room. But when she sees the crib in the den, she stops and goes in for a peek at the baby. He’s sleeping. She watches him, studies his soft, sweet features, trying to fathom the boundless peace of this exceptionally flawless being.
Something colorful on her father’s desk draws her deeper into the room. A birthday card from Amanda. She checks the inscription and guiltily puts it back, then turns to browse the bookshelves, curious as always about her father’s breadth of interests. Archeology, politics, art, literature, medicine, and a long shelf of computer texts, some with Henri LeClaire’s name on the spine. Framed diplomas and photographs are neatly clustered on one wall. Reeve studies one of her father standing next to Bill Gates. Some people say they look alike, but she never could see it.
She yawns. The couch that faces the window looks comfortable. She has never slept here before, but the pale blue throw draped over the arm seems an invitation. She strokes it—soft—and pulls it over her as she reclines and stretches out.
She has just dozed off when she becomes aware of her sister’s voice behind her. “He sleeps like a log during the day,” Rachel whispers, “but he’s a real party animal at three in the morning.”
“You and Reeve were the same way,” her father answers.
Their voices are soft. Reeve is unseen on the sofa. She closes her eyes, hoping they’ll go away, and tries to go back to sleep.
“I wonder how Reeve is sleeping these days,” he says.
Reeve smiles.
“Me, too. The news about this latest case has got to be awfully upsetting.”
The smile disappears.
“She had such terrible nightmares, remember?”
“I’ll bet this new girl is having nightmares, too.” A beat. “Do you think they’ll ask Beth Goodwin for help, like with Reeve?”
“No, I think they’ll ask Reeve.”
“What?”
Reeve is wide awake, partly fascinated, partly appalled by what she’s hearing.
“She’s closer, both geographically and in time,” he says.
“Oh, right.”
He sighs. “Anyway, I just hope they don’t ask.”
“Why not?”
“It would be too hard on her.”
“Dad, she’s an adult now, she can handle it.”
“No, she was so traumatized.”
Reeve considers sitting up and confronting them, but curiosity pins her to the sofa.
Her father continues, “You know she’s still seeing Dr. Lerner.”
“Still?”
“Once a week. She’s pretty fragile, I think, beneath that aloof exterior.”
“Dad, she’s not made of china. She’s got grit. She has her own apartment. I mean, I know you’re paying some of her bills, but she’s more independent now, isn’t she?”
“She’s just so isolated, Rach. She has no social life, as far as I can tell, and I worry about her. It’s like she’s locked up in a protective shell.”
“But she seems to have adjusted pretty well. She’s working and—”
“Not any more.”
“What?”
“She lost her job.”
“Oh, crap, another one? I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I am, and I’m not. I still wish she’d go back to college.”
Rachel scoffs. “I don’t understand why she won’t give Berkeley another try. She’s the one with the fat IQ.”
No one speaks for a moment and Reeve lies quiet, wishing they would go away.
“Besides, college would be good for her,” Rachel adds.
“I know. But I guess she couldn’t adapt.”
“She didn’t really try, did she? But it’s what Mom wanted. Anyway, that was the whole point of the trust fund, right?”
“I know, but…” Her father’s voice sounds far away.
“Of course she’s socially awkward. But still.”
“Well anyway, look at you, kiddo,” her father says, changing the subject, his tone a notch brighter. “You’re doing great.”
Reeve hears what she imagines to be a hug, waits until they’ve gone, then goes to the window, thinking about her mother, about her life, about Tilly Cavanaugh. The fog blows over rooftops, gray and dismal, curling like wet smoke,
Something colorful on her father’s desk draws her deeper into the room. A birthday card from Amanda. She checks the inscription and guiltily puts it back, then turns to browse the bookshelves, curious as always about her father’s breadth of interests. Archeology, politics, art, literature, medicine, and a long shelf of computer texts, some with Henri LeClaire’s name on the spine. Framed diplomas and photographs are neatly clustered on one wall. Reeve studies one of her father standing next to Bill Gates. Some people say they look alike, but she never could see it.
She yawns. The couch that faces the window looks comfortable. She has never slept here before, but the pale blue throw draped over the arm seems an invitation. She strokes it—soft—and pulls it over her as she reclines and stretches out.
She has just dozed off when she becomes aware of her sister’s voice behind her. “He sleeps like a log during the day,” Rachel whispers, “but he’s a real party animal at three in the morning.”
“You and Reeve were the same way,” her father answers.
Their voices are soft. Reeve is unseen on the sofa. She closes her eyes, hoping they’ll go away, and tries to go back to sleep.
“I wonder how Reeve is sleeping these days,” he says.
Reeve smiles.
“Me, too. The news about this latest case has got to be awfully upsetting.”
The smile disappears.
“She had such terrible nightmares, remember?”
“I’ll bet this new girl is having nightmares, too.” A beat. “Do you think they’ll ask Beth Goodwin for help, like with Reeve?”
“No, I think they’ll ask Reeve.”
“What?”
Reeve is wide awake, partly fascinated, partly appalled by what she’s hearing.
“She’s closer, both geographically and in time,” he says.
“Oh, right.”
He sighs. “Anyway, I just hope they don’t ask.”
“Why not?”
“It would be too hard on her.”
“Dad, she’s an adult now, she can handle it.”
“No, she was so traumatized.”
Reeve considers sitting up and confronting them, but curiosity pins her to the sofa.
Her father continues, “You know she’s still seeing Dr. Lerner.”
“Still?”
“Once a week. She’s pretty fragile, I think, beneath that aloof exterior.”
“Dad, she’s not made of china. She’s got grit. She has her own apartment. I mean, I know you’re paying some of her bills, but she’s more independent now, isn’t she?”
“She’s just so isolated, Rach. She has no social life, as far as I can tell, and I worry about her. It’s like she’s locked up in a protective shell.”
“But she seems to have adjusted pretty well. She’s working and—”
“Not any more.”
“What?”
“She lost her job.”
“Oh, crap, another one? I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I am, and I’m not. I still wish she’d go back to college.”
Rachel scoffs. “I don’t understand why she won’t give Berkeley another try. She’s the one with the fat IQ.”
No one speaks for a moment and Reeve lies quiet, wishing they would go away.
“Besides, college would be good for her,” Rachel adds.
“I know. But I guess she couldn’t adapt.”
“She didn’t really try, did she? But it’s what Mom wanted. Anyway, that was the whole point of the trust fund, right?”
“I know, but…” Her father’s voice sounds far away.
“Of course she’s socially awkward. But still.”
“Well anyway, look at you, kiddo,” her father says, changing the subject, his tone a notch brighter. “You’re doing great.”
Reeve hears what she imagines to be a hug, waits until they’ve gone, then goes to the window, thinking about her mother, about her life, about Tilly Cavanaugh. The fog blows over rooftops, gray and dismal, curling like wet smoke,
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