“Hello, Milicia.” He looked up. And, wonder of wonders, he smiled, put aside the notebook, and rose to greet her.
He hadn’t smiled at her before. Milicia beamed at her moment of triumph. See, he really did like her, after all. She raised an eyebrow, pleased at her success.
She had been desperately trying to figure him out, had decided to change her style of dress and see what happened. This time she was wearing a well-tailored red, white, and blue print silk jacket with gold braid, gold twisted rope, anchors, lifesavers, and other nautical symbols on it. She thought it signaled Doctor, save my life. Classy. The little blouse underneath was white, and her navy skirt was softly pleated.
After several unsuccessful shopping expeditions both on the East and West sides, she had finally found the suit on sale in a boutique on Lexington Avenue. She thought it might appeal to Jason, and she was right. It seemed that Jason liked the classy look.
“How are you?” she asked as he stood, waiting for her to sit down.
“I’m fine.” He smiled again. It made him altogether a different person. Nicer, more attractive. Finally, accessible.
She was encouraged. She’d been afraid she was losing her touch. Until this minute Jason seriously irritated her. She was beginning to think he was a waste of time. She’d met him three times now, and throughout their encounters his face had been as closed and guarded as any she’d ever seen. He was like a poker player, cards always close to his vest. Or one of those mass murderers you read about in the newspapers—real flat, an ocean so dense, not even the shallows close to the shore could be penetrated by the naked eye. What was it with him?
Milicia didn’t like getting things wrong. She needed to be liked, approved of, desired. So far her failure rate with men had been very low. What was it with Jason? She’d wondered, as she shopped for the perfect suit to wear on her second office visit, if his opacity was a side effect of his profession. She had no way of knowing. Charles was the only other psychiatrist she knew. Charles was an open book. She knew by the way Charles’s eyes traveled over her body exactly what he was thinking. For Charles, as with other men, beauty and sex were the way in. She was pretty sure she could get him with the crook of a finger.
With Jason, though, something was wrong. His eyes never flickered with the lustful interest that always put her in control. She couldn’t figure it out. It wasn’t exactly that he wasn’t engaged by what she had to say. She could see that he was listening, asking questions, thinking. But he was impersonal about it. He seemed to be looking, not at her, but beyond her all the time. It made her uneasy. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he might be gay. If he was gay, he’d be useless. He might not care, wouldn’t do what was required.
And what was required now was to get the situation with Camille under control. This horrible boutique thing put the Camille problem in a different league. A crime had been committed. A person was dead. It had been in the paper and on the TV news. For the first time Milicia was scared, really scared. The police were involved. Even if the police didn’t figure what happened, it wouldn’t be all right. Camille was a time bomb that was going to go off in a bunch of different ways over and over. And with Bouck to cover for her, there was no telling how far she could go.
Milicia needed a person with authority to take over and do what had to be done. She’d been confident when she met Jason that he was that person. He was smart. He’d put the pieces she gave him together, because that was the only way. She couldn’t just come out and tell him her sister had crossed the line and murdered somebody just to hurt her. She couldn’t say that. She didn’t know him well enough, couldn’t be sure he was trustworthy. It all sounded too sick and crazy, even to her, who knew the truth about what happened long ago. Jason had to come to the right conclusions himself. And if he couldn’t do it, she’d just have to find someone else. On the way to his office she’d decided this was his very last chance to drop his reserve and help her.
Now she felt vindicated. She stood there for a moment, basking in the feeling of happiness that he projected at seeing her. Then she sat in the chair and adjusted her skirt primly to cover her knees.
His expression changed slightly. He liked prim, reserved. She got it now, had his number.
“I was so happy to see you on the street the other day,” she said softly, thinking that next time she would wear paler lipstick and tie her hair back. She looked down, suddenly shy. “Some people have that effect. They just make other people feel good.”
Jason returned to his chair, the smile fading just a little as if the shift in her manner set him thinking.
Quickly she adjusted. “You seemed very busy, but just seeing you for a minute eased my distress.…”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I really have the feeling that you’re very strong. You understand the system. You can help me.”
Now his smile was gone and the penetrating examination was back. Milicia looked away from the gaze that had made her uncomfortable before. She needed help. Why was he holding out?
A tear gathered in the corner of her eye. She had thought so much about this in the two miserable years since her father did the ultimate irresponsible thing—crashed the car, killed both himself and his wife in a fiery wreck—left her with a maniac she couldn’t control who was determined to ruin her life. Now there was someone who could help her, and he seemed to be holding out on her. Why? She shook her head.
Jason saw the tear. “So what’s going on?” he asked gently.
She waited for a minute, still filled with the hot rage she had felt each time her parents rushed to Camille’s aid at every breakdown. Camille crashed herself over and over, with all engines burning. And each time her parents had dealt with it through a boozy haze, pretending each incident was only a phase Camille had to pass through on the way to settling down and finally being good.
But she isn’t good. She’s a bad seed, like a mean dog that couldn’t be tamed no matter what. Still, all Camille’s life they had patted her on the back and hid her away at home in Connecticut for months at a time until she calmed down. While she, Milicia, was ignored.
Oh, yes, the pretense that Camille was not crazy had always maddened Milicia. Just as it hurt and enraged her when they pushed her, the good daughter, away just because she was strong. Milicia was the one who had to go out and conquer the world on her own. Milicia was the one they kept at bay, fading out like used up lightbulbs whenever she craved love and tenderness.
Milicia’s tears brimmed over, and she caught them in a tissue, gathering them tightly in her fist. It still burned her up that they never cared about the things Camille did. How Camille took over the dog given to both the girls for Christmas and made such a fuss about not sharing it that her parents took the puppy back to the store and punished them both. How Camille stepped on a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest, and threw the rabbit against the wall. Camille was insane, and they hadn’t cared. They just hadn’t cared.
And then lawyers told Milicia it was her responsibility to protect Camille and defend her, to manage the money so Camille would be secure in a dangerous world. That was how her parents had set it up. Even from the grave they were against her. Milicia had to bear the humiliation of Camille’s eccentricities, her promiscuity with off-the-wall lunatics like Nathan Bouck, men who had enough money to dazzle her and to prevent Camille from getting the help she needed in a therapeutic hospital environment. Now maybe even get away with murder. It wasn’t fair.