I chose a chair wedged between the desk and a glass-fronted bookcase, and pretended to study the cracked leather spines of old law books and the parchment diplomas on the wall. On Daddy's desk was a silver framed portrait. It was of the Queen Mother on their wedding day, an enormous floral bouquet obscuring her gown, and the thick folds of a satin train arranged in a fan around her ankles. She stood erect and gazed solemnly past the photographer, in the formal style of the day. I remembered this photograph from my childhood; it had seemed to me the absolute height of elegance. Our mother frequently told us that she had named her children after royalty: Victoria, Edward, and Elizabeth. I had come up with the confused notion that my name ensured I would grow up to be as magnificent as the woman in the photograph. But then, I'd been a foolish, dreamy child: I had also believed in Santa Claus until well past my eighth birthday.

Down the hall, the elevator bell rang. Eight pairs of eyes riveted on the door. The window air conditioner coughed and rattled away, the only noise in the room. I strained to hear the clicking of the Queen's pumps, the false pitch of Daddy's voice as they approached. The thick, chicoried coffee I'd drunk for breakfast lurched through my blood, pinging like electricity in my stomach. I wanted to crawl under the desk.

The woman who came through that door was no longer magnificent. In the six years since I'd last seen her, she seemed to have visibly shrunk. Except for her pouching belly, all the flesh had withered off her, and she looked as scrawny and pitiful as a newborn chicken. Clearly, she had believed this to be a special occasion of some sort: she had worn a ruffled organdy dress, and her pinkish hair was tortured into vapory little puffs above her scalp, the work of some demon hairdresser.

There was a moment then, just a second, when I couldn't believe that this woman had ever tyrannized me, that I had ever thought my life depended on getting away from her. She seemed too fragile and pathetic to hurt a fly.

She froze just inside the door, her vague eyes sharpening with horror, and then she composed a wary smile.

"What, in the name of heaven, is going on here? Thomas, I believe you have some explaining to do." Her eyes flitted to Henry, and then to me, and she edged back a step.

"Are we all going to Biloxi?"

Henry rose from his chair, introduced himself, and explained that he was a counselor who'd been called in by her family. Her family had some things they wanted to say to her, and he wanted her promise that she would listen to us all before she responded. Her smile fell away and she lifted her chin, staring at some point above his head.

"Anything my family has to say to me, they could certainly say without calling a meeting." Her voice wavered.

"I'd like you to promise to listen to them."

There was a long silence.

"Why, of course." She lowered herself into the chair that Daddy held for her, holding her eyes to that same invisible spot.

I only remember snatches of what was said, but it was excruciating to watch. When I was a child, Tootie once took me to a revival meeting at the state fairgrounds. It was truly a terrifying experience, waves of people springing to their feet and singing out feverish confessions, weeping and wailing like a pack of lunatics. I remember feeling like I was being drowned, my lungs filling up with other people's tears.

My family are lapsed Episcopalians and not practiced in such ritual displays of emotion, but for amateurs, they put on quite a show. Lizann stumbled over her lines; Maybelle cried in jagged fits and starts; Duke squirmed and twitched like a dog plagued with fleas. Daddy, looking like a man sentenced to die, paced a slow circle behind his wife, plucking at his chin and wiping his eyes.

Throughout, the Queen Mother perched rigidly in her chair and stared off into space, not betraying for a minute that she was aware of the bedlam surrounding her. It was unnerving, as I'm sure she intended it to be. Excepting an occasional flinch, she held herself as still and dignified as the portrait on Daddy's desk.

When my turn came around, I stared at the pad in my hands, covered with the angry words of the previous night. She'd heard it all before, every last sniveling complaint. I wondered how, after all these years, we had thought that a confrontation was going to get us anywhere. One more go around the block wasn't going to make a difference.

"Mama, I think I'm going to just pass." In the corner of my eye, I saw Henry lean forward apprehensively. Passing was obviously against the rules; we weren't playing bridge. I turned back to the Queen and pushed on.

"I don't even know why I came down here. I really don't have anything left to say. I thought I did, but I don't. If you decide to stop drinking, fine. But it's your own life, and I'm tired of messing in it." I could hear the water rising over my voice. "I was tired of it years ago, Mama."

The Queen Mother continued to gaze impassively at the window.

When Daddy had said his piece, Henry quietly explained to the Queen that there was a bed open for her at Serenity Lane and that, with her permission, the family would drive her over there. He asked her if she had anything to say.

The room fell silent. We all waited on her. I guess everyone was still hoping she would give herself up, break down in sobs of relief or repentance or whatever. But when she did speak, her voice all cool and satiny, we came to our senses quick enough.

She rose to her feet and fastened her eyes on Henry.

"I can just imagine how difficult this must be for you, Mr. Bujone. I have always wondered how those psychiatrists did it. Day in, day out, mucking around in the private lives of complete strangers. Myself, I would simply die of shame. I hope your superiors will not regard this as a failing on your part. I would be happy to write a note expressing my sincere admiration of your abilities. Victoria, would you be so kind as to drive me home now?"

With that, she nodded shortly to me and walked out of the room. We remained behind, slumped in our chairs like a bunch of balloons with the air let out. Henry Bujone, unwilling to admit defeat, launched into his stock of dim-witted platitudes, reminding us that we each had personal victories to take home with us that day. Some people should just be taken out and shot.

When I came out to the parking lot, I saw her sitting in the backseat of Daddy's Lincoln. I slipped into the driver's seat and gripped the wheel to steady the tremor in my hands. If I had been wondering why I was selected to chauffeur, she solved the mystery for me.

"I'll thank you to remember that you have nothing more to say to me."

We drove silently through town, until I started to turn onto Hundred Oaks Avenue.

"No, stay on the Acadian until Broussard." It had been years since I'd lived there, but I still knew the way home. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the Queen sunk low into the plush velour seat, staring out the side window. I drove on, the windshield wipers clicking away the drizzle. When we got to Broussard, she commanded a left turn and then, just before City Park, "On the right here, please, Victoria."

It was the clinic I had been to the previous night. In the daylight, it looked shabbier: a sagging old Victorian house with a newer two-story wing grafted awkwardly onto its side. There were no identifying signs, just the red paint at the curb that spelled out Emergency Vehicles Only.

I shut off the engine and raised my eyes to the rearview mirror. Her powdered face was streaked with tears. When I turned around, her eyes met mine for the first time that day, really for the first time I can remember.

"You may tell everyone I have decided I need a rest. Your father and I were planning a week in Biloxi, but tell him I've changed my mind. It's become such a touristy place, and I really feel I need some peace and quiet."