Too Far Under (14 page)

My first impulse was to tell Lacey that no
therapist would take on this challenge with a ten-year-old child.
But I thought about the huge roster of psychotherapists in Boulder,
many of who are unlicensed—which is perfectly legal in this state.
Psychotherapists in Colorado are required to register and provide
certain basic information about themselves, their education and
their work, but no specific level or type of education is required.
This leaves the door open for some rather unusual practitioners,
and I had an uneasy feeling that Judith would go the distance to
find one who would do what she wanted done.

“How does Angelica feel about this?” I asked
quietly.

Lacey had stopped eating and was gazing down
sadly at her plate. “That’s just it. She absolutely refused to go
to their therapist.” Lacey teared up again. “So now they’re saying
either she goes to their therapist or they’re going to send her
away to a school where she’ll learn how to follow directions and
get her work done.”

“I doubt she wants to go away to school. Did
she give in and agree to see the therapist?”

“No. Angelica can be very stubborn. She’s
very wise and takes responsibility for her own choices, but when
people who don’t respect her rights try to force her to go in a way
that she knows is wrong, she shuts them out.”

“How does she do that?”

“Last night she simply turned to them and
said, ‘You don’t understand me, so I’m not going to talk to you
anymore.’ Then she went into her room and worked on a painting.
Judith kept screaming at her that ten-year-olds have to do what
their parents decide and that she will do what they decide is best
for her. But Angelica ignored her.” Lacey had perked up as she
described Angelica’s resistance. Now she began to do justice to her
lunch, devouring big spears of broccoli, slices of carrot and
chunks of tofu.

I wondered why Derrick let Judith have this
much authority over Angelica. After all, he was the parent. She
wasn’t even a stepparent. “What about your dad? Does he agree with
Judith about all this?”

“Oh yes,” Lacey said between bites. “Dad
listens to Judith most of the time about Angelica. He acts like she
knows more about children than he does—even though she’s never had
any.”

“I know this isn’t what you want for
Angelica,” I said. “But if your dad is on board, there may not be
anything you can do to stop them, unless you can persuade them to
take a different approach.”

Lacey looked briefly off into the distance as
she finished chewing. Then she said slowly. “I tried. I reminded
Dad that he downplayed Kari’s anorexia, and look what happened. I
tried to get both Mom and Dad to help Kari before it was too late,
but Mom was too busy with her causes and Dad was too involved with
his work and tennis. They accused me of exaggerating and making a
big deal out of everything like they say I always do. I tried to
help Kari myself but got nowhere. By the time they realized how
sick she was, it was too late.”

“Do you think maybe your father is trying to
avoid that mistake by getting Angelica some therapy for what he
sees as her problems?”

“That may be what he’s thinking, but he’s way
off base. Angelica is nothing like Kari. Kari was always trying to
make it with Mom and Dad. She played tennis, got involved with the
environment, was a perfect student. She tried so hard to get the
love and approval she wanted from them, but they didn’t give it.
She thought it was her fault, that she wasn’t perfect enough.”

“But you don’t see Angelica doing this?”

“No, Angelica is very sure of herself,
completely steady inside. She’s so in touch with her spiritual base
that she doesn’t need approval from outside. But she does need some
support for who she is—any child that age does. And she does need
to contact Mom—now more than ever. She has to find out what
happened. Right now she hates Dad and Judith because she thinks
they killed Mom. If she’s right, they need to be arrested. If she’s
wrong, she needs to move on and make peace with them somehow.”
Lacey leaned forward and gazed intently into my eyes. “You have to
see her again. I don’t care what they say.”

Apparently I hadn’t made the
minor-child-needs-parental-permission thing clear to her. My
commitment to helping them didn’t include giving up my
psychologist’s license. So I explained again, as clearly and simply
as I could. “Lacey, much as I would like to help you and Angelica,
there is no way I can work with her without your father’s
permission. If he won’t give it, that’s that.”

Lacey took the news better than I had
expected. “Okay then, if that’s what it takes, I’ll find a way to
get Dad to give permission. He can be totally clueless sometimes,
but he’s not mean. If I can get him away from Judith, I might be
able to get to him.”

Before I could reply, an older man walking by
our table interrupted us. “Lacey, you look like hell,” he said in a
deep powerful voice that carried throughout the small room. “Did
you lose your best friend or did a boyfriend dump you?”

I looked up to see Gramma’s lawyer—and
Lacey’s grandfather—Vernon Evers, accompanied by his gorgeous
girlfriend, Glenna. They had stopped next to our table, both facing
Lacey.

“Grandad! No, it’s more family stuff. Maybe
you can help. Can you and Glenna sit down for a few minutes?”

They hadn’t shown any signs of noticing me
and I figured he wouldn’t remember me anyway after all these years,
so I broke in to introduce myself. “Mr. Evers, I’m Martha
Donnelly’s granddaughter. I don’t know whether you remember
me.”

He turned toward me with a smile. “I forget
more than I like to admit these days, but I could never forget
Martha. Now there’s a painter! I have three of her paintings. Some
of my favorite work. So sorry about the Alzheimer’s. How’s she
getting along?”

“She was doing pretty well but now the
nursing home where she lives is closing and I’m having a hard time
figuring out what to do. I was planning to call you about the trust
Grampa had you set up for her before he died.”

“It sounds like we should sit with you and
Lacey and talk a bit,” he said. He turned toward Glenna, put his
arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “How about it,
Glenna? You know my granddaughter Lacey, and this is the
granddaughter of an old friend. She’ll have to tell you her name,
though. You know my memory.”

“Cleo,” I said. “Cleo Sims. Nice to meet
you.”

Glenna patted Vernon’s arm and turned to me
with a smile. “We’d love to join you if we’re not interrupting your
lunch,” she said graciously.

“No, actually I have to go meet some
clients,” I said. I turned to Vernon Evers. “Thanks for offering to
talk now, but I’ll have to call you to find another time.” I got
up, they sat down, and we said hellos and good-byes all around. As
I left the restaurant they were deep in conversation with Lacey. I
figured there was a good chance that Vernon Evers, sharp lawyer
that he was, would come up with a strategy to help Angelica. In his
heyday he could crush a bitch like Judith Demar without even
working up a sweat. His memory may not be what it used to be, but I
had faith that his instincts were still razor sharp.

I had to run all the way to my car to get to
my office in time for my 2:30 client—a young man who was in intense
grief following a tough breakup with his girlfriend of five years.
I like the challenge of using my skills in a variety of situations,
so I’ve worked hard to diversify my grief therapy practice beyond
clients who’ve lost a loved one to death. My clients now include
people suffering from all kinds of losses—divorce, job loss,
physical disability, and more.

A good chunk of my income comes from the
endowment for my Contact Project. My benefactor, Bruce, came to me
for grief therapy not long after I first set up the apparition
chamber. His only daughter had died from a drug overdose. They’d
had a stormy relationship, and after she died he was in profound
grief knowing he’d never be able to make peace with her. He was so
distraught about not being able to tell her that he loved her that
I suggested he might want to try reaching her through the
apparition chamber. He had some initial reservations but eventually
decided to try it. He reached his daughter, they shared love and
forgiveness for each other, and he was able to say goodbye to her
in a way that brought him deep peace.

Because his experience in the apparition
chamber had changed his life, Bruce wanted other people to have the
opportunity to benefit from the process. He created an endowment
for the Contact Project, using some of the fortune he’d made in
high-tech businesses. While there are some conditions as to who
qualifies and what kind of records I keep, it’s pretty much my show
to run.

The endowment is a dream come true for me. It
gives me a way to continue to develop the contact process and to
accept clients into it who have the potential for great benefit,
but who wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford it. Grief is one of
life’s greatest psychological pains. Loss leaves some people mired
in unending misery. These people are desperate for relief.
Contacting the dead person can help if the bereaved person is able
to get answers to troublesome questions or make peace with the
deceased loved one.

My second client that afternoon was a young
woman whose brother had died when he crashed his car into a tree at
2:00 a.m. on a rainy night. He was speeding and he’d been drinking.
His death was ruled an accident, but my client was tormented by the
idea that the crash was suicide. She wanted to reach her brother to
get some resolution and to find out if he was at peace. She seemed
like a good candidate for the Contact Project, so we set up another
appointment for the next week to discuss what she expected and what
she might experience.

Because it was Friday afternoon, I had
scheduled only those two clients. I was done at 4:30 and started
checking my phone messages. The first one was a big surprise.
Vernon Evers had called. “Hey, Cleo. I got your number from Lacey.
I felt bad that we didn’t get to finish that conversation about
Martha’s trust. How about a TGIF drink at my house? I’m at 560 13th
Street. Come by around 5:00 if you can. No need to call back.
Glenna and I will be here.”

I was going to Elisa’s for dinner, but not
until 7:00, so I had time to take him up on the offer. And I wanted
to find out whether there was a way to use more of the money in
Gramma’s trust each year in case I couldn’t find another good
nursing home and needed to bring her home with round-the-clock
care.

I’d never been to Vernon Evers house. Not
surprisingly, it turned out to be in one of Boulder’s best
locations, next to the historic Chautauqua Park at the base of the
famous foothills known as the Flatirons because their upthrust flat
surfaces resemble irons used to press clothes. The house is a
stately old two-story on a tree-lined cul-de-sac. I guesstimated
the value of his property at several million.

On my way to the massive double front doors,
I took a minute to enjoy the terraced garden ablaze with fall color
from shrubs and blooming plants. But my reverie was quickly
interrupted as one of the doors swung open. “Hey, Cleo. You made
it. Come on in.” Vernon Evers stood in the doorway beaming, drink
in hand. His outfit of brown slacks and shirt, topped with a beige
cashmere cardigan blended perfectly with the sandstone steps and
patio. I wondered whether this attention to detail was one of the
traits that had made him so successful.

“Mr. Evers, your gardens are amazing,” I
gushed. “Are you the gardener, or is it Glenna?”

He laughed. “Hey, call me Vern. And to answer
your question, I have a gardener. I don’t have the green thumb your
grandfather had. I remember James’ impressive herb gardens.”

“I’m living in their house, you know,” I
said. “I try to keep his gardens up, but I don’t have the time to
do nearly enough.”

“Sounds like you have a lot of obligations,”
he said. “Let’s go inside and get you a drink and you can tell me
more about what’s going on with Martha.”

He ushered me into the entry hall, past a
stunning curved stairway, and into a living room that could have
come from an English country-house. White walls, hardwood floors,
pale green accent rugs, and paintings in gold frames. Built-in
bookshelves flanking both sides of French doors that led to a
backyard garden and patio. Glenna jumped up from the off-white
couch, tossed her copy of
Entertainment Weekly
on the coffee
table, and came over to greet me.

Once again her beauty struck me. Her slim
legs in designer jeans seemed to go on forever, and the cleavage of
her full breasts was discreetly evident at the curved neckline of
her white ribbed tee. Her tousled auburn hair and understated
makeup completed the perfect Friday-afternoon-casual look.

“Cleo, we’re glad you could come by on such
short notice,” she said with a warm smile. “Vern’s such an admirer
of your grandmother’s work. We have three of her paintings hanging
here in the house, you know. Vern, you should show her.” She
pointed off in the direction of the hall.

Vernon had gone over to a side table where a
tray held glasses, an ice bucket, bottles of liquor and mixes.
“Let’s get her a drink first,” he said. “What will you have,
Cleo?”

“Gin and tonic would be perfect if you have
it,” I said. “And I’d love to see Gramma’s paintings if you don’t
mind showing me.”

He mixed up my drink and brought it over,
then led me across the entry hall into an office dominated by a
king-size desk that sat in the center of the room. Cherry built-in
cabinets and shelves filled one wall, and the opposite wall held
two of Gramma’s floral paintings—one a vase of white roses against
a rust-colored wall, and the other a pewter pitcher full of fiery
tiger lilies. “When I’m working and need a break, those flowers
restore me,” he said. “I never get tired of looking at them. And I
have another splendid one upstairs, one of her mountain
scenes.”