ANNASOPHIA
Nerves jumping, I slam Alexandra’s intake form on the desk. Where the hell’s Soshanna and Dr. Dario? Dozens of yellow and white roses twining around a wooden arbor draw me to the window. Despite the toxic environment at Belle Haven, I grew thousands of roses on the grounds. Until Michael decided working in dirt didn’t befit his wife.
My fingers tingle with the memory of fragrant soil. Alexandra worked alongside me digging, watering, planting. Slathered in sunscreen, we wore sunbonnets and gloves. She was the perfect companion. We drank fresh lemonade and ate lunch in an arbor built to my specifications. Does she remember those days? Does she remember they were happy?
Maybe—after her release—we’ll create a new rose garden. Together.
What better therapy than to nurture something alive? Watch it thrive?
I’ll talk to Dario’s replacement. Educate him. Show him the benefits of gardening. I lean into the floor-to-ceiling window. My breath catches.
A reflecting pool mirrors the acrylic-blue sky, the roses, and a circle of Japanese maples.
No visible way to open the window, but I inhale, imagine the rose-scented air, and breathe in hope. Alexandra and I could talk—speak quietly and civilly—in this setting.
My back muscles twitch. Slats on the weathered wooden benches scream backache. But the zen-serenity of two large pagoda lanterns flanking the benches renews my fragile hope. The possibilities for reconciliation between my first-born child and me are endless.
Careful. Careful. You’re not her favorite person right now. BPD or not, she’s ill.
Grief thickens my throat. My mind, racing like a gerbil on a treadmill, loops through the pitfalls blocking the possibilities. What color is her room? If the color’s all wrong or if there’s no music, she’ll refuse to cooperate. Color and music affect moods—especially teenagers’ feelings. She must feel afraid. Furious. Abandoned.
Abandoned by her father the psychopath. Abandoned by her mother the weak link.
For two-thirds of her life and despite our glorious days of gardening, I was a cipher. After Michael’s murder, the griefless widow morphed into a decision-making parent. A stranger. No resemblance to the woman I became married to Michael. I pinch the inside of my elbow, stare at the reflecting pool, and see the infinity pool at Belle Haven. Alexandra screamed she hated me for forcing her to leave the only home she’d ever known.
What would she say now if she knew about the revolting crimes committed there?
“Hey.” Soshanna crosses the room and slips an arm around my waist. “You’re looking pretty glum after I just worked a miracle.”
“Does Dario think I’m nuts too?”
She gazes out the window. “He asked if I agreed he looks like Michael.”
“You never met Michael.” I focus on a hummingbird perched on one of the benches. God, what I’d give right now to fly away to a new place.
“I think he asked out of curiosity. He didn’t dispute your associating him with Michael. He recognizes you’re stressed.”
“What. Ev. Er.” I mimic the intonation and cadence I’ve heard from Alexandra.
“He suggested a woman therapist might have fewer gestures or body language that reminds you of Michael.”
Without any obvious reason, the hummingbird zips away. I wait until it disappears into the cloudless sky to speak. “Do you know this therapist?”
“By reputation. She teaches once a year at Stanford. I’ve never gotten in her class—she’s too popular. Ari knows her and thinks she’s a genius.”
“You sound like an infomercial. What’s her name? Where is she?” Enough talk. I want some action to bring my daughter back.
“Rachel Hamilton. Today’s her day off, but when Dario called, she agreed to come in. She’s particularly interested in adolescent girls who threaten suicide.”
“What are you talking about?” Voice rising, I whirl away from her embrace. “Alexandra didn’t threaten suicide.”
Soshanna stares, shifts her gaze to the garden, inhales, and swivels her eyes back to me. “I thought you wanted straight shooting.”
“Straight shooting’s not the same as misrepresenting what happened.”
“How do you characterize a teenager dragging a razor down her ankle during an argument with her mother?”
“The cut was superficial. It qualifies as a scratch.”
“Okay, you’re the ER doc. I’m the head doc. We disagree. I’ll defer to you as Alexandra’s mother to describe to Dr. Hamilton what happened.”
“How gracious.” I speak in the sullen tone of a teenage girl communicating her superior knowledge of life.
Soshanna’s hands fly in the air, but she drags them down to her sides and jams them in her jeans pockets. “Are you trying to pick a fight?”
Jaw tight, I say, “I’m trying to make sure we understand each other.”
“Not working. I’m lost.” She pulls a finger across her lips, closing an invisible zipper, and sighs. “Will you accept a silent hug?”
Heat pouring through the window burns my neck. I rub the spot, let the question hang, and flick a glance at the tiny, silvered-haired woman in the doorway. Her eyes are bright and enormous behind frameless glasses. Her perfectly proportioned head sits on a swan-like neck.
Her smile carries no warmth. Or judgment. She advances with her hand extended. “I’m Rachel Hamilton. A friendly disagreement or a no-holds-barred argument?”
In my oversized hand, her doll-like one feels cool. I study Soshanna. “Argument. I was giving my best friend a piece of my mind. A mistake since I can’t afford giving away a sliver—let alone a piece.”
Behind her glasses, Rachel’s black eyes gleam. “Today is a long, hard day. If we decide to work together, I promise you will have longer, harder days. You will need your best friend so you can hang on for your daughter.”