Too Near the Edge (14 page)

“How did Nathan take that?”

“Not well. But I supported Sharon. After all
the guy left before Nathan was born and has never tried to see him
all these years.”

“True. But most kids want to at least meet
their birth parents.”

“Well, Nathan may get to meet Joel. He was so
insistent that Sharon said she’d think about it some more.”

Glancing around, I noticed a woman over at
the funky West End Gardener shop setting out their daily display of
flowering plants, pots, lawn chairs and decorations. Among them
were some of Pablo’s metal yard ornament sculptures—rusty birds and
cats crafted from yard tools. I felt proud seeing his work
displayed so prominently in Boulder’s trendy west end. That
strengthened my resolve to call him to try to make up from last
night. We were done eating by then, so I gathered my dishes and
told Erik I needed to get back. He looked a little disappointed,
but followed along without objection.

We didn’t say much walking back. I was
thinking about how to get him to leave so I could call Pablo. But
as soon as we got back to my house, Erik said, “Okay Cleo, I’m
going to set up this growing system and plant the seeds for you.
You’re going to love this. I promise. I can see you’re a gardener
by looking at your well-tended rose bushes and flower beds out
front.”

I’m a sucker for compliments about my garden,
so I wavered. “Can you do it really quickly? I know you’re trying
to help, but I have a lot to do today, and I need to get started on
it.”

“That’s fine. Go ahead with whatever you need
to do. I’ll just put this together. Do you have a container I can
use for some water?”

I decided it would be quicker to help him and
get him out of there than to leave him to his own devices, so I
moved the whole operation out to the kitchen, where we could work
next to the sink. Unfortunately, just as we were finishing the
planting, Pablo stopped by. He walked right in, not realizing
anyone was there with me because Erik had parked over in the
Settler’s Park lot. “Am I interrupting something?” he asked,
looking like he’d like to interrupt Erik right out the door.

“Oh, hi, Pablo. This is Erik. He’s helping me
plant some seeds he gave me. Erik, this is my friend Pablo.”
Looking back on it, I realize I should have said boyfriend, but
instead I heard myself saying friend. Not a good start.

“Why are you planting seeds inside? It’s
summer,” Pablo said.

“These seeds are an investment for Cleo. I
gave her the plants to grow, so she can sell the roots later and
make $5,000,” Erik said in a confident infomercial tone.

“Are you so hard up you need to get involved
in work-from-home schemes, Cleo?” Pablo challenged.

Somehow his challenge made the project more
interesting. I knew I was being oppositional, but my irritation at
his bossy tone overcame my new resolutions not to be so reactive. I
slipped back into my old habits, took his bait and pushed back.
“Pablo, it’s no big deal. Just something to try. Don’t get all bent
out of shape.”

“Whatever, Cleo.” His tone was icy cold. Then
he turned to Erik. “So who’s going to buy these plants at that
inflated price?”

“My company buys them back. It’s a win-win
proposition for everyone,” Erik said, handing Pablo a Natural
Herbal Remedies Company business card, oblivious to Pablo’s frosty
tone. “Maybe you’d be interested. It’s a small investment for a big
payoff.”

I knew Erik had gone too far when he tried to
recruit Pablo. And sure enough, Pablo shut him down without any
further discussion.

“No thanks. I’m not interested in any
get-rich-quick schemes. I already have two jobs—and I need to get
back to one of them right now.” Pablo was on his way out the door
as he spoke.

“Pablo, you’re over-reacting here. Why don’t
you sit down for a few minutes until we finish planting the seeds,
and then we can talk?” I said, thinking I could have handled this
better. Reacting first and thinking later was becoming a pattern in
our relationship.

“No, I have to go,” Pablo didn’t turn back. I
felt a jolt of disappointment, but trying to get him to stay seemed
hopeless.

“Hey, give me a call if you change your mind
about the seeds,” Erik yelled after him.

My resolve to improve my relationship with
Pablo had disappeared again in the heat of the moment, and I was
ready to get rid of Erik as well. So as soon as we finished with
the seeds, I reminded him I had work to do, and he needed to
leave.

After he left, I noticed a message on my cell
phone, which I had forgotten to turn on earlier. It was Elisa.
“Hey, Cleo. Honey, you have to come to dinner tonight so we can
talk. It’s important. How about 6:30? I’ll be out all day, so leave
a message.”

More of a summons than an invitation, but
dinner at Elisa’s is always tasty, her deck is pleasant on a summer
evening, and we enjoy each other’s company. I decided to
accept.

When I got to Elisa’s, she was alone on the
deck, getting out the grill. ”Jack’s out of town, so it’ll be just
us girls—you, me and Maria.”

“Has Maria recovered from her traumatic
babysitting gig at Sharon’s last weekend?” I asked, wondering how
much Elisa’s daughter had told her about what happened.

“Not to worry, she’s fine. She’s inside
making the salad. Hey, grab some wine, we need to talk. And I’m
going to grill some fish.” Knowing Elisa, she had an agenda, and it
wasn’t about fish. Sure enough, about two seconds after I sat down
on the deck with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, she started
questioning me about Sharon’s progress. “Sharon won’t tell me much,
but I know she reached her mother. Isn’t that strange when her
mother’s been dead for more than 30 years?” Elisa wheeled the grill
out away from the wall, and started the fire.

Elisa knew full well I couldn’t tell her
about a session with a client. But I played it straight. “Come on,
you know I can’t talk about what happened with Sharon. As far as
how long someone’s been dead, I have no idea whether it makes any
difference in being able to contact them. But if you think about
it, why would the afterlife use our time system anyway? Last month,
last year or last century may be all the same to them.”

Elisa looked thoughtful. “But wouldn’t you
think it would be easier to reach someone who had just died,
especially when that was the person you were trying to contact?
Wait, don’t answer that until I bring out some stuff from the
kitchen.” As she dashed off, I admired the intricate pattern of the
gauzy, cobalt blue silk shirt she wore over her stretchy black tank
top and crop pants. My beige linen camp shirt and drawstring pants
weren’t even close on the elegance scale. I told myself that at
only 5’4” it’s harder for me to look elegant than it is for her at
5”8”. But in truth I think I just find it easier to go for the
simple natural look.

Just as I got up to go inside to see if I
could help, Maria’s black puppy scampered out the open kitchen
door, yapping and wagging his tail as if he’d been waiting all day
to see me. “Gustav, stop! No!” Maria scurried out after him, but he
was all over me before she even got close. He was so adorable, I
didn’t even mind the paw marks on my pants. Big advantage of the
not-so-chic outfit.

“Sorry, Cleo. I think he likes you though,”
Maria picked him up. “Anyway, what do you think about Dr.
Waycroft?”

“What do you mean? What about him?” I
asked.

“Oh…Didn’t Mom tell you? He got so mad, I
thought he was going to kill Sharon. Yelling at her, calling her
stupid, naïve, an irresponsible mother—telling her she was going to
regret not listening to him. And he said it all in front of
Nathan.” Gustov jumped out of Maria’s arms and ran across the deck
barking fiercely at a squirrel scampering up a tree trunk. Maria
dashed after him, almost colliding with Elisa as she came out of
the kitchen carrying a tray loaded with salad and raw fish.

I jumped up to reach for falling dishes, but
Elisa managed to keep her balance. “What’s Waycroft so upset
about?” I asked. “Have you talked to Sharon?”

“I talked to her this morning. The argument
just happened yesterday. But Maria was there for most of it, so she
can tell you about it.” Elisa smeared olive oil and lemon on some
salmon fillets before laying them on the hot grill.

Maria put Gustov back in the house and came
over to tell me the story. “Okay, I was bringing Nathan back from
soccer camp,” she said, “and I guess Dr. Waycroft had stopped by at
Sharon’s. Nathan and I could hear him yelling at Sharon that she
was behaving like an idiot, and he wasn’t going to put up with it.
And then he went on about how she’s keeping Nathan from meeting his
real father, and spending all her time trying to talk to a dead
man. I tried to get Nathan back in the car and go for ice cream or
something until they cooled down, but Nathan just ran right
in.”

“Poor Nathan,” I said, wishing I could undo
this for him.

“It got worse,” Maria paced around the deck
with her head down, a behavior I recognized from those long-ago
years when I’d been her nanny. It was usually a sign she was
seriously upset. She paced faster as she continued her account.
“When I followed Nathan in, I saw Dr. Waycroft’s face was beet red
and his eyes were all squinty. He looked like he could eat us
alive. He said, ‘Nathan, your mother has lost her good sense—if she
ever had any. I’m going to take you to my house tonight. Get your
stuff and let’s go.’”

“What did Nathan do?” I asked.

Maria stopped right in front of me and gave
me a quizzical look. “This is the weirdest part,” she said. “Nathan
looked at his mom and then he looked at Dr. Waycroft and said, ‘Can
I have 200 extra points if I go?’ And then Sharon blew up. She
started yelling, ‘Dad, don’t tell me you have him on a point
system!’ Then she said, ‘I had to follow your system of getting
rewarded with points when I was growing up, but no way is my son
going to live that way.’”

At that point in the story Maria stopped to
catch her breath and sat in a chair next to me to continue. “So,”
she went on, “Dr Waycroft said, ‘Nathan, that was supposed to be
our secret.’ And Nathan started crying. Then Sharon grabbed Nathan,
and shouted at Dr. Waycroft to leave or she’d call the police. He
shouted back that the police might be on his side. And then he
said, ‘Joel has legal rights, you know. He could go to court and
get visitation rights. And I’ll be glad to help him.’ And then he
left. I was going to stay around to try to help Nathan calm down,
but that strange friend of theirs, Erik, showed up, so I left.”

I was stunned and not at all pleased that
Sharon’s conflict with her dad had escalated to this level, but
client confidentiality issues kept me from commenting. Instead, I
picked up on Maria’s comment about Erik. “Why do you think Erik is
strange?” I asked,

“He’s all about those plants, and weird
energy drinks,” Maria said wrinkling her nose like she smelled
something rotten. “And he freaks out anytime Nathan wants to go out
to Adam’s office. He’s just strange.”

“Enough gossip you guys,” Elisa yelled at us
from the grill. “This salmon is perfect right now, so get your
plates over here and get some. Let’s eat and relax and forget about
that tyrant Donald Waycroft for a while. We ate, talked about
Maria’s music and my artwork, and made plans to go to a summer
concert at Chautauqua the next week.

Then Maria left to meet some friends and I
finally heard what was really on Elisa’s mind. Waycroft had called
her that morning, threatening dire consequences if she didn’t keep
me away from Sharon. “He said he will personally make sure the
tenure committee picks my application apart with a fine-tooth comb.
And he’s good friends with the committee chair, so I expect it’s
not an empty threat.” Elisa poured us each another glass of wine.
“But you heard it here first, baby. Donald doesn’t know who he’s up
against. He may think he’s hot stuff, but he’ll pay a price if he
messes with me. I guarantee it.”

I knew Elisa was determined to get tenure.
She had worked hard to build her professional reputation. Elisa
married young, had Maria a few months later, got whatever jobs she
could with her undergraduate degree in psych—mostly working in
group homes. But she knew it wasn’t what she wanted in the long
run. So, when she was 29 and Jack had made a fortune in commercial
real estate in Boulder, she went back to school and got her Ph.D.
in psychology, specializing in research on memory. She got hired to
work on some research grants and wrote a successful grant of her
own. Her research kind of took off and she was hired into a
tenure-track position in the Psychology Department of the
University. Now she’s 40, and as she says her career is truly
cruising. She’s up for tenure this fall, and I was certain she
would fight tooth and nail to keep Waycroft from derailing her
progress.

“Do you have a plan to stop him?” I
asked.

“Honey, I’ll find a way to fix his wagon.”
Elisa smirked at the prospect. Then her face turned serious and she
leaned forward and put her hand on my arm. “But it’s actually not
me I’m worried about,” she said. “It’s you. Donald said he would
expose you as a fraud and make sure your therapy practice is
ruined. I know we can fight this, but you’re more vulnerable
because your Contact Project is—I think we can agree—so far outside
the mainstream.”

I should have paid more attention to her
warning. But somehow I couldn’t see Donald Waycroft as a serious
threat to my career. So I brushed her off with a flip reply.
“Thanks for the heads-up. But Waycroft reminds me of my dad—more
bark than bite. You know I’ve been arguing with Dad all my life. No
matter what I do, he tells me why I shouldn’t do it or how I could
do it a better way. Don’t worry about me. I can handle Waycroft’s
attacks.”