“Is that all that’s wrong with Hope?”
“Not exactly. Hope seems to suffer from a delusional disorder. She knows the difference between fantasy and reality but that’s not likely to impact her interpretation of her life. Not now, anyway. Hope prefers her version of reality even though she knows it’s mostly fabricated. She’s in denial and has many creative excuses. I’ve prescribed a mild antidepressant and she should have therapy. I recommend an inpatient facility for thirty days followed by outpatient therapy. I’d like you to be prepared for something—this has gone on for so long I don’t expect it will be easy to resolve. And in fact, it might never completely resolve. But she’s functional. She’s not a danger to herself or others.”
“Is there something off in her brain?” Jo asked. “Is this a mental illness?”
“It’s borderline. It is identified in the DSM—the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders published by the American Psychiatric Association. It falls into the same category as other disorders that are borderline, like narcissism, jealousy, that sort of thing. It’s not curable but people who seek change through therapy have good results. That’s the rule of thumb in most things—you can’t change people but people can change. They have to want to.”
“Hope doesn’t want to, does she?”
“Not at the moment, I’m afraid. But that isn’t necessarily permanent. Let’s see how it goes.”
“What am I going to do with her?” Jo asked. “I don’t have a place for her.”
“She might choose to go back to Pennsylvania. Doesn’t she have a home there?”
“But no family support. They’re done with this craziness.”
“That might change her perspective,” the doctor said. “There are other options, too, depending on Hope’s acceptance—like transitionary housing. A halfway house. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We have a long way to go.”
Jo shook her head wearily. “I wish I understood why...”
“There could be a dozen reasons,” he said. “Sometimes people fictionalize their lives for attention. Sometimes they’re looking for excuses. Some think a good story will explain them better than the truth will. Some suffer from low self-esteem and think their fictional story makes them more interesting than they really are, while others were abused and an imaginary life helps them escape the reality of abuse. Then there are those who think if they tell the story long enough it will become true just as those who have told their story for so long it blends with the truth so thoroughly they begin to believe it. Whatever the cause, when it’s protracted it becomes compulsive. It’s a habit hard to break.”
“How do you explain her meltdown?”
“Keeping up with the stories and dodging the consequences is very stressful—many sufferers change friends and even families often. And we all know them—some are more intense than others. There are some more popular than others. There were so many men claiming to be Navy SEALs that there’s a website dedicated to exposing the frauds. The editor in chief of a major city newspaper spent his entire career claiming to be a decorated retired colonel who served in the war—he was exposed as never having served in the military.”
“And people who lie to con you?” she asked. “To trick you into giving them money or something?”
“Not in the same category, I’m afraid,” the doctor said. “That’s a whole different thing. Criminal, deliberate, felonious...not represented in the DSM. No, people who make up false but entirely plausible stories and know they’re not true but can’t seem to stop doing it—that’s a disorder we’re familiar with. It pops up all the time.”
Jo was intrigued. “It’s so wrong to deceive people like that...”
“That’s the irony,” he said. “Most people aren’t fooled. The taller the tales, the more doubt associated with them. There seems to be an interesting inverse correlation—true heroes seldom brag. People with solid marriages feel secure and don’t seem to need to constantly remind the world how happy they are. Wealthy people seldom publicize their net worth. This isn’t always true, of course—some people just have to toot their own horn. But it’s often true that grand tales of heroism or wealth or romance are usually in play to cover up some sense of a deficiency. And of course delusional disorders like all disorders come in all sizes. I’d venture to say almost all Christmas letters are a little delusional.”
“My daughter was sending Christmas letters signed Hope, Franklin, Bobbi and Trude for years after their divorce. She wouldn’t accept it.”
“She must have been so lonely,” the doctor said.
“Do you think she’ll get well?”
“I think she is well,” he said. “The question is, will she stop fictionalizing her life? Let’s see what comes with some therapy.”
* * *
Jo went to see her daughter after her conversation with the doctor. Hope didn’t look good to her, but she imagined that was to be expected. She was drawn and looked sleepy; her hair wasn’t fixed and she wore scrubs. Someone had given her scrubs. Jo would find a way to get her clothes.
She embraced her. “Oh, Hope,” was all she could say.
“I’ve made a mess, haven’t I?” she said.
“Nothing that can’t be worked through,” Jo said.
“I think Franklin has left me for good,” she said.
Jo pulled back, holding Hope’s upper arms. “I believe he did that about six years ago. He has a wife and son.”
“But once he thought it over...?”
Jo was shaking her head. She didn’t have to say anything. Hope just sighed.
“Let’s get you back on your feet,” Jo said. “You’re young. There are lots of possibilities for you, but only if you get help.”
“I think it’s too late,” she said. “I have no one. Not even my children.”
“Well, you have me, but only if you follow the doctor’s recommendations. If you don’t, I’m afraid you’re on your own.”
“Oh, I doubt he’ll be much help,” she said. “He wants me to go to a hospital. A hospital for crazy people.”
“That’s not correct,” Jo said. “It’s a rehab facility for people recovering from depression and other mental and emotional disorders. The doors are not locked.”
“I bet they have rubber rooms...”
Jo laughed and smoothed Hope’s hair. Then she clutched her hands. “It’s all up to you, Hope. You still have family, but only if you’re honest and truthful. You might be able to repair your relationship with your daughters in time, but they aren’t going to help you pretend—they’ve been clear, they’re done with that. I’ll be there for you but only if you get help. So what are you going to do?”
“I’ll do what you want,” she said. “But I’m so sad. Do you think I’ll ever stop being so sad?”
“What are you so sad about, darling?”
“I mapped out the perfect life. Absolutely perfect. And it didn’t work.”
Jo was flabbergasted. “That’s because it was pretend.”
“It was still perfect,” she said.
Jo sighed. “I don’t know if a month is going to be enough.”
* * *
Jo couldn’t help but feel she had failed her children, even though there wasn’t much more she could have done. Hindsight is so excellent—now it was clear that had she contacted Frank Griffin years ago, things might have been better. She had met him at the wedding, of course, but it was like meeting him for the first time now. She liked the bike shop owner so much more than the VP of finance. The old Frank, in the company of his rich, stuffy parents, was so uptight. He had looked thoroughly bored and unhappy. What a shock to learn he was! But this Frank, comfortable in his own skin, was so charming and kind, so thoughtful and concerned.
She thought of Krista back then. She could not have stopped her from act
ing out no matter what she tried. Likely in the face of her family disintegrating around her she gravitated toward teenagers who she could attach herself to, feel acceptance—and they were a bad lot.
Her thoughts turned to Beverly. Beverly had come a long way—she was the content mother of two. But getting there had been such a struggle and no one could have made it easier for her. Beverly was the one who had been with Bunny when she drowned, Beverly felt guilty and responsible for twelve-year-old Bunny’s death; sneaking out on the lake in the rowboat had been her scheme. She spent years in therapy.
Not many months after Bunny’s death Beverly’s counselor reported that her depression was not responding to medication and she was concerned by her suicidal thoughts. The counselor recommended a foster home where she might have a better chance of getting her life back. It was a farm in southern Minnesota and there were usually six teenagers at a time. They thought Beverly could benefit from a few months there—there were farm chores, animals, even riding horses. The couple who operated the farm were both social workers and could provide counseling as well as close supervision. Just a few months, the counselor said.
Beverly never lived at home again. She bonded with the Swensons, Joy and Glenn, and she blossomed through high school, even helping with other teenagers in residence. But Beverly was the only one who stayed on as the closest thing to a family member they had.
Fortunately, Jo and Beverly did stay in close touch and saw each other regularly. If Joy and Glenn came into the city, they brought Beverly to see her mother and there were days Jo could drive or take the bus to the farm to spend a day with them. That first year was so hard, being separated from her youngest child. But as Beverly grew stronger and happier, Jo realized it had been a godsend. A gift.
Beverly was forty now and it had really been no surprise—she was thoroughly a country girl. Her children, a boy and a girl, Alex and Becca, were twelve and fourteen. She had married a man who came from a big family farm near Red Wing and the kids had lots of 4-H blue ribbons for everything from canning to raising a calf. Though Beverly had never stayed a night with Jo, Jo had spent a few nights at Beverly’s farmhouse. She loved Beverly’s big, quiet husband, Tom. If Jo was visiting Beverly and her family, Glenn and Joy often made it a point to visit, as well. And it was no surprise to Jo when Beverly and Tom became foster parents.
Jo called her youngest daughter. “Beverly, it’s Mom,” she said. “You’ll never believe what I’m calling you from—my very own iPhone. I’m even doing email.”
“Get outta town!” Beverly said. “Tom,” she yelled. “My mom has a cell phone and email!”
“Did hell freeze over?” he yelled back.
Jo laughed happily. “I have some things to tell you—I’ll try to give you the condensed version.” She explained about Hope and the girls and especially about Frank. She told her Megan was hanging in there but she certainly wasn’t robust looking. Charley was managing all the details, Krista was working at the lodge and seemed happier than Jo would have thought possible and Jo and Lou were speaking again. “Not everything is resolved between us but I’m very hopeful.”
“How in heaven’s name did you manage that?”
“I think we can give credit to Hope, in a backward kind of way. I swallowed my pride and went to Louise. I told her our girls need us and we can’t fail them a second time. Megan is sick, Hope is in the hospital, Krista is trying to get on her feet—we need to stop being angry and start supporting each other. We talked about everything. We talked all through the night. I think there’s more talking to do, but unless I missed all the signals, Lou is ready to make amends, too.”
Beverly’s voice was very quiet. “I haven’t seen her in twenty-seven years. I’m sure she still hates me.”
“I don’t think she ever hated you, Beverly. For a while she was angry with the world, and who wouldn’t be. But it’s been a lifetime. Surely we can all move on in a lifetime. You haven’t seen very many of our family.”
“Will Hope be okay?” she asked.
“I think so. But it’s up to her. Krista has a good chance—she’s a new person and she’s amazing. Meg... I don’t know what to expect. I’ve seen her a few times and she says she feels well but the disease and the treatment have taken their toll.”
“And you, Mom? Are you okay?”
“I’m better than I’ve been in a long time, Beverly. I felt like I was in a holding pattern all this time and now I’m finally doing something. I’m making some plans, taking care of my girls, back in touch with my sister, spending time with my nieces, texting my granddaughters. I must start texting with Alex and Becca. Will you give them my number and ask them to try me? Tell them their grandma is rocking it—that’s what Bobbi and Trude say. They taught me. I’m messing up all the acronyms, of course—they love that and LOL like mad.”
Beverly laughed.
“I’ll talk to Louise, Beverly. I’ll make sure she’s made peace with that night Bunny drowned. If she hasn’t, I won’t lie to you. All right?”
“All right. Does Krista have a phone?”
“Not yet. Charley shares hers but I’m thinking of gifting her one.”
“Will you ask her to call me? It’s been so long.”
“Of course. And if you decide you’d like to show her the farm, she’s really figuring out the bus.”
“Mom? Will you please tell Aunt Lou I’m sorry?” she said.
Beverly hadn’t said anything like that in many years and it broke Jo’s heart. She didn’t want her reliving the pain of it. “If you’d like me to, sure. But, Beverly, she knows it was an accident. Kids just doing what kids do—no malice and no wickedness, just a very sad accident. You have children—you know how hard we try to keep them from taking chances and we know they do, anyway. That night, that freak storm, it was just the wrong place at the wrong time...”
“That night it was Bunny who wanted to go, not me. But it was me other nights. It was my idea first, a year before. It was as much fun to sneak around, spy on our big sisters, creep out of the house and take out the boat after dark as anything we did at the lake. We used to spy on you and Aunt Lou. Listen to what you said.”
“You did?” Jo said.
“Sure. We were never very sure what you were talking about, though. Usually complaints about Daddy and Uncle Carl.”
That night, she thought. That night she hid in the boathouse to listen in on Ivan and Corky the boat was there so the girls hadn’t gone out.
All this time that Beverly had felt the accident was her fault, Jo and Lou had felt the same way—that they’d been preoccupied with Ivan and Corky, that they hadn’t been paying enough attention, letting the kids run wild. Not only were Bunny and Beverly sneaking out in the boat, Charley got pregnant!
“You’d been doing that for a year?” Jo asked.
“Yes. The big girls got to go to the parties with the other kids across the lake but we always had to stay in, play with Barbies. It was as much fun to get the best of the big girls as anything. You’re right, it’s what kids do. Krista did it. Krista and Meg, I remember. When Charley and Hope wouldn’t take them to the beach parties, they snuck out and spied on them.”
“But if they took the boat to the parties...”
“You could walk there, remember? It wasn’t close but you could walk there. Or you could untie the boat next door—that old guy’s boat. Charley even swam home once, all the way across the lake, at night, no lifeguard...”
“Dear God,” Jo said. “So much going on we didn’t know about.”
“You had six teenage girls,” Beverly said. “We’re foster parents and our kids are not always the best kids. I’ve learned to be vigilant, but a lot of that comes from the knowledge of what me and my sisters and cousins managed to get away with.”
“Well, it served a purpose, then,” Jo said, suddenly tired.
&
nbsp; “Weren’t we once the perfect family?” Beverly asked.
Jo couldn’t speak? Perfect? They were never perfect! Horribly flawed and dysfunctional was the truth of it!
“At least that’s how I remember it,” Beverly said. “We had the best time. We were so close. Until Bunny died.”
Jo talked to her daughter awhile longer. When they hung up Jo called Louise. “I’d like to have you come to my apartment tonight. I’d like to make you dinner. I’ll buy us a very good bottle of wine. There are so many things we’ve forgotten to talk about. Good things.”
Chapter Fifteen
The end of July at Lake Waseka was hot and steamy and there seemed to be more than the usual number of mosquitoes. It was just the three of them again—Charley, Meg and Krista. John came on the weekends and stayed as long as possible, sometimes leaving at three a.m. Monday morning so he could get to the hospital for early rounds and often taking Friday off to maximize his time with Meg. He gave Jo a ride to the lake once; she took the bus back to the city but came on her own another time, spending a night. When John or Jo visited, there was an air of quiet celebration, a big dinner, a lot of chatter and laughter.
Jo tried sharing memories with them, particularly the ones the girls were too young to remember, like the night Beverly was born right there in the lake house and how Lou took charge and helped her through the birth. She talked about Lou teaching the girls the latest dances and confessed there were a few times when Lou and Jo went skinny-dipping under a full moon after the girls went to sleep—until that one chilly summer night when Oliver, their next door neighbor, took a lawn chair down to his dock and plopped down there to enjoy a cigar while they nearly froze to death waiting for him to leave. It was a very big cigar and they shivered for hours afterward.
“You’ve been talking about my mother a lot lately,” Charley said. “I’m starting to think you miss her.”
“I suppose I did,” she said. “We’ve had dinner a couple of times. We’re trying to patch things up.”