Shadow Notes Laurel Peterson (best reads TXT) 📖

much, but I knew that his helplessness in the face of Richard’s disease ached in him, like a swirl of red locked inside a glass bird. The office was decorated in a monochromatic palette of greens: deep on the carpet, medium on the chairs, pale on the walls. His receptionist had left for the day and his door was closed, so I sat and tried to calm down by practicing a few of the breathing exercises I’d learned in Switzerland. They were only marginally successful. In a few minutes, Paul walked out with Maria Leiber.

“Clara.” She came immediately to me, holding out her hands. “How are you holding up?”

I took them into my own. “I’m fine, thanks. Mother seems to be doing well, even if she’s trying the patience of the detectives working her case. And you? How are you managing?”

“It’s so much to absorb. Finding referrals for Hugh’s patients, settling the estate, selling the house, it seems as though I’m going to be stuck here forever.” She laughed, rueful. “I know you all love it, but I miss my Montana skies.”

“I hope it goes quicker than you think.” I smiled. “If there’s anything I can do…” I could use that drift off as well as anyone.

“Of course.” She leaned forward to kiss my cheek, whispering in my ear, “We should have lunch before I leave town, talk about, well…you know.” She gave me a dark look. I’d almost forgotten her comments about Hetty.

I let go of her hands. “Whenever you like.”

She collected her coat and closed the door ever-so-softly behind her.

“She’s good people,” Paul said. “You shouldn’t take her for granted like that.”

“What do you mean? What did I do?”

“She offered to help. I know you, Clara. You didn’t mean a word you said.”

“The last thing I need is a second mother,” I huffed. “I can feel her wanting to involve me, like octopus tentacles wiggling through the water. I feel every single person is looking at me and they all know something I don’t. The fact that I don’t know it is going to sink me, but no one will freaking tell me what it is.”

He just raised an eyebrow and gestured toward his office. “What’s up?”

“I need my mother’s file.”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?” I flopped into my favorite comfy velvet chair, my stomach churning.

“You’re not ready.” He sat, crossing his legs, and waited.

“You haven’t forgiven me yet.”

“For what?” he said. “Stealing the file?”

I nodded.

“I’m working on it.” He smiled to take the sting from his words. “Is that why you made an appointment? To collect the file and find out if I was still upset? You could have stopped by the house.”

I made myself sit up straight, like a grown up. “Mother has decreed I should learn to meditate.” I squared my shoulders.

“Do you want to?”

I shrugged, reverting to grumpy teenager. “It’s why I made the appointment.” At least partly. I was behaving like an idiot, but it bugged me that Paul felt he could chastise me about Maria Leiber, never mind about the file. I had left because this place was beyond claustrophobic. When there was a secret, it sucked up all the air and no one could breathe. Acquiescing to my mother’s demands about meditation and whatever else she dreamed up used up more air—air I needed, thank you very much.

“Why does she want you to learn?”

“You think she’s told me?!” I nearly exploded out of the chair. Paul squashed against his upholstery in surprise. I began to pace. “She doesn’t tell me a damn thing. She speaks in riddles, like a Jungian therapist. ‘Beware of fire.’ ‘Learn to meditate.’ What in the hell am I supposed to do with messages like that?” I put my hands on my hips. “And no one else will help me or tell me anything either!”

Paul said mildly, “Meditation might help.”

“Will it teach me to read her mind?”

“No. It will teach you to read your own. Since you and she are genetically connected, you might access the information she wants you to access simply because your brains are wired the same way.”

“Why can’t she talk to me like a normal person?”

“Which one of you is normal?” He smiled again.

I felt the heat of my anger leave me. I sat down again, put my head in my hands. “I don’t want to be wired like her.”

I felt his hand on my shoulder. “Not true. What you don’t want is her coldness—and you don’t have it. I’m not even sure that coldness is her true self….” He paused.

I looked up. “I’ve had a perfectly good life for fifteen years without any of this.”

“No family connection? A failed marriage? A series of jobs you couldn’t care less about? Every time we’ve visited over the last fifteen years, you’ve been miserable.”

“You’re wearing me out.”

“Listen to me: Learning to meditate might help. It calms the mind. Doesn’t that sound good?”

I looked around. The office felt cozy and warm with its plush cushions and lacy jacaranda tree. Paul had brought the seeds back from California. Since the little tree would never survive the bitter northeast winters, he grew it indoors. Against its fetching greenery were three neon pink geraniums he’d turned into perennials. Behind them, two windows offered views of the garden. At this hour I could see nothing but blackness.

“Meditation feels like chaos, but if it will help Mother, I’ll do it.”

“It’s for you, Clara, not your mother.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

He had me shut my eyes and took me through the process of relaxation, one muscle group at a time—tense and relax, tense and relax—until my body melted like honey in hot tea. I lost track of time, sinking into an emptiness filled at first only with the senses, almost as if the senses were heightened by the calming of my mind.

Even the part of me that stood apart and mocked and worried was lulled into quiescence. I heard the clock tapping the minutes out, the wind batting leaves against the windows, Paul’s breathing. Thoughts about Mother