“I know it must be hard for both of you to know that we're getting married,” she said slowly. “I know this has been a big change for you, and probably comes as a shock. But I really love your father, and I want to make him happy. And I want you both to know that you're welcome in our home anytime. I want you to feel it's your home too.” He had bought a beautiful co-op on Fifth Avenue, with a splendid view of the park, and two guest rooms for them. And there were three rooms for the boys and a nanny. Rachel had said that if they had a baby, which she hoped they would, the boys could share a room.

“Thank you,” Meg said in a choked voice after Rachel's little speech. After that they talked about the wedding. And at eleven-thirty, after never speaking once during the entire breakfast, Wim looked at his sister and said they had to catch the train.

They both hugged their father before they left, and they seemed in a great hurry to leave. Peter reminded Wim that the wedding was black tie, and he nodded, and with rapid strides, they were out of the hotel and into a cab after a hasty good-bye to Rachel and the boys. Wim didn't say a word to his sister, he just stared out the window, and she held his hand. New Year's Eve was going to be a killer, they both knew, not only for them, but for their mother too. And they still had to break the news. But Meg wanted to do it, she didn't want her father upsetting her again. She'd been through enough.

“How do you think it went?” Peter asked Rachel as he paid the check, and she helped the boys put on their coats. They'd been very well behaved, although neither of Peter's children had said a word to them until they left.

“I think they both look like they're in shock. That's a big bite for them to swallow all at once. Me, the boys, the wedding. I'd be pretty shocked too.” And she had been when her own father had done the same thing. He had married one of her classmates from Stanford the year she'd gotten out of school. And she hadn't spoken to him for three years, and very little since. It had created a permanent rift between them, particularly when her mother died five years later, officially of cancer, but presumably of grief. It was a familiar story to her, but hadn't dissuaded her from what she was doing with Peter. She was desperately in love with him. “When are you going to tell Paris?” she asked, as they walked out onto the street and hailed a cab, to go back to the apartment on Fifth Avenue.

“I'm not. Meg said she would. I think that's best,” he said, succumbing to cowardice, but nonetheless grateful he didn't have to do it himself.

“So do I,” Rachel said, as he gave the driver the address, and they sped uptown. Peter put an arm around her, tousled the boys' hair, and looked relieved. It had been a tough morning for him. And all he could do now was force Paris out of his mind. He had no other choice. He told himself, as he had for six months now, that what he was doing was right, for all of them. It was an illusion he would have to cling to now, for better or worse, for the rest of his life.





Chapter 9




Paris walked into Anne Smythe's office looking glazed. She looked like a phantom drifting through the room as she sat down, and Anne watched, assessing her again. She hadn't seen her look like that in months. Not since June, when she'd first come in.

“How's the ice skating going?”

“It isn't,” Paris said in a monotone.

“Why not? Have you been sick?” They had only seen each other four days before, but a lot could happen in four days, and had.

“Peter's getting married on New Year's Eve.”

There was a long silence. “I see. That's pretty rough.”

“Yes it is,” Paris said, looking as though she was on Thorazine. She didn't scream, she didn't cry. She didn't go into any details, or say how she had heard. She just sat there looking dead, and she felt like she was. Again. The last hope she had harbored was gone. He hadn't come to his senses or changed his mind. He was getting married in five weeks. Meg and Wim had told her as soon as they got back from the city on Saturday afternoon. And afterward Meg had slept in her bed that night. And both of them had gone back to California the next day. Paris had cried all Sunday night. For them, for Peter, for herself. She felt doomed to be alone for the rest of her life. And he had a new wife. Or would, in five weeks.

“How do you feel?”

“Like shit.”

Anne smiled at her. “I can see that. I'll bet you do. Anyone would. Are you angry, Paris?” Paris shook her head and started to cry silently. It took her a long time to answer.

“I'm just sad. Very, very sad.” She looked broken.

“Do you think we ought to talk about some medication? Do you think that would help?” Paris shook her head again.

“I don't want to run away from it. I have to learn to live with this. He's gone.”

“Yes, he is. But you have a whole life ahead of you, and some of it will be very good. It will probably never be as bad as this again.” It was a reassuring thought.

“I hope not,” Paris said, blowing her nose. “I want to hate him, but I don't. I hate her. The bitch. She ruined my life. And so did he, the shit. But I love him anyway.” She sounded like a child, and felt like one. She felt utterly lost, and couldn't imagine her life ever being happy again. She was sure it wouldn't be.

“How were Wim and Meg?”

“Great, to me. And upset. They were shocked. They asked me if I knew about her, and I lied to them. I didn't think it was fair to Peter to tell them the truth, that she was why he left me.”

“Why are you covering for him?”

“Because he's their father, and I love him, and it didn't seem fair to him to tell them the truth. That's up to him.”

“That's decent of you.” Paris nodded, and blew her nose again. “What about you, Paris? What are you going to do to get through this? I think you should go skating again.”

“I don't want to skate. I don't want to do anything.” She was profoundly depressed again. Despair had become a way of life.

“What about seeing friends? Have you been invited to any Christmas parties?” It seemed irrelevant now.

“Lots of them. I turned them all down.”

“Why? I think you should go.”

“I don't want people feeling sorry for me.” It had been her mantra for the past six months.

“They'll feel a lot sorrier for you if you become a recluse. Why not make an effort to go to at least one party, and see how it goes?”

Paris sat staring at her for a long moment, and then shook her head.

“Then, if you're that depressed, I think we should talk about meds,” Anne said firmly.

Paris glared at her from her chair, and then sighed deeply. “All right, all right. I'll go to one Christmas party. One. But that's it.”

“Thank you,” Anne said, looking pleased. “Do you want to talk about which one?”

“No,” Paris said, scowling at her. “I'll figure it out myself.” They spent the rest of the session talking about how she felt about Peter's impending marriage, and she looked a little better when she left, and the next time she came, she blurted out that she had accepted for a cocktail party that Virginia and her husband were giving a week before Christmas Eve. Wim and Meg were coming home for two weeks the next day. Wim had a month's vacation, but he was going skiing in Vermont with friends after Peter's wedding. All Paris wanted to do now was get through the holidays. If she was still alive and on her feet on New Year's Day, she figured she'd be ahead of the game.

The one thing Paris had agreed to do, other than going to the party she was dreading, was to baby herself as much as she could. Anne said it was important to nurture herself, rest, sleep, get some exercise, even a massage would do her good. And two days later, like a sign from providence, a woman she had known in her carpool days ran into her at the grocery store, and handed her the business card of a massage and aromatherapist she said she'd tried, and said was fabulous. Paris felt foolish taking it, but it couldn't do any harm, she told herself. And Anne was right, she had to do something for her own peace and sanity, especially if she was going to continue to refuse to take antidepressants, which she was determined to do. She wanted to get “well” and happy again on her own, for some reason that was important to her, although she didn't think there was anything wrong with other people taking medication. She just didn't want it herself. So massage seemed like a wholesome alternative, and when she got home that afternoon, she called the name on the card.

The voice at the other end of the line was somewhat ethereal, and there was Indian music playing in the background, which Paris found irritating, but she was determined to keep an open mind. The woman's name was Karma Applebaum, and Paris forced herself not to laugh as she wrote it down. The massage therapist said she would come to the house, she had her own table, and she said she would bring her aromatherapy oils as well. The gods were with them apparently, because Karma said she had had a cancellation providentially just that night. Paris hesitated for a beat when Karma offered to come at nine o'clock, and then decided what the hell. She had nothing to lose, and she thought she might sleep better. It sounded like voodoo to her, and she had never had a massage in her entire life. And God only knew what aromatherapy involved. It sounded ridiculous to her. It was amazing what one could be driven to, she told herself.

She made herself a cup of instant soup before the “therapist” arrived, and when Meg called, she admitted sheepishly what she was about to do, and Meg insisted it would be good for her.

“Peace loves aromatherapy,” Meg encouraged her. “We do it all the time,” she said cheerfully, and Paris groaned. She'd been afraid of something like that.

“I'll let you know how it goes,” Paris said, sounding cynical as they hung up.

When Karma Applebaum arrived, she drove up in a truck with Hindu symbols painted on its side, and her blond hair was neatly done in cornrows with tiny beads woven into them. She was dressed all in white. And despite Paris's skepticism, she had to admit that the woman had a lovely, peaceful face. There was an otherworldly quality to her, and she took her shoes off the minute she came into the house. She asked where Paris's bedroom was, and went upstairs quietly to set up the table, and put flannel sheets on it. She plugged in a heating pad, and brought a small portable stereo out of a bag, and put gentle music on. It was more of the same Indian music Paris had heard in the background on the phone. And by the time Paris emerged from her bathroom in a cashmere robe that she seemed to live in these days, the room was nearly dark, and Karma was ready. Paris felt as though she was about to participate in a séance.

“Let yourself breathe away all the demons that have been possessing you…. Send them back to where they came from,” Karma said in a whisper as Paris lay down on the table. She hadn't been aware of being possessed by demons lately. And without a word, breathing deeply herself, Karma moved her hands several inches above Paris's somewhat anxious, rigid body. This felt silly. Karma waved her hands like magic wands, and said she was feeling Paris's chakras. And then she stopped abruptly just above Paris's liver. She frowned, looked at Paris with concern, and spoke with genuine worry. “I feel a blockage.”

“Where?” She was beginning to make Paris nervous. All she wanted was a massage, not a news flash from her liver.

“I think it's lodged between your kidneys and your liver. Have you been having a problem with your mother?”

“Not lately. She's been dead for eighteen years. But I had a lot of trouble with her before that.” Her mother had been an extremely bitter, angry woman, but Paris hardly ever thought about her. She had far bigger problems.

“It must be something else then … but I feel spirits in the house. Have you heard them?” She'd been right in the first place, Paris decided, trying not to let the “therapist” unnerve her. It was a séance.

“No, I haven't.” Paris's philosophies were generally firmly rooted in fact, not fiction. And she wasn't interested in spirits. Just in surviving the divorce, and Pe-ter's impending marriage. She would have preferred dealing with spirits. They might have been easier to get rid of. Karma had begun moving her hands again by then, and she stopped with a look of horror two inches above Paris's stomach.

“There it is, I've got it,” she said with a victorious look. “It's in your bowels.” The news was getting worse by the minute.