Speaking in Tongues

understand that. But why?”
    She now looked at the crystal ball. In it was captured the orange glow from a wall lamp. She stared at the distorted trapezoid of light and said, “Tate wanted to be his grandfather. He was a famous lawyer and judge in the area. He had a big family, a traditional lifestyle. Well, Tate wanted that—and a good, dependable farmwife.” She lifted her hands and slapped her thighs. “He got me instead. Big disappointment.”
    “No, that’s not you.” The doctor smiled wryly. “I can see that. That was very unfair to you for him to expect that.”
    “To me?” she asked. “Unfair?”
    “Of course,” he offered as if it were obvious. “Your husband had a distorted level of expectations—based on a child’s view of the past—and he tried to project that onto you. I’ll bet he worked a lot, spent time away from home.”
    “He did, yes. But I was busy too. My sister was sick—”
    “Her heart condition.”
    Oh, she could talk to this man for hours! She’d met him only thirty minutes ago and yet he knew her. Knew her better than Tate did—even after all those years of marriage.
    “That’s right.”
    “But why are you taking the blame? You’re attractive, intelligent, have a mind of your own. If you wanted an independent life, why should you feel bad about that? It seems to me that he’s the one to blame for all this. He went into the marriage knowing who you were and tried to change you. And probably in some less-than-honest ways.”
    “Less than honest?”
    “He appeared supportive, I’ll bet. He probably said, ‘Honey, do whatever you want to do. I’ll be behind it.’ ”
    She was stunned. It was as if Dr. Peters were looking directly into her memories. “Yes, that’s exactly what he’d say.”
    “But in fact, what he was doing was the opposite. Little comments, even body language, that’d whittle away at your spirit. He wanted you barefoot and pregnant and wanted you to give up your life, have dinner on the table for him, give him a brood of kids, ignore your ill sister. And he was going to make a namefor himself as a prosecutor and to hell with everybody else.” His eyes flickered with pain— her pain. “It was horrible what he did to you. Inexcusable. But I suppose it’s understandable. His character, you know.”
    “Character.”
    “You know the old expression? ‘A man’s character is his fate.’ That’s your ex-husband. He’s reaping now what he sowed. With Megan running away.”
    I wish I could believe that, Bett thought. Please . . . Tears now. From the wine, from the astonishing comfort she felt, years and years of pain and confusion and loneliness being stripped away. “I . . .” She caught her breath. “He’d sit down and talk to me and say that he loved me and what could he do for me—”
    “Tricks,” Dr. Peters said quickly. “All tricks.”
    “I couldn’t argue with him. He had an answer for everything.”
    “He’s smooth, isn’t he? A slick talker. Megan told me that.”
    “Oh, you better believe it. I couldn’t win against him. Not at words. Never. I always came away feeling, I don’t know, violated, I guess.”
    “Bett, most women would’ve put up with that. They would’ve stayed and stayed and destroyed themselves. And their children. But you had the courage to do something about it. To strike out on your own.”
    “But Megan . . . she’s suffered . . .”
    “Suffered?” He laughed. “Because of him, yes. Not because of you. You’ve done a miraculous job with her. Here’s to you.” He tapped her glass and they drank. The room was swimming. She realized he’d moved very close to her and she enjoyed the proximity.
    “A miraculous job?” Bett shook her head, felt her eyes swimming with tears. “Oh, I don’t think so.”
    Dr. Peters said firmly, “Why, if every mother cared for her children the way you care for Megan I’d be out of business.”
    “Do you really think that?” she asked in a choked voice. The tears were coming fast now. But she wasn’t the least embarrassed. Not in front of this man. She could tell him anything, she could do anything. He’d understand, he’d forgive, he’d comfort. She said wistfully, “Too bad Megan doesn’t think so.”
    “Oh, but she does.” He frowned in confusion.
    “No, no . . . there’s a letter . . .” She glanced toward her purse, where the girl’s horrible note sat like a puddle of cold blood.
    “The detective told me about it.