Well Behaved Wives(56)
She meandered around the bedroom. Earrings, necklace, and rings each returned to their own compartments in the oversize mahogany jewelry box. It was a bridal shower gift from Peter’s grandparents. That, and the traditional and old-fashioned cedar hope chest. Both were monogrammed.
She set her shoes in the box in the closet and then placed the box back on top of the shelf along with her clutch. When Lillian picked up her hairbrush, she noticed the photo of her parents that she’d discovered in the album and propped it up on her vanity.
She took one more look at the family, caught at that happy moment on the beach. She had memorized the details, but the image itself captivated her. The tilt of her mother’s head, the smile on her father’s face. The way they each rested a hand on her shoulder. Lillian could have stared at their faces all night, but she turned away when she felt Peter’s eyes on her.
On the bed, he was waiting for a signal. The signal.
The bedroom etiquette lesson flashed in Lillian’s mind. The subtle and not-so-subtle things she would suggest to the girls. Keeping a husband happy in the bedroom could offer a little leverage, she’d say.
Peter expected romance tonight but would not demand it. He wasn’t always tuned in or attentive, but he was always a gentleman. She was grateful for that—it showed he respected her.
She stood at the foot of the bed, the soft, semisheer nightdress and robe draped over her arm.
In a grand, unmistakable gesture, Lillian laid the robe on the folded-down bedspread. She carried only the negligee toward the bathroom and did not lock the door.
Once back in the bedroom, she left the lights on and welcomed Peter to her side of the bed.
The next morning, Lillian brewed coffee and defrosted some of Sunny’s kamish bread. Peter sauntered into the kitchen and kissed her on the lips. The girls were still asleep, so she kissed him back and lingered. They had been friends all these years. Peter had been a true friend, moving her mother into a better institution, never complaining about paying for her care. Never throwing Lillian’s family history of mental illness in her face. Not even the other night, when he mentioned the psychiatrist. He only seemed genuinely concerned for her welfare.
“I thought I’d rake the leaves first thing,” Peter said when they broke from the kiss. They had hired a gardener, but this chore was one Peter had always liked to handle himself. He seemed to derive a mysterious pleasure from working on the fall cleanup.
Lillian added cream and two sugars to his cup. “I’d like to visit my mother?” She posed it as a question, which was not how she meant it.
Peter blew into his cup to cool the coffee. “When?”
“Today.”
He sipped and stared at Lillian, a look of concern in his eyes. “Why today, Lil?”
She didn’t expect her own answer. “Peter, I miss my mother.”
“You’ve never said that before.”
Surely she had. She tried to remember, but nothing came to mind. So Peter was right. Lillian gulped, ashamed of her omission. But she did miss her mother now—and she wanted to ask her about the past. Whether it was because of the beach photo, or Maryanne, or her restlessness, Lillian didn’t know.
“I didn’t realize I missed her. I found a new photo from when we were all together; it had been stuck behind another in the album. Happy times at the beach. I thought she might want to see it. She doesn’t have much to look forward to. It might bring back good memories.”
“Is this about the other night? I didn’t mean to upset you.”
At least he realized that he’d crossed a line in suggesting that Lillian needed a psychiatrist.
“No. No, it’s just that I haven’t seen her in a while. After all, she is my mother.”
So that afternoon, Lillian and Peter pulled into the long, curved driveway alongside a hedge of deep-blue hydrangeas with bright-green foliage—a smart choice, as those leaves faded later in the season. As the road turned, the lawn, bushes, and trees came into view, and the main building of Friends Hospital splayed out before them. It was as wide as a city block and as grand as a picture-perfect French chateau, with its pale-yellow stucco and inset stones around the windows. The structure didn’t look much like a mental hospital, but after all, wasn’t that the point?
They might have been anywhere.
They could pretend they were anywhere.
It had been impossible to pretend she was anywhere but a mental institution when Lillian’s mother had been a patient at Byberry, the state-run asylum housed in fifty buildings on ninety acres just ten miles away. Anna Feldman had been committed to that hospital by her in-laws right after Lillian’s father had died—or that’s how it had seemed to an eleven-year-old. She hadn’t known it was a hospital for people with mental problems. She’d expected her mother to come home, but she never did. There was no point in crying about it, her grandmother said.
She hadn’t asked or dug around for more information. Her mother’s diagnosis had been a nervous breakdown, hysteria, and later, presenility. Lillian had been so young when it all happened. She had been grateful to her grandparents for keeping her mother safe.
That’s how Lillian saw it, even though none of the treatments had worked. They wouldn’t describe the treatments, saying she was too young to understand. Every time she heard her grandparents whispering about another treatment, she would eavesdrop, praying that this time her mother would be cured and come home.