window, then took a pull on her martini.
Because, well, I don’t know why, come to think of it.
It was a lie, said the patient to Dr. Schussler. It was clearly a lie. She knew why. But if I interrupted her again, I knew she’d walk off—she does that rather than get angry. So I let it go, and she mumbled on a bit, covering up. You know people are lying when they say too much about a simple thing. Finally she said:
In any case, the adoptions had to be done quickly, for the sake of the children, obviously, so that they would have parents instead of living in a church orphanage or a monastery. You may not have realized it, honey, but Europe was in ruins after the war, really devastated, people hungry, getting over losses of loved ones, businesses wrecked. So it wasn’t a situation where people were lining up to take in babies. On the contrary. That’s why so many were sent over here.
Shipped over like cargo, I said.
Will you stop that!
So I was one of them, I said to Mother, sent over here from the ruins of Europe.
Don’t talk like that, darling. People cared about you, and all the little children without families.
But how did I get from Grandfather Avery’s crazy group to you—to you and Father? You said you were estranged from Grandfather. And that Father wasn’t even a Catholic anymore.
Her mother gave her a stern look.
Really. I think it’s best not to go into all these details from the past. You know, sleeping dogs and all that. She patted her hair, fingered the silk of her collar.
You can’t stop here, Mother.
Think about it, dear. We can talk some other time, perhaps, if you decide you want me to go on.
Don’t be ridiculous. I’m orphaned somehow in the madness of the war. I’m in a monastery or an orphanage. The Catholic Church then ferries me to America, to this Catholic cult, as you called it, and then—what?
What, her mother echoed.
She smoked, then said:
Well. I’ll just say it: There was some problem with the first adoption.
First adoption?
Her mother took a deep breath.
All right. You wanted to know.
She paused.
You were adopted first by your father’s father.
What? Grandfather Avery?
I was reeling, the patient said to Dr. Schussler. That thin, bearded man I’d never given a thought to, a fading picture, a dead man no one mentioned: Suddenly he’s my father.
Yes, dear. He adopted you. But only briefly. A few months. There was … a problem with the adoption.
What problem?
Mother picked up her martini and took three long pulls from it, until only the olive remained at the bottom.
I never actually knew at the time, she finally said. All that was between your father and his father. Father kept many things from me in those days. Back then I assumed it was because of Grandfather’s age—he was forty-seven, and that was considered very old for a father in those days. And because he wasn’t married. And maybe because they found out that the guru priest the group followed had been defrocked—I forgot to tell you that, about the defrocked priest. All I knew was there was a phone call out of the blue from a member of your grandfather’s group asking Father to get in touch with them. After that, your father met with his father for the first time in a year, and when he came home he asked if we would take the child.
The child. Me.
Yes, dear. You.
And you said yes, the patient said.
Well … not immediately. Your father and I weren’t ready for a child then. We were … having problems.
What sort of problems?
I shouldn’t say any more, sweetheart. Your father wouldn’t … There are some things that are private, dear, between a husband and wife. Remember that when you get married.
Come on. You know I’ll never get married. Unless someday I can marry—
You will not say that in this house! I told you that. You will not mention it again!
What choice did I have? the patient said to the doctor. I had to exchange one silence for another.
All right, I said.
Now—Mother adjusted her collar, retying the bow—do you want to know the story or not?
Go on, I said.
She looked right at me, her eyes a little blurry—from tears or martinis, I couldn’t tell.
You see, she said. I wasn’t really ready to have a child.
You didn’t want me?
Please don’t interrupt! I didn’t know it was you yet! It wasn’t you, as you are. It was just the