120. Poison ivy

Saturday passes in a comfortable, if tedious, round of chores and shopping for essentials, accompanied by no thinking at all. At least, it starts with essentials, and indeed she even takes home the cleaners, cleansers, and other items – there are even some cans of soup and similar long-life products: rice, pasta, sauces. After that, though, another thought seeps softly into her contentment. On Friday, Castle had, albeit in ridiculously ill-timed digression, mentioned how much he had liked the Georgian meal she had made. He’s done so many things to help her. Cooking for him is a very small start to recompense, but he’ll be delighted if she does. She thinks carefully about dates, both the temporal meaning of dates and the everyday slang version, and decides that if she prepared most of it in advance, which is possible, then Monday night would be a good option. If nothing else, it’ll give her a soothing pastime on Sunday afternoon, which otherwise, whatever Castle says to his mother, is likely to be a rather unhappy period.

Another thought occurs to her. She checks some information – Google is so useful – and considers options. Then she adds another, specialised, shop to her plan. She’ll start there. Certain things require a couple of days’ notice to be properly arranged.

Right. This is a good plan. She surges out the door and does some much more enjoyable shopping. A couple of hours later everything for Monday except the wine is in her fridge, which is therefore remarkably more occupied than usual, her other arrangements are made, and she sits down with a contented smile. Then she hops up again to get her phone and text Castle to make sure that he’s on board with the arrangements. If not, she supposes she could always invite Lanie over to help eat it all, but that would be a very second-best arrangement and both of them would know it.

Fortunately the question does not arise. Castle is predictably enthusiastic and delighted and has accepted with so much alacrity she’s surprised the ether hasn’t scorched with the speed of his reply. Perfect. Just – perfect.

Castle, having slept very poorly in consequence of repeatedly dreaming that Beckett was nicely cuddled into him and woken with a start every time to realise that she wasn’t, takes a while to rouse fully. Eventually, he manages to book Balthazar, mainly by playing on his celebrity status, and wanders out, scruffily unshaven and wrapped in a robe of considerable softness achieved almost wholly by its considerable age. He aims for the coffee machine, in the hope that this will fire enough neurons to allow him to shave without cutting his throat and dress without putting his boxers on backwards.

“Darling!” carols from the couch. Oh God. He hasn’t had enough coffee for this.

“Mother,” he says flatly. “Isn’t it a bit early for you?”

“Nonsense, darling. It’s a beautiful day.”

Castle glances out the window. It’s grey and cloudy.

“Really?”

“I have an audition at noon. It’s a beautiful day.”

Castle decides not to enquire into the nature of the production, which will only terrify and/or disappoint him.

“That’s great. In celebration, I’ll take you to brunch tomorrow.”

His mother regards him rather beadily. “I heard you making a reservation, and you hadn’t even heard about my audition then. A reservation for four? Is dear Katherine going to join us again?”

“Yes, she is.”

“How lovely. We haven’t seen her for ages.”

Two weeks, thinks Castle, is hardly ages. A little of his mother goes a very long way, especially where Beckett is concerned.

“She’s far too busy. The poor girl slaves away and never has any fun.”

Castle is absolutely certain that his face gives away nothing at all.

“Unless she’s spending time with you, though I do wonder if that’s fun for her as well as you. You do seem to be having a remarkable number of late evenings.”

“This is Manhattan, where the city – and homicide – never sleeps. The Twelfth deals with a lot of cases.”

“Every Tuesday and Friday,” his mother says sardonically. “I never realised that murderers worked to a schedule.”

“Where’s Alexis?”

“She went out to meet friends. Stop changing the subject, darling.”

“I’m not. I don’t want her to hear this.”

His mother’s ears prick up, and she assumes a stage attitude of complete attention. “Well, this is a surprise. Some explanation, darling? Not before time.”

“Mother, I don’t owe you any explanations of anything. However, in order to stop you putting your foot in it, I’ll explain a little. Beckett and her father are working through some issues. It’s not easy for either of them. So don’t ask about family, or try and bully” –

“I don’t bully” –

“Bully,” Castle says with emphasis, “her into coming to the loft. She’ll do that when she’s ready. But every time you start nagging” –

“I do not nag,” his mother says with annoyance.

“nagging,” Castle says with even more emphasis, “you make it more likely that she doesn’t. So stop bullying, stop nagging and for goodness sake stop trying to matchmake. We’re both adults. I really do not need you trying to interfere in our relationship.”

“Aha!” Martha cries. “I knew it! You are having a relationship. Darling, I would never interfere. Of course I won’t say a thing.”

Castle’s jaw drops open. Never interfere? His mother does nothing but attempt to interfere.

“If it’s families which upset her, then I could take Alexis for a nice spa weekend and you could bring her to the loft without her being upset.”

His jaw hits the floor.   That is – that is actually a potentially brilliant idea. His mother has just redeemed herself after months of annoyance. How did he not think of that? He sweeps her into a massive bear hug and even twirls her round. “That’s perfect, Mother.” He hugs her again. “Thank you.”

“Oh, pish. It’s obvious. I’ll let you know where I’ve chosen. All-inclusive, of course.”

“Of course, Mother. When would you ever choose otherwise?”

But his usual cynicism about his mother’s talent for spending his money extravagantly is absent. She’s so often been so infuriating about Beckett that he’d forgotten that she is, in fact, a pretty keen observer of human nature. She’s certainly drawn the correct conclusions from almost no information at all.

“Anyway, darling, ta-ta for now. Off to my audition.”

“Break a leg, Mother,” Castle replies automatically and very happily.

The door closes behind Hurricane Martha and Castle breathes a contented sigh. He makes himself another coffee and retires to wash and dress on a solid base of happiness, after which he flips open his laptop and starts to write fluently and rapidly.

Writing is momentarily disturbed by the chime of his phone and the slight pang of fear as he sees a text from Beckett. He reads it with delight. You liked my cooking so much I thought we could do it again. How about Monday? He sends back Yes please as fast as he can tap, and goes back to his chapter in the best possible mood in this, currently the best of all possible worlds.

On Sunday morning Beckett wakes up, nervously considers brunch and in particular the events of the previous brunch, considers further the comments that Dr Burke had made following said brunch, and then considers her wardrobe. She certainly isn’t going to wear anything that advertises that there might be Kat-who-likes-softness, but this time maybe she doesn’t need to treat it like she’s interviewing suspects either. She compromises on soft black pants, less tailored than she’d wear to work, and a forest-green polo neck sweater which clings gently to her form without being revealing. Of course, she’ll still wear heels, but in this case it can be heeled boots, less formal than she’d wear for work. Her make-up is as pristine as usual, however. She doesn’t feel any less nervous. She’s just trying to hide it better, and make-up is a very large part of that. Normality. Detective Kate Beckett who can cope with everything with a sardonic eyebrow, a quirked smirk, and an intimidating high heeled stride. Maybe if she copes with this better she might manage to be a little closer to Kate Beckett who has a nice normal life with nice normal attitudes and absolutely no issues with other people’s families.

She reminds herself firmly that Castle’s family has previously been on the side of supporting – not to say attempting to force – their relationship, and that this is desensitisation not Thanksgiving dinner. She can leave it any time she likes, and try again another time. It’s not a pass/fail exam. More like continuous assessment. That thought doesn’t really help. She pushes it away. It’s not an exam or assessment at all, and even if it were Castle doesn’t assess her, he simply supports without judgement. That’s all she needs to know, right now.

She pulls herself together, dresses as she had intended, and leaves for Balthazar.

At the entrance, she can see the collective Castles chattering enthusiastically at each other. (Not to. Definitely at.) Martha, even at this range, is gesturing particularly theatrically and appears to be in high good humour. This is not reassuring. As she gets closer, it’s clear Martha is describing an audition – oh, yesterday? – which appears to have gone extremely well. Maybe that will keep Martha off her case. Far off her case. She goes over, deliberately producing her swinging, confident stride. The thought fake it till you make it is buried below the surface of her mind, where she doesn’t recognise it, but it’s the best strategy all the same. She manages a fairly sincere smile and soft hey. Castle looks up and smiles delightedly, Alexis squeaks a happy greeting, and Martha smiles knowingly. Ugh. That’s exactly what Beckett didn’t want: Martha being inquisitive and no doubt dropping I know what you’ve been up to subtext. Or, since this is Martha Rodgers, Grande Dame, non-subtext.

Much to Beckett’s amazement, Martha doesn’t say a word. Everyone orders, with a preponderance of patisserie and pancakes or waffles. Substantial quantities of coffee arise, Martha adds a mimosa and ignores Castle’s raised eyebrows with magnificent indifference. Beckett feels Castle’s hard thigh press against hers under the table, and presses back just enough to show she’s noticed. The warmth against her is very reassuring, as Castle’s solid physicality always is. She bites into a particularly delicious pastry, inhales the scent of good coffee, and simply listens to Martha’s description of the audition, given in an outrageously camped-up fashion which has the group in stitches. Not by a single look, glance, phrase or quip does she make any reference at all to Beckett coming to the loft, and every time the conversation even thinks about wandering in that direction it’s firmly redirected. As a consequence, the meal is actually almost relaxing for Beckett, as family occasions have recently gone, although that’s not exactly a high hurdle to beat. More like the difference between the bottom of the Atlantic and the bottom of a Great Lake.

Beckett eats, and sips coffee, and puts in occasional comments to keep the collective Castle conversation flowing in a direction which she can deal with. It’s still very, very uncomfortable for her, but she is not being pressured in any way, so all her stress is internally generated. She can manage that. She will manage that.

She does manage that. She sits it out without a single piece of evidence that she’s in any way stressed – at least for everyone but Castle, whose thigh remains pressed against hers – until everyone has finished, even Martha’s flow of conversation has broken down, and Castle is dealing with the check. Her goodbyes are polite, cheerful and notably – to everyone but herself and the suspiciously comment-free Castle – unstressed. She goes home, congratulates herself on survival and not having to walk out, and demolishes a large bar of chocolate washed down with a large mug of very strong coffee, not doctored or diluted with anything at all. She feels much better after that.   Chocolate is, after all, a known stress-reliever. Then she looks out of the window, finds that it isn’t raining, changes into warm running gear and goes out to deal with her remaining stress in a way that she knows will certainly work: a long, fast run to stretch her body and clear her mind.

It works beautifully. Three miles later, hot, sweaty and tired, she falls back into her apartment to draw a scalding hot bath with the Dead Sea’s volume of bath salts, and dissolves in it until her muscles are soothed and her skin crinkled.

Having rid herself of one source of stress, she curls up in the corner of her couch and begins, reluctantly, to think through the homework Dr Burke had set her. Consider her own actions and feelings while her father was drunk, in the light of the three Cs. What had she done? She’s always thought about what her father had done, before. She’d… picked up the pieces. She’d made the decisions: the coffin, the flowers, all the matters relating to the funeral. She hadn’t, after the first few times, asked her father. He hadn’t been able to answer, whether it was because of tears, indecisive I don’t knows, or complete incomprehension. So she’d simply done it all.

How had she felt about that? Utterly miserable and wholly resentful, she realises. Everyone had rapidly expected that she’d do it all. And, in some socially terrified corner of her mind, she couldn’t let her mother’s memory down: couldn’t let her father’s incapacity taint her farewell. It wasn’t as if she’d had any earlier opportunity to grieve, before the funeral and the interment: too busy having to arrange it all; this would be it, and she felt the weight of pressure to say her last goodbyes in a way that meant she could always be sure that, looking back, she’d done her best. Maybe even then she’d already been covering for her father.

Trying to control the situation. She winces. That’s the middle C, for sure. Shame it’s not as melodic. It had, however, set the key for the rest of the symphony of her father’s disease.

She thinks, again, about how she’d come home that first time; how her father had mistaken her for her mother; how he’d realised, and told her to go away. First, her actions. She’d not gone away. She’d cleaned him up and then gone to sleep and the next day cut and dyed her hair. Because – she’d said this – because she’d thought she caused it. The first C, right on cue. And she’d resented that, too. Then she’d spent two years pouring the booze away and trying to be a good daughter and trying to cure him. C number three – jackpot, in the alcohol abuse stakes.

And jackpot in the resentment stakes, too. She’d pushed that down, fought it back until, her father finally sober, she’d thought she’d conquered it: done everything to push it away. She’d – oh God – spent all those first two dreadful years proving she was a good daughter, a good family to her father, to try to cure her venomous resentment and guilt. How could she resent him, if she did so much for him? Surely it proved she loved him? Even when she walked away to save herself, she’d suffered through her feelings of guilt by telling herself it was the only thing to be done. All the while she’d never realised just how deep her resentment ran. Didn’t you love me enough to stay away from the pit? He’d proved he hadn’t, the first time he’d drunkenly told her to leave because she wasn’t her mother.

But even when she’d walked away, she’d felt compelled to leave his number unblocked. Just in case he ever called her when he was sober. He never had. Not until he’d gone to rehab and been dry for nine months. He’d only ever called her when he was drunk: all of which calls could be summarised as Katie, rescue me; Katie, save me.

Of course, maybe he’d never called sober because he’d never been sober. In all his amends, he’d never mentioned his experience during those three long years where every call and every knock on the door could have been those final, fatal words: Miss Beckett, I’m sorry…

Then again, neither had she. She’s never mentioned that he called and called, leaving his drunken messages till her voicemail was full; never mentioned that she listened to all of them. She’s never mentioned how she felt when he missed her graduation from NYU, and then from the Academy, because after all she’d been told over and over in that first, futile therapy that she was expecting too much, that only children are upset if their parents miss events, that she’d had friends there, so why not just be happy with that? She’s never mentioned again how bitterly each time she’d watched proud parents celebrating with their children, and stood alone, because after all it was just a childish need for validation, and she should be happy for herself. More resentment, and more guilt that she felt it.

Her father had never known how she felt, because she felt that she should just get over it, and grow up. After all, that’s what she’d been told. Resentment was unworthy: she should be the bigger person, be the adult, and forgive; whether he made amends, or got sober, or not. The therapist had, at least, stopped short of telling her to go back to her father.

She digresses for a moment. In the harsh chiaroscuro comparison to Dr Burke’s acerbic, abrading brilliance, she can see that the first therapist was close to criminally incompetent, and that everything she had thought was correct had not been. It helps, to acknowledge that in plain words. She says it out loud, to the empty air of her apartment and the little stone bird and blood-red quartz beside it.

“The first therapist was wrong.”

It follows, therefore, that if she thinks about what that first therapist had told her she should do, and then considers the limited guidance that Dr Burke has so far provided concerning the period when her father was drunk, then… oh. So that’s what the appallingly clever Dr Burke is doing. He’d even said so: I suggest that it would be wise for you to consider also a discussion of the results of your thinking before any further session involving your father. He’d wanted her to realise for herself that her previous steps were all wrong; he’d wanted her to own that realisation. Only by accepting it for herself would she believe it. She is, by nature and by profession, a disbeliever.

So. If the previous therapist were wrong, it also follows that if she thinks back to all that therapist’s comments and instructions, and then unpicks them in the light of the excessively irritating Dr Burke’s commentary, she might at least find the roots of this strangulating ivy, and later be able to apply enough mental paraquat to kill it.

She makes herself more coffee, turns to her small escritoire in the corner, facing out the window into the busy Manhattan streets, and begins.