Alix Ohlin - Inside

“Your daughter is very troubled,” Grace said. “Perhaps more troubled than any of us realize.”

“You shouldn’t be allowed to muck around in people’s lives,” the man said.

“I just want to be clear about this,” Grace said. “Is your objection to the procedure itself, or that Annie kept it a secret from you?”

“So you know all about it,” the father said. “I can’t believe this. I’m going to have your license revoked. I’m going to ruin you.”

“You could do that,” Grace said calmly, “or instead we could actually talk about your daughter.”

He glared at her and stood up, livid, but his wife, Grace could tell, wanted to stay. She stroked his arm and smiled up at him pleadingly. He sat down and said, “Tell me what you know.”

Grace looked at him for a long moment, choosing her words carefully. “When Annie first came to me,” she said, “I believed she was on a path of self-destruction that came out of her putting too much pressure on herself. And I still think that’s true.” She paused.

Annie’s mother tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and despite her tailored clothing she looked very much like Annie: pretty, blond, vulnerable. The father was sitting stoically upright, allowing her to hold his hand, waiting grimly.

“I think Annie’s in so far over her head,” Grace said, “that she doesn’t even know it. She thinks she can manipulate all the adults around her in order to get what she wants, which is to continue inflicting pain on herself and prove to everyone — and herself — just how worthless she is. Needless to say, it’s a very dangerous place to be.”

Annie’s father’s face was flushed, but he didn’t say a word. Grace let the silence invade the room, waiting for the explosion she sensed was coming. Finally, Annie’s mother let out a sob.

“I came home and Annie was in bed,” she said. “She said she had the flu. I didn’t suspect a thing. She didn’t even miss any school, did you know that? She took her algebra test and then went to the hospital for a four o’clock appointment. She’s that responsible. That organized. She arranged it all so we wouldn’t know anything.”

Grace said nothing and waited.

“We would never have known,” the mother said, crying openly now.

“So how did you find out?” Grace said.

“It was after yesterday’s appointment with you,” the father said.

“We didn’t have an appointment yesterday.”

“Of course you did. Like always, the twice-a-week schedule you recommended six months ago.”

Grace sighed. “And what did she say?”

“She was very upset last night and couldn’t stop crying. She said she didn’t want to come see you anymore. When we asked why, the whole story came out. About what you’d helped her do, and how she had doubts about it.”

“She was a little girl again,” the mother said, “with a boo-boo on her knee. Crying in my arms.”

Grace thought, Boo-boo? “I don’t know what she’s been doing on Thursday afternoons,” she said, “but she hasn’t been coming to see me. Your statements from my office would reflect one weekly session.”

“We never even have time to look at them, as Annie well knows,” the father said. “Where the hell has she been?”

The mother was almost hysterical now. She couldn’t speak for sobbing, just shook her head apologetically. Her husband handed her a tissue from Grace’s box but made no move to comfort her.

“We called the hospital,” he said, “and they won’t give us any information. We can’t get a straight answer from anybody. You have to tell us what you know.”

Grace again said nothing for a moment, calculating how little trust these people had in her. “What Annie and I discuss is confidential,” she finally said.

His eyes were glowing with rage as he leaned forward, his expensive white shirt puffing out from his chest. “Who’s the father?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it that Oliver kid? I’m going to kill him.”

“I honestly don’t know,” Grace told him. “But I do know that Annie needs all of our help to get through this.”

“Like helping her get an abortion without her parents’ knowledge?”

“I didn’t do that.”

“I don’t know why we should believe you.” He stood up again. “You and Annie — you’re both liars. No wonder you get along so well. That’s why she talks to you instead of us. You just build on each other’s lies.”

“Please, wait. Sit down and let’s talk this through.”

But to sit down would be to concede defeat. “This is your fault,” he said, biting off each word. “You were supposed to help her. That was your job, and you’re accountable.” He spoke slowly and precisely. He had located a target for his anger and was, however subconsciously, pleased. “We will hold you accountable. You’ll lose your position. Along with the right to inflict damage on other families.”

Grace stood up and faced him. “I understand how awful this is,” she said. “I really do.”

“I don’t care what you understand.”

“I care about Annie,” Grace said. “I’d like to keep helping her.”

“When I’m done with you,” the father said, “you’ll be the one who needs help. Starting with a good lawyer.”

He opened the door and strode from her office. And without hesitating his wife followed him, her face full of gratitude that he’d found a place to lay the blame.

New York, 2002

THE CHILD EXISTED for the three of them in many ways — as a bone of contention, a zone of negotiation, a locus of arguments, a reminder of sex, a sore spot, a tender spot, a sweet spot — before it existed in the world.

Hilary’s body encased both the baby and herself in flesh and placidity; she could not be touched. At times, Anne couldn’t stop looking at her. What was it like to grow so massive, to be a container so uncontained? Huge and getting huger, she put on pounds every day, eating gallons of ice cream and boxes of saltine crackers and even T-bone steaks that Anne, who in all her time in New York had never even noticed a butcher shop, brought home for her.

Meanwhile her boyfriend, too, bulked up. He spent several hours a day doing pushups and weights — he’d found a set of barbells on the street — in a corner of the living room he claimed as his own, a masculine realm marked by fitness magazines, the barbells, a pair of stinky running shoes. He was working as a framer on some construction site in Queens, and between that work and the lifting his skinny body was broadening; there was a rope of muscle along his neck and shoulders, also nascent biceps and thicker forearms. It was as if he thought that when it came to fatherhood, muscles were what would be required.

At least he was working, and Anne hoped he was putting money away. She had no idea what would become of them once the baby came and they moved out of her apartment. Or she assumed they would move out. When she tried to talk to Hilary about all this, her mask of placidity would break and she’d start to cry, her pale, milky face blotchy and streaked. “We’re going to figure it out,” she’d say weepily, which sounded less like a promise than a pallid, inadequate reassurance to herself and her unborn child. Feeling guilty, Anne would drop the subject. Nobody likes to make a pregnant woman cry.

One day she came home to find Alan by himself, lifting weights in the corner. “Where’s Hilary?” she said.

He grunted and ignored her, his thin face straining with effort.