I knew she wanted to ask me why. And she knew it would annoy me. We looked at each other.
“It will help with the question of identity,” I said.
She shrugged.
“Sure,” she said.
“Good,” I said. “Shall we discuss my fee?”
6
Dr. Copeland was still a large, athletic-looking shrink. He was wearing a brown tweed jacket today, with a white Oxford shirt and maroon knit tie. His dark hair was still slicked straight back. He still wore big, round, black-rimmed glasses. He was still immaculate.
When I was seated across the desk from him in his office, he said, “It’s nice to see you again, Sunny.”
I felt sort of thrilled. He called me by my first name.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m glad to see you, too.”
I did not venture to call him Max. He smiled and sat back.
“Richie is getting married,” I said.
He nodded.
“You remember Richie,” I said.
“Your former husband,” Copeland said.
“Yes. Do you remember everything we talked about?”
“If I don’t, I’ll ask you to remind me,” Copeland said.
“Last time we talked, you said the bond between us was powerful, or something like that.”
“I remember,” he said.
“What do you think now?” I said.
“I also said I didn’t know where it would lead,” Copeland said.
“Covered yourself,” I said.
Copeland didn’t say anything.
“I guess I’m mad at you,” I said.
Copeland nodded.
“The hell of it is,” I said, “you were right. There is a strong bond between us.”
Copeland nodded.
“But I can’t live with him. I can’t live with anybody, really. And... Richie’s too... too traditional, I guess. He wants a wife and probably children.”
Copeland was leaning forward. He had his fingertips together in front of him and, with his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, he tapped his steepled forefingers against his chin softly as he listened.
“I’m thirty-seven,” I said. “If I’m going to have kids, I better do it now.”
Copeland smiled.
“You have a few years,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t be a wife and mother anyway.”
Copeland nodded just as if it were perfectly normal for a woman to reject marriage and children.
“I don’t know anyone like me,” I said.
“That doesn’t wish marriage and children?”
“Yes.”
“Believe me,” Copeland said. “There are many.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I said.
“What would you like to do,” Copeland said.
“I’d like to stop feeling like I’ve been shot in the stomach,” I said.
“I would think that some member of the Boston psychotherapy community could help you with that,” Copeland said.
“I want you to help me.”
He shook his head.
“Why not?” I said.
“I would like to work with you, Sunny, but I am retiring.”
“You’re not old enough to retire,” I said.
He nodded as if to acknowledge a compliment.
“I’m finishing up with my current patients and will be closing the office before the end of the year.”
I felt panicky.
“You too,” I said.
“Another rejection?” he said.
“I screwed up my courage and screwed up my courage to finally come here, and you are going to retire.”
“It is, of course, not personal,” Copeland said.
“Not to you,” I said.
“Well,” Copeland said, “in a sense it is. I am, after all, the one who’s retiring.”
“I know,” I said. “I know.”
“I can refer you to someone.”
“Like who?”
“I need to make some phone calls,” Copeland said. “To see who is currently taking new patients.”
“I was counting on you,” I said.
“I know. I’m sorry. But I can assure you that I will refer you to someone smart enough and” — he smiled a little — “tough enough to help you with this.”
“And you think I can be helped.”
“I’m sure,” Copeland said. “Generally, as you probably understand, what one needs in successful therapy is a good shrink, and a patient with the courage and brains to work on the issue. I can provide the good shrink. I know you have the rest.”
I felt short of breath, but I also felt reassured. I breathed in some air and let it out. I did that a couple times.
Then I said, “One request.”
Copeland bowed his head in a small encouraging gesture.
“Not Dr. Melvin,” I said.
“No,” Copeland said. “Not Dr. Melvin.”
7
Sarah’s parents lived on School Street, which branched off from Main Street opposite the Academy. Their house was down the hill a ways. It was a very large, white nineteenth-century house with a wide wraparound porch. Classes had started at Taft, and Sarah would be gone. It seemed as good a time as any to go visit her parents. It had to be done sometime.
Her mother answered my ring. She was a small, dark-haired woman with a furtive manner. She looked about fifty.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Sunny Randall.”
“Oh, Ms. Randall, thank you, please come in.”
The house was big and cluttered and full of costly furniture that didn’t go together very well. Mrs. Markham scuttled ahead of me, as if she was afraid someone would yell at her.
“Please, let’s go in the sunroom,” she said. “I hope you won’t find it too warm there.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” I said.
“George,” Mrs. Markham called. “Sunny Randall is here.”
George was on his feet when we went into the sunroom.
“Miss Randall,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”
He was tall enough, with a lot of bushy hair, wearing the kind of low-cut reading glasses you can buy at the drugstore. And he had the same stoop-shouldered bearing his wife had. They both looked as if they expected a scolding.
“Thanks for seeing me,” I said.
“Oh, no, no,” he said. “Our pleasure, really.”
He had a deep, hearty voice with very little accent. The boom of it was at odds with his tentative bearing.
“Will you have coffee?” Mrs. Markham said.
“No, thank you.”
“Or some tea?”
“No,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Spring water?”
I smiled and shook my head.
“I think we have some V8 juice,” she said.
Jesus Christ!
“Nothing, thank you,” I said. “You understand that I am here as your daughter’s representative.”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Markham said.
I looked at Mister.
“Yes,” he said. “Certainly.”
“She has employed me to locate her birth parents.”
They both smiled and nodded.
“What can you tell me about that?” I said.
Mister and Missus looked at each other.
“Oh, my, I’m sorry,” George said. “But we really don’t know what to say.”
“Because?”
“Well, I...” he looked at his wife. “We... I don’t wish to be offensive. But we are her birth parents.”
“She doesn’t think so.”
“I know. We feel so sad about that. We’ve told her and told her.”
Mrs. Markham chimed in. “We have, we’ve told her, and she still doesn’t believe us. What can we do?”
“Allow your DNA to be tested.”
Neither of them said anything.
“Sarah tells me that you’ve declined to do that.”
“We just, we... it isn’t something we can do,” Mrs. Markham said. “Is it, George?”
“No, we can’t do that.”
“Why not?” I said.