Free Seidel, Kathleen Gilles by More Than You Dreamed Page B

their original packagings.
    As soon as Jill could drive, she would spend Saturday mornings at her mother's house, going through her car, her closets, her poolhouse. Saturday afternoon she would drive all over Beverly Hills, through Westwood and along Rodeo Drive, returning things. She would also go through Melody's desk and for those thing she couldn't return, she would give her father the bills and he would pay them.
    Besides the shopping, there were secret, chemical addictions that Jill knew less about. Never alcohol—drinking too much was what people in trailer parks did—but Valium, diet pills, and such. Jill never really knew for sure how extensive these addictions were, but she was well aware of their debilitating effect.
    Her mother's latest setback had come at the end of baseball season the previous fall. Jill had felt herself sucked back into all the old caretaking patterns, so she had forced herself to tell her therapy group what was happening. It was the first time she had ever disclosed what was happening to her "back home," and the group had responded well, helping her understand how to stand back, how to stop protecting her mother.
    Without Jill's protection, Melody came to a crisis quickly. She had been to Betty Ford before, so this time David, acting with the advice of the Dodgers' management, had encouraged her to go to Hazelden in Minnesota. She had come out energetic and determined. She was still with David and once the baseball season started, she had settled down to write an autobiography, the contents of which Jill didn't care to speculate about. But as it was the first time Melody had had some purpose other than making a man comfortable, Jill had to approve.
    She dialed her mother's number.
    "Jill, darling." Melody's voice was low, the affection in it genuine. Jill had never doubted that.
    They exchanged pleasantries. Then Jill asked her mother if she was free for lunch any day next week.
    "Lunch? The two of us? What a lovely idea. Of course, I'm free. Any time. Actually, Tuesday isn't good... although I could cancel—but isn't Tuesday your group? You're still going, aren't you? Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."
    "It's okay," Jill assured her. "I'm still going. Shall we meet on Monday? Is that all right? The same place we went last time?"
    "We could go there if you want. Of course we could... unless you want to go somewhere different for a change."
    Jill didn't care where they ate. She just didn't want to have an endless conversation about it. "We can go wherever you want. I don't care."
    "Oh, I don't either. I just thought that you might—"
    Jill hated this. It was clear that Melody had a certain place in mind, but she was unwilling to suggest it herself. She wasn't going to admit that she had any preferences; she wasn't going to risk putting forward an idea that Jill might reject.
    This rambling chatter, this inability to be direct, drove Jill nuts. Melody was nervous; she was frantic to please her daughter. It was a sad inversion of the more common parent-child dysfunction: in Jill and Melody's case, the child was the authority figure with love and approval to withhold or bestow.
    It was heartbreaking... but also reassuring. A nervous Melody wasn't on Valium.
    "I just want to see you," Jill said. "We can eat a hot dog on the beach, for all I care. You think about it and call me back."
    "Do you think you'll want French or something lighter?"
    "Mother, I don't care. You decide." Resolutely Jill changed the subject. "How's your book coming? Has Brenda's agent had a chance to read the proposal?"
    "Oh, yes. She's sending me a contract... but Jill, about Monday, do you know what you're going to wear?"
    Jill wanted to scream. Her mother was a high-school graduate, and yet the first agent she had shown her partial manuscript to was accepting it. That was amazing news, something Melody should have been very proud of. But all she could think about was what they were going to wear to lunch.
    What