That sounded detached, a clinical assessment. The family observer? Sometimes kids assume that role because it's easier than participating.

"Tough adjustment for him," I said.

"Yes, but he finally caught on."

"About what?"

"About having to do things for himself. He always finds a way to adjust."

That sounded accusatory. My raised eyebrow was my next question.

She said, "His main way of handling stress is by staying on the go. Business trips. You know what he does, right?"

"Real-estate development."

She shook her head as if I'd gotten it wrong, but said, "Yes. Distressed properties. He makes money off other people's failures."

"I can see why he'd view the world as brutal."

"Oh yes. The brutal world of distressed properties." She laughed and sighed and her hands loosened. Placing the big green book on an end table, she pushed it away.

Her hands returned to her lap. Loose. Defenseless. Suddenly she was slumping like a teenager. Suddenly she seemed truly happy to be here.

"He calls himself a heartless capitalist," she said. "Probably because he knows that's what everyone else says. Actually, he's quite proud of himself."

Undertone of contempt, low and steady as a monk's drone. Deriding her father to a virtual stranger but doing it charmingly. That kind of easy seepage often means the lid's rising on a long-boiling pot.

I sat there, waiting for more. She crossed her legs, slumped lower, fluffed her hair, as if aiming for nonchalance.

Her shrug said, Your turn.

I said, "I get the feeling real estate isn't a strong interest of yours."

"Who knows? I'm thinking of becoming an architect, so I can't hate it that much. Actually, I don't hate business at all, not like some other kids do. It's just that I'd rather build something than be a… I'd rather be productive."

"Rather than be a what?"

"I was going to say scavenger. But that's not fair to my father. He doesn't cause anyone else to fail. He's just there to seek opportunities. Nothing wrong with that, it's just not what I'd like to do-actually, I have no idea what I'd like to do." She rang an imaginary bell. "Dah-dah, big insight. I have no goals."

"What about architecture?"

"I probably just say that to tell people something when they ask me. For all I know, I might end up despising architecture."

"Do any subjects in school interest you?" I said.

"I used to like science. For a while, I thought medicine might be a good choice. I took all the A.P. science courses, got fives on the exams. Now I don't know."

"What changed your mind?" The death of your scientist mother?

"It just seems… well, for one, medicine's not what it used to be, is it? Becky told me her father can't stand his job anymore. All the HMOs telling him what he can and can't do. Dr. Manitow calls it mismanaged care. After all that school, it would be nice to have some occupational freedom. Do you like your job?"

"Very much."

"Psychology," she said, as if the word were new. "I was more interested in real science-oh, sorry, that was rude! What I meant was hard science…"

"No offense taken." I smiled.

"I mean, I do respect psychology. I was just thinking more in terms of chemistry and biology. For myself. I'm good with organic things."

"Psychology is a soft science," I said. "That's part of what I like about it."

"What do you mean?" she said.

"The unpredictability of human nature," I said. "Keeps life interesting. Keeps me on my toes."

She thought about that. "I had one psych course, in my junior year. Non-honor track, actually a Mickey Mouse. But it ended up being interesting… Becky went nuts with it, picking out every symptom we learned about and pinning it on someone. Then she got real cold to me-don't ask me why, I don't know. Don't care, either, we haven't shared common interests since the Barbies got stored in the closet… No, I don't think any kind of medicine's for me. Frankly, none of it seems too scientific. My mother saw every species of doctor known to mankind and no one could do a thing for her. If I ever decide to do anything with my life, I think I'd like it to be more productive."

"Something with quick results?"

"Not necessarily quick," she said. "Just valid." She pulled the ponytail forward, played with the crimped edges. "So what if I'm unfocused. I'm the second child, isn't that normal? My brother has enough focus for both of us, knows exactly what he wants: to win the Nobel Prize in economics, then make billions. One day you'll read about him in Fortune."

"That is pretty specific."

"Eric's always known what he wants. He's a genius- picked up The Wall Street Journal when he was five, read an article on supply and demand in the soybean market and gave his kindergarten class a lecture the next day."

"Is that a family tale?" I said.

"What do you mean?"

"It sounds like something you might've heard from your parents. Unless you remember it yourself. But you were only three."

"Right," she said. Confused. "I think I heard it from my father. Could've been my mother. Either of them. My father still tells the story. It probably was him."

Mental note: What stories does Dad tell about Stacy?

"Does that mean something?" she said.

"No," I said. "I'm just interested in family tales. So Eric's focused."

"Focused and a genius. I mean that literally. He's the smartest person I've ever met. Not a nerd, either. Aggressive, tenacious. Once he sets his mind on something, he won't let go."

"Does he like Stanford?"

"He likes it, it likes him."

"Your parents went there?"

"Family tradition."

"Does that put pressure on you to go there, as well?"

"I'm sure Dad would be thrilled. Assuming I'd get in."

"You don't think you would?"

"I don't know-don't really care."

I'd put some space between our chairs, careful not to crowd her. But now her body arched forward, as if yearning for touch. "I'm not putting myself down, Dr. Delaware. I know I'm smart enough. Not like Eric, but smart enough. Yes, I probably could get in, if for no other reason than I'm a multiple legacy. But the truth is, all that is wasted on me-smarts are wasted on me. I really couldn't care less about intellectual goals or tackling challenges or changing the world or making big bucks. Maybe that sounds airheady, but that's the way it is."

She sat back. "How much time do we have left, please? I forgot my watch at home."

"Twenty minutes."

"Ah. Well…" She began studying the office walls.

"Busy day?" I said.

"No, easy day, as a matter of fact. It's just that I told my friends I'd meet them at the Beverly Center. Lots of good sales on, perfect time to do some airhead shopping."

I said, "Sounds like fun."

"Sounds mindless."

"Nothing wrong with leisure."

"I should just enjoy my life?"

"Exactly."

"Exactly," she repeated. "Just have fun." Tears welled in her eyes. I handed her a tissue. She took it, crushed the paper, enveloping it with a fine-boned, ivory fist.

"Let's," she said, "talk about my mother."

I saw her thirteen times. Twice a week for four weeks, then five weekly sessions. She was punctual, cooperative, filled the first half of each session with edgy fast-talk about movies she'd seen, books she'd read, school, friends. Keeping the inevitable at bay, then finally relenting. Her decision, no prodding from me.

The final twenty minutes of each session reserved for her mother.

No more tears, just soft-spoken monologues, heavy with obligation. She'd been sixteen when Joanne Doss began falling apart, remembered the decline, as had her father, as gradual, insidious, ending in grotesquerie.

"I'd look at her and she'd be lying there. Passive- even before, she was always kind of passive. Letting my father make all the decisions-she'd cook dinner but he'd determine the menu. She was a pretty good cook, as a matter of fact, but what she made never seemed to matter to her. Like it was her job and she was going to do it and do it well, but she wouldn't pretend to be… inspired. Once, years ago, I found this little menu box and she'd put in all these dinner plans, stuff she cut out of magazines. So once upon a time, I guess she cared. But not when I was around."