Nora Roberts - The Witness

For Laura Reeth

Master of details

June 2000

Elizabeth Fitchs short-lived teenage rebellion began with LOral Pure Black, a pair of scissors and a fake ID. It ended in blood.

For nearly the whole of her sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days shed dutifully followed her mothers directives. Dr. Susan L. Fitch issued directives, not orders. Elizabeth had adhered to the schedules her mother created, ate the meals designed by her mothers nutritionist and prepared by her mothers cook, wore the clothes selected by her mothers personal shopper.

Dr. Susan L. Fitch dressed conservatively, as suitedin her opinionher position as chief of surgery of Chicagos Silva Memorial Hospital. She expected, and directed, her daughter to do the same.

Elizabeth studied diligently, accepting and excelling in the academic programs her mother outlined. In the fall, shed return to Harvard in pursuit of her medical degree. So she could become a doctor, like her mothera surgeon, like her mother.

Elizabethnever Liz or Lizzie or Bethspoke fluent Spanish, French, Italian, passable Russian and rudimentary Japanese. She played both piano and violin. Shed traveled to Europe, to Africa. She could name all the bones, nerves and muscles in the human body and play Chopins Piano Concertoboth Nos. 1 and 2, by rote.

Shed never been on a date or kissed a boy. Shed never roamed the mall with a pack of girls, attended a slumber party or giggled with friends over pizza or hot fudge sundaes.

She was, at sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days, a product of her mothers meticulous and detailed agenda.

That was about to change.

She watched her mother pack. Susan, her rich brown hair already coiled in her signature French twist, neatly hung another suit in the organized garment bag, then checked off the printout with each day of the weeks medical conference broken into subgroups. The printout included a spreadsheet listing every event, appointment, meeting and meal, scheduled with the selected outfit, with shoes, bag and accessories.

Designer suits; Italian shoes, of course, Elizabeth thought. One must wear good cuts, good cloth. But not one rich or bright color among the blacks, grays, taupes. She wondered how her mother could be so beautiful and deliberately wear the dull.

After two accelerated semesters of college, Elizabeth thought shed begunmaybeto develop her own fashion sense. She had, in fact, bought jeans and a hoodie and some chunky-heeled boots in Cambridge.

With cash, so the receipt wouldnt show up on her credit card bill, in case her mother or their accountant checked and questioned the items, which were currently hidden in her room.

Shed felt like a different person wearing them, so different shed walked straight into a McDonalds and ordered her first Big Mac with large fries and a chocolate shake.

The pleasure had been so huge, shed had to go into the bathroom, close herself in a stall and cry a little.

The seeds of the rebellion had been planted that day, she supposed, or maybe theyd always been there, dormant, and the fat and salt had awakened them.

But she could feel them, actually feel them, sprouting in her belly now.

Your plans changed, Mother. It doesnt follow that mine have to change with them.

Susan took a moment to precisely place a shoe bag in the Pullman, tucking it just so with her beautiful and clever surgeons hands, the nails perfectly manicured. A French manicure, as alwaysno color there, either.

Elizabeth. Her voice was as polished and calm as her wardrobe. It took considerable effort to reschedule and have you admitted to the summer program this term. Youll complete the requirements for your admission into Harvard Medical School a full semester ahead of schedule.

Even the thought made Elizabeths stomach hurt. I was promised a three-week break, including this next week in New York.

And sometimes promises must be broken. If I hadnt had this coming week off, I couldnt fill in for Dr. Dusecki at the conference.

You could have said no.

That would have been selfish and shortsighted. Susan brushed at the jacket shed hung, stepped back to check her list. Youre certainly mature enough to understand the demands of work overtake pleasure and leisure.

If Im mature enough to understand that, why arent I mature enough to make my own decisions? I want this break. I need it.

Susan barely spared her daughter a glance. A girl of your age, physical condition and mental acumen hardly needs a break from her studies and activities. In addition, Mrs. Laine has already left for her two-week cruise, and I could hardly ask her to postpone her vacation. Theres no one to fix your meals or tend to the house.

I can fix my own meals and tend the house.

Elizabeth. The tone managed to merge clipped with long-suffering. Its settled.

And I have no say in it? What about developing my independence, being responsible?

Independence comes in degrees, as does responsibility and freedom of choice. You still require guidance and direction. Now, Ive e-mailed you an updated schedule for the coming week, and your packet with all the information on the program is on your desk. Be sure to thank Dr. Frisco personally for making room for you in the summer term.

As she spoke, Susan closed the garment bag, then her small Pullman. She stepped to her bureau to check her hair, her lipstick.

You dont listen to anything I say.

In the mirror, Susans gaze shifted to her daughter. The first time, Elizabeth thought, her mother had bothered to actually look at her since shed come into the bedroom. Of course I do. I heard everything you said, very clearly.

Listenings different than hearing.

That may be true, Elizabeth, but weve already had this discussion.

Its not a discussion, its a decree.

Susans mouth tightened briefly, the only sign of annoyance. When she turned, her eyes were coolly, calmly blue. Im sorry you feel that way. As your mother, I must do what I believe best for you.

Whats best for me, in your opinion, is for me to do, be, say, think, act, want, become exactly what you decided for me before you inseminated yourself with precisely selected sperm.

She heard the rise of her own voice but couldnt control it, felt the hot sting of tears in her eyes but couldnt stop them. Im tired of being your experiment. Im tired of having every minute of every day organized, orchestrated and choreographed to meet your expectations. I want to make my own choices, buy my own clothes, read books I want to read. I want to live my own life instead of yours.

Susans eyebrows lifted in an expression of mild interest. Well. Your attitude isnt surprising, given your age, but youve picked a very inconvenient time to be defiant and argumentative.

Sorry. It wasnt on the schedule.

Sarcasms also typical, but its unbecoming. Susan opened her briefcase, checked the contents. Well talk about all this when I get back. Ill make an appointment with Dr. Bristoe.

I dont need therapy! I need a mother who listens, who gives a shit about how I feel.

That kind of language only shows a lack of maturity and intellect.

Enraged, Elizabeth threw up her hands, spun in circles. If she couldnt be calm and rational like her mother, shed be wild. Shit! Shit! Shit!

And repetition hardly enhances. You have the rest of the weekend to consider your behavior. Your meals are in the refrigerator or freezer, and labeled. Your pack list is on your desk. Report to Ms. Vee at the university at eight on Monday morning. Your participation in this program will ensure your place in HMS next fall. Now, take my garment bag downstairs, please. My car will be here any minute.