Speaking in Tongues

That’s the main reason why I wanted to see you. Alone, without your husband here.” He took the wineglass from her and set it on the table. Then he sat forward, took her hands in his. Looked at her until she was gazing into his dark eyes, nearly hypnotized. “Listen to me. Listen carefully. She didn’t mean what she wrote you.”
    “She—”
    “She. Didn’t. Mean. It. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
    Bett was shaking with sobs. “But what she wrote, it was so terrible . . .”
    “No,” he said in a firm whisper. “No.” He was completely focused on her. She thought of the other men in her life with whom she’d had serious talks. Tate was often elsewhere—thinking of cases or trying to dissect what she was saying. Brad would smotherher with an adoring gaze. But Dr. Peters was looking at her as a person.
    “Here’s what you have to understand. Your letter doesn’t mean anything.”
    Oh, please, she thought, please explain how this happened. Please explain to me why I’m not a witch, please explain how my daughter still loves me. She thought of an expression she’d heard once and believed was true: You’d kill for your mate; but you’d die for your child. Well, I would, she thought. If only Megan knew that she felt that way.
    He squeezed her hands. “Your daughter hates your husband. I don’t know what the genesis of that is but it’s a very deeply ingrained feeling.”
    Bett felt the impossibility of compressing seventeen years into a few minutes. Her eye went to a board game, Monopoly, sitting dusty on the shelf. “There were so many things she wanted from Tate . . . Megan wanted us to play games together, Tate, her and me. But he never would. And then—”
    “It doesn’t matter,” the doctor interrupted. “The fact is that she was the child and he was the parent and he failed her. Megan knows it and she hates him. The anger inside her is astonishing. But it’s only directed at him —I guarantee you that. She loves you so much.”
    Shaking with tears. “But the letter . . .”
    “You know the Oedipus and Electra principles? The attractions of sons and mothers and daughters and fathers?”
    “A little, I guess.”
    “In Megan’s subconscious her anger at your ex-husband makes her feel terribly guilty. And directing it only at him is intolerable. With the natural attraction between fathers and daughters she either had to write no letter at all or write you both. She was psychically unable to point her anger only at its true source.”
    “Oh, if I could believe that . . .”
    “During our sessions she was always telling me how proud she was of you. How she wants to be like you. How hard a life you’ve had. I promise you, without a doubt, she regrets writing that letter to you. She doesn’t mean it. She’d give anything to take it back.”
    Bett lowered her head and put her face in her hands. Why was the room swimming so badly? His arm went around her shoulders.
    “You okay?”
    She nodded.
    “Will she be coming back?” Bett asked.
    “I don’t doubt it for a minute. It might be awhile—your husband’s caused some serious damage. But nothing that’s irreparable. Megan knows that she couldn’t ask for a better mother in the world. You’ve done everything right. She loves you and misses you.”
    Bett sagged against his chest, felt the muscles in his arms tighten as he held her. Oh, when was the last time she’d felt this good, this easy, this comforted? Years. She felt his hot breath on the top of her head. She smelled a faint aftershave.
    “I feel so light-headed.”
    Did she say that? Or think it?
    She wept and she laughed.
    The doctor’s hand went to her forehead. “You’re so hot . . .”
    He hugged her harder and his hand slid downward,fingers encircling her neck. An electric chill went through her and then her arms were snaking around him, pulling him to her. Her head was up and she pressed her cheek against his.
    No, no, she thought. I can’t be doing this . . .
    But she was thinking these words from a very different place, very remote. And it was impossible for her to release her grip on the man who’d repaired her bleeding soul. He thinks I’m a good mother, he thinks I’m a good mother, he thinks . . .
    He leaned down and kissed her tears.
    The light touch of his lips felt so good . . .
    She was so giddy, so happy . . .
    Stretching out, getting comfortable . . . The room was hot, the room was wonderful . . .
    And what