Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [6]
“I have to talk to you. It’s important,” Angela pleaded, her thoughtful brown eyes watching her mother intently. “And you have to listen to me. I had another vision.”
Sylvia Steinhart evaded Angela’s gaze. “For heaven’s sake. Can’t you see I’m in a hurry? You always do this to me. Today is the stockholders’ meeting and I don’t have a spare minute.”
“But I need to talk to you,” Angela persisted, reaching out to touch her mother’s arm. “It’s about those things I see . . .”
“You mean those things you say you see!” Sylvia Steinhart backed off a step, a look of impatience on her face. Then, to change the subject, to talk about anything besides Angela’s delusions, she asked, “When was the last time you wore clothes that weren’t covered in paint and craft glue? You reek of both. A little perfume and a pretty dress wouldn’t kill you.”
“I have work to do.”
“Oh yes. Such important work. Doodling and daydreaming.”
“It’s important to me,” Angela retorted.
“Hmph. You hardly ever come out of that glorified closet you call a studio.”
“That’s where I work, Mother. And I’m happy there.”
“Well, I’m sorry we let you take over that room. It’s always a mess.”
“Don’t, Mother. Just don’t. Take the time to listen.”
“Oh, really, Angela.” Sylvia snickered, turning her back on her daughter. “Not now. I’ve got to look and be my best, and you’re upsetting me.”
“It’s always ‘not now.’ Every time I need you, you’re either going to the office or the theater. If it isn’t the theater, then it’s the hairdresser. When will you have time to talk to me? Give me some idea!” Angela’s exasperation was edged with defiance, but her eyes were filled with unshed tears.
Sylvia glanced up from fastening the clasp on her watch and saw that Angela hadn’t budged. “Time is money,” she began, then stopped herself. “Oh, that must be it. You need money. Here.” Sylvia reached into her purse, opened her wallet, and pulled out five crisp twenty-dollar bills. She tossed them on the shiny surface of the cherrywood table, hoping to distract her daughter.
“I don’t want your money, Mother.” Angela’s voice shook with emotion. “I want to talk to you. It’s extremely important. Something’s going to happen, something terrible—”
Sylvia’s mouth tightened. “I’m not as indulgent as your father, Angela. And I refuse to hear anything more about these so-called visions of yours. Most of the psychiatrists said it’s only your way of getting attention,” Sylvia scoffed.
“Most. Not all.”
Sylvia waved a dismissive hand. “Right. One did diagnose you with dissociative personality disorder, whatever that means. And there was that last one—the doctor you liked, who kept talking about ‘fugue states.’ I wasn’t sure if he was a shrink or a piano teacher.”
“Guess what. That term actually means something,” Angela said softly. “Too bad you’re not interested in finding out more.”
“I’m just thankful they all gave up and no one else knows. If word got around, I’d never be able to show my face in public again.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Angela shook her head. “Good God, isn’t there someone in this family who’ll listen to me?”
Sylvia remained unmoved, adjusting the position of the diamond watch on her wrist.
“Oh, forget it. Just forget it,” Angela said furiously, grabbing a decorative pillow and throwing it against the wall. The silk split at one seam and a few feathers drifted out onto the powder-blue carpeting. “Admit it, Mother. You’re afraid to hear what I have to tell you because you know that once you hear it you’ll have to do something, and that will take precious time out of your oh-so-organized day!”
Sylvia looked at the feathers on the carpet as if they were going to burn a hole in it. Anger and frustration tensed her features. “I shouldn’t have given you money. For that little stunt, sweetie, you’ll get nothing more for a month.”
Angela spun around. “And they say my generation is all messed up. God, they should throw you under the lights and see what makes you