"Oh," she said, clapping her hands together. "How could I forget that?" that?"

"Yeah, some strange chick coming up to me telling me that I shouldn't read Mary McCarthy because she claimed she was a fascist, when in fact it was Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian Blood Meridian I had in my hand." I had in my hand."

"I don't know why I was so hard on Mary McCarthy. She wasn't a fascist at all. I loved The Birds The Birds."

"And I told you that Ayn Rand wrote books for humorless Sarah Lawrence girls who wanted to get laid but still feel smart afterward," he said. "And then you said that I was s.e.xist and probably racist and probably h.o.m.ophobic. And I said..."

"You looked at me as if I had just slapped you hard in the face and said, 'I can't be h.o.m.ophobic because I'm a h.o.m.o,'" she chuckled. "Whatever happened to those two stupid young people?"

"I don't know, but I read Atlas Shrugged Atlas Shrugged all the time and it never helped me get laid," he said. all the time and it never helped me get laid," he said.

Finally, he walked her to where her car was parked, and kissed her on the cheek. "You need anything, I'm here. Rick and I can be out in the 'burbs on a moment's notice."

"I thought you were anti-suburban?"

"For you," he said. "I'll brave the wilds of Jersey. I miss my old buddy. I miss you. I want to see Livy, too. And Matt."

"We blocked you out, didn't we?" she said, sighing.

"Not really."

"No, we did. Hut didn't like you. I guess I can say that now. I think he thought you were a threat in some way."

Joe grinned, big and broad just like he was a wicked kid. "I am the all-powerful Oz."

"I can't throw all the blame on him. I went along with it. I should've fought. But I was busy with the kids, and I was busy with the house and my job. And I just let it all go."

"Well, none of that matters. We kissed and made up. You're my old buddy, Julie. And don't read that Michael Diamond book. Okay? He's full of it. Go get a John Edward book. Or even Sylvia Browne. She's good. Diamond has something wrong with him. I've seen his show. He just gets pretty nasty. I don't think he helps people at all. He does more damage than good."

Another kiss, and Julie was in the car, and driving out to the Westside Highway, to the Lincoln Tunnel, and then, north up to Rellingford, the city vanishing as she entered the suburban wilderness.

9.

"What do you know about this?" Julie asked, dropping the keys on the table between them.

Outside, with Matt, on the picnic table in the backyard.

"They're keys."

"Keys to an apartment on Rosetta Street. You used to go there with your father."

"That's crazy," he said, looking up at her.

"Matt, I know this might not be easy for you. I know we've had our ups and downs. But I want you to tell me about this. It's important."

"Important to who?"

"To me."

He didn't look her in the eye. "You're nosy."

She glared at him. "Just tell me."

"I feel sorry for you, Julie. I really do. Sometimes I hate you. But I feel bad for you because you're too much like my mother. You stick your nose in where it doesn't belong."

It stung when he said it. He'd never said anything like that to her before. He's been through h.e.l.l. Cut him some slack. He's been through h.e.l.l. Cut him some slack.

"All right. Well, you can hate me. It's okay by me. That doesn't answer my question."

"I don't remember," he said.

"What does that mean?"

"It means: I don't remember. Maybe Dad took me there. I don't know. I can't remember."

"You mean you don't want to tell me," she said, trying to remain calm.

"G.o.d, you are such a f.u.c.king f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h," he spat, his face suddenly going red. This wasn't the first time he'd gotten this over-the-top angry. She'd understood-from Eleanor and from Hut-that Matt had something wired in his brain that just didn't stop him from taking things too far. Knowing that helped her deal with it. "Why don't you ask my mother about those keys? Why don't you f.u.c.king ask her? She knows everything. She's the one who knows it all. Quit f.u.c.king bothering me." b.i.t.c.h," he spat, his face suddenly going red. This wasn't the first time he'd gotten this over-the-top angry. She'd understood-from Eleanor and from Hut-that Matt had something wired in his brain that just didn't stop him from taking things too far. Knowing that helped her deal with it. "Why don't you ask my mother about those keys? Why don't you f.u.c.king ask her? She knows everything. She's the one who knows it all. Quit f.u.c.king bothering me."

Julie leaned forward, touching the edge of his hand. "Oh, honey. You know I love you. You know I'm not trying to upset you."

"You know I love you," he mimicked. "Love love love. f.u.c.k this. Just ask her her."

Julie sat there, stunned. She knew from her sessions with Eleanor that Matt needed to feel safe. That he needed to act out. That he needed to say things that might be hurtful sometimes. It's part of what he's dealing with. He's working out past abuse from his time with his mother. It's part of what he's dealing with. He's working out past abuse from his time with his mother.

"Ask her. Ask her whatever you want. Just leave me the h.e.l.l alone, b.i.t.c.h." He swiveled around on the bench and got up, one last look of contempt shot her way, and then stomped off into the house.

Then, she heard him go on a rampage-something that Hut had only referred to from the past-one of Matt's fits of rage.

First, the sound of breaking gla.s.s.

And then, shrieking as if he were hurt.

10.

In therapy: "I can't convince you not to pursue this?" Eleanor asked.

Julie shrugged. "Maybe."

"What do you think you will accomplish?" "Closure?"

"You don't sound sure."

"I'm not. Matt won't talk to me. Not right now. He'll yell at me, but not talk. I haven't heard him swear in a long time. I'm not a prude about language. But it shocked me. It was so...sudden."

"Violent?"

Julie frowned, slightly, nodding. "I didn't feel threatened. He broke a couple of plates. He tried to slam his fist into the wall. No real damage. He was fine ten minutes later, but he didn't want to have anything to do with me. Just turned sullen and quiet and I figured I needed to leave him alone for a while. It just seemed... out of the blue."

"Anger is normal. You're being very confrontational, Julie. You must acknowledge that. You know that Matt has limited resources within himself. Whatever happened when he was young can't just go away. A lot is going on inside him, and his father's death probably left him afraid that you'd abandon him, too."

Julie raised her eyebrows slightly.

"I'm not here just to tell you what you want to hear. Look, give him a break. He's had too much loss in his life. He's probably afraid that you'll give him up. You're not his natural mother. With his father gone, it's normal for him to have that kind of fear. Plus, you're digging, and he doesn't like it."

"I feel it's important."

"To whom?"

"To me."

"Why are you asking my permission for this trip?" "You're my therapist."

"I'm not your mother."

"She wouldn't sign my permission slip."

"This woman has attempted suicide three times in her life. She has a history of violent behavior. G.o.d knows what she did to her son in that short period of time when she raised him, but I doubt she was a fit mother for a child. I just think you're playing with fire here."

11.

Julie called the psychiatric center that afternoon and set up an appointment to see Hut's first wife.

Chapter Twelve.

1.

The psych rehab center was just outside Philadelphia in a lovely suburban world (called Greenwood) that had a fringe of country to it. The area was surrounded by woodlands, and she barely saw it off the highway in time to make the turnoff onto Beacon Drive, and from there, to the gates. It looked like an old mansion that had been grafted onto a nursing home, and its bright neo-cla.s.sic exterior with pergolas and balconies and colonnades belied the monastic spa.r.s.eness of the interior of the building.

"She lives in West," the clerk at the front desk said. "I need you to hand over that bag," she pointed to the handbag. "Any keys, pens, anything sharp, too."

Julie pa.s.sed her handbag over. "My appointment was at three."

"It's all right. We know traffic can be bad. She probably just had a nap at this point. Go down through the double doors, elevator on right-the red elevator, not green-and take it to the third floor. Make your first left, two doors down is the social worker's office. That's Gigi Kaufmann. Gigi. She'll take you to see her."

2.

The social worker was in her mid-fifties, wore thick gla.s.ses, and her hair, nearly white, was wrapped around her squarish face like cotton candy. She spoke in a loud whisper, reminding Julie of being a kid in a library. "She was doing great, up until the news in April. I'm afraid it caused her some agitation. But she's better now, I think."

"Is there anything I should know? A way I should talk?" Julie found herself whispering as she spoke.

The social worker strode down the hall as if she were in a hurry to get this over with. The halls were painted a muted pastel yellow, and they pa.s.sed other patients' rooms, which seemed uniformly dreary and white. A woman in bed, her hair a bird's nest tangle of white, sat up and stared at Julie as if she'd brought bad news. Two men, orderlies, stood at the end of the hallway by the barred window, one sipping coffee, the other gesturing as if toward a third person who was not there.

"She's not dangerous to anyone, if that's what you mean," the social worker said. "She's really a model patient. The medication helps, of course. It grounds her in reality a bit. You'll find her quite chatty."

"Is there anything I shouldn't mention? Any subject matter to avoid?"

The social worker grinned. There was something uncomfortable in the over-familiarity of the smile, like she was sharing a joke. "Well, all I can say is, don't talk about s.e.x. She has some hang-ups, as they say."

Before Julie could figure out what that comment meant, they were at the doorway marked Amanda Hutchinson. The social worker stopped, checked the clipboard that hung next to the door, and scribbled something across it in pencil. Stuck her head through the open door and announced too loudly, "h.e.l.lo, Mandy. We've got a visitor."

3.

"Come over here, sweet pea," Amanda Hutchinson said, motioning with her hand. Her voice betrayed her southern accent, something that Julie was surprised hadn't faded away over the years. Amanda had been born in Georgia, had moved with her family to New York when young, and somewhere in there had moved South again before moving back to Manhattan when she and Hut had been together as a couple. She sat in a cushioned chair, near the window. There were ornate scroll-like iron bars across the window, as if the inst.i.tution wanted to disguise the fact that this was to keep patients from jumping, and instead, made it look like decorative art.

Julie noticed that mental illness had been kind to Amanda. She didn't have the look of the others on the hall. She had retained her beauty-at forty-and her mane of jet black hair was shiny and neatly arranged around her shoulders. She wore a minimum of make-up, and her face was a pure white. She had the formal air of a deposed princess that Julie had remembered from a previous visit, before Livy was born. Although, back then, Amanda had been more heavily sedated, and the right meds had not quite been found for her, so she had looked haggard. Now, she positively glowed.

Julie stepped into the room. It smelled clean and fresh, with a faint pine scent lingering.