before Halberstam could ask a single question, leaving Victoria to handle the aftermath. But Tina spoke for all of us. Eloquent and fearless.
I know this because Victoria left a note on the table, along with a printout of Halberstam’s email. We’ve come together since Marshal discovered that email, a matter of pure necessity. A reunion with Hank Grand? We’re far more likely to kill than kiss him.
Still, I’m feeling good this morning as I bend to the task at hand. We have an extensive wardrobe. No surprise, given the differences between us. As virtually every item was bought at a thrift store, our clothing needs frequent care, and I’m as good with a needle as I am with an iron. Plus, I’ve got a pork shoulder cooking on the stove, the recipe pulled off a “cooking hints” website. I’ve long forgotten the name of the site, but the basic concept is so simple and the results so terrific that I’ve used it dozens of times. Take a cast-iron stockpot, add a dollop of molasses, a tablespoon of sugar, a tablespoon of salt and a two-liter bottle of store-brand cola. Heat the ingredients until they mix, then add your pork butt and simmer until a thick crust forms on the outside. The sweet-and-sour flavor of that crust is as good as any barbeque sauce. As we’ll be eating it in one form or another for the next week, it better be.
I pause long enough to draw the odor of the pork through my nose and into my lungs. Pure drudge pheromones. Then I turn back to the ironing board. Unkempt does not fit my self-image and I make sure we at least appear sane. Just now I’m working on one of Eleni’s peasant blouses. The blue one with the scoop neckline that scoops way too low for my taste. The blouse has ruffles at the neckline and waist, forcing me to open each fold and test the iron as I go along. The task is complicated by the delicate rayon fabric. Let the iron get too hot and it’s bye-bye blouse.
Forty minutes later I’m working on the last item, a pair of slacks worn by Victoria. I’m looking forward to a cup of coffee, my reward for being a good drudge, when the phone rings. We don’t get a lot of calls and I check the caller ID before answering: Legal Aid Society. Already, I’m annoyed.
“Hello.”
“Good morning,” a woman says. “Am I speaking to Carolyn Grand?”
I’m tempted to bust her bureaucratic chops by declaring that Carolyn Grand doesn’t exist. I want to tell her that she’s talking to a fragment of a theoretical woman. I want to tell her to go fuck herself. Instead, I simply say, “You are.”
“This is Malaya Castro. I’m representing you—”
“What happened to Mark Vernon?”
“He’s been moved to another division.” She waits for a moment, but I have nothing to say. “So, how have you been?”
“Does it matter?”
“Pardon me.”
“I’m busy, Ms. Castro.”
“It’s Mrs. Castro, but you can call me Malaya.”
“Fine. Please state your business, Malaya.”
I listen to the lawyer breathe into the phone. I know she’s wondering what she did to merit the hostility, but I’m not about to explain. Dimly, I sense Victoria’s arrival.
“If I promise to deliver good news,” Castro says, “will you ease up on the attitude?”
I smile. Attitude is the only public face I have. Take it or leave it. “Okay, Malaya. But I’ve got a lot to do today.”
“So, I just read the report from Adult Protective Services and it’s a hundred percent favorable. You’ve been living on your own for years now, living responsibly and functioning well despite limited resources. According to APS, there’s no reason to suppose you won’t continue to function if supervision is withdrawn.”
“What does that mean? For Carolyn Grand?”
“It means that I intend, with your permission, to immediately petition the court to end supervision.”
“Again, what does that mean? How will it change my life?”
“The review will take about three weeks. If it goes your way, you’ll simply become autonomous. Free to get on with your life.”
Free to get rid of Halberstam is what I’m hearing. As if our dear doctor would allow that to happen. “According to Mark Vernon, the doctors make the final decision. Not the court.”
“That’s true. They will.”
“Then it’s up to Dr. Halberstam.”
“No, you’ve got it backward. Your therapist was appointed by a medical review board attached to the court. Halberstam’s recommendation will play a large part in their final decision but not the only part.” She pauses for a moment, then says, “You seem pretty certain that Dr. Halberstam will recommend against ending supervision? Don’t you get along?”
For once I don’t say the first thing that jumps into my head, which is that we’re as much a plaything for Halberstam as we were for our father. Like any spoiled child, Halberstam won’t give up his toy without a fight.
“I’ve known a lot of therapists over the years, Malaya, and Halberstam’s not my favorite, not even close. But that’s not what it’s about. Halberstam believes my therapy should continue indefinitely. I can’t imagine him recommending anything else when he writes his report.”
“Carolyn, I’m your lawyer and I’ve got your back. I’ll make it clear, in the petition, that you’re satisfied with your progress and that you intend to remain in therapy. Remember, you’re on conditional release, the condition being your therapy. We’re only asking the court to make your release unconditional. And no, I’m not a prophet, but I think the odds are with you as long as you keep it together for the next few weeks. Think you can do that?”
I almost say “We’ll give it our best,” only correcting myself at the last second. The last thing I want to do is explain who and what we are. “I’ll give it my best.”
“Good, because once your release is granted, you can drop Dr. Halberstam if that’s what you want. The decision will be yours to make. From our point of view, the only issue is whether or not you can function on your own. In light of the fact that you’ve been doing exactly that for a decade, the issue resolves itself.”