“Hope doesn’t want to, does she?”

“Not at the moment, I’m afraid. But that isn’t necessarily permanent. Let’s see how it goes.”

“What am I going to do with her?” Jo asked. “I don’t have a place for her.”

“She might choose to go back to Pennsylvania. Doesn’t she have a home there?”

“But no family support. They’re done with this craziness.”

“That might change her perspective,” the doctor said. “There are other options, too, depending on Hope’s acceptance—like transitionary housing. A halfway house. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We have a long way to go.”

Jo shook her head wearily. “I wish I understood why...”

“There could be a dozen reasons,” he said. “Sometimes people fictionalize their lives for attention. Sometimes they’re looking for excuses. Some think a good story will explain them better than the truth will. Some suffer from low self-esteem and think their fictional story makes them more interesting than they really are, while others were abused and an imaginary life helps them escape the reality of abuse. Then there are those who think if they tell the story long enough it will become true just as those who have told their story for so long it blends with the truth so thoroughly they begin to believe it. Whatever the cause, when it’s protracted it becomes compulsive. It’s a habit hard to break.”

“How do you explain her meltdown?”

“Keeping up with the stories and dodging the consequences is very stressful—many sufferers change friends and even families often. And we all know them—some are more intense than others. There are some more popular than others. There were so many men claiming to be Navy SEALs that there’s a website dedicated to exposing the frauds. The editor in chief of a major city newspaper spent his entire career claiming to be a decorated retired colonel who served in the war—he was exposed as never having served in the military.”

“And people who lie to con you?” she asked. “To trick you into giving them money or something?”

“Not in the same category, I’m afraid,” the doctor said. “That’s a whole different thing. Criminal, deliberate, felonious...not represented in the DSM. No, people who make up false but entirely plausible stories and know they’re not true but can’t seem to stop doing it—that’s a disorder we’re familiar with. It pops up all the time.”

Jo was intrigued. “It’s so wrong to deceive people like that...”

“That’s the irony,” he said. “Most people aren’t fooled. The taller the tales, the more doubt associated with them. There seems to be an interesting inverse correlation—true heroes seldom brag. People with solid marriages feel secure and don’t seem to need to constantly remind the world how happy they are. Wealthy people seldom publicize their net worth. This isn’t always true, of course—some people just have to toot their own horn. But it’s often true that grand tales of heroism or wealth or romance are usually in play to cover up some sense of a deficiency. And of course delusional disorders like all disorders come in all sizes. I’d venture to say almost all Christmas letters are a little delusional.”

“My daughter was sending Christmas letters signed Hope, Franklin, Bobbi and Trude for years after their divorce. She wouldn’t accept it.”

“She must have been so lonely,” the doctor said.

“Do you think she’ll get well?”

“I think she is well,” he said. “The question is, will she stop fictionalizing her life? Let’s see what comes with some therapy.”

* * *

Jo went to see her daughter after her conversation with the doctor. Hope didn’t look good to her, but she imagined that was to be expected. She was drawn and looked sleepy; her hair wasn’t fixed and she wore scrubs. Someone had given her scrubs. Jo would find a way to get her clothes.

She embraced her. “Oh, Hope,” was all she could say.

“I’ve made a mess, haven’t I?” she said.

“Nothing that can’t be worked through,” Jo said.

“I think Franklin has left me for good,” she said.

Jo pulled back, holding Hope’s upper arms. “I believe he did that about six years ago. He has a wife and son.”

“But once he thought it over...?”

Jo was shaking her head. She didn’t have to say anything. Hope just sighed.

“Let’s get you back on your feet,” Jo said. “You’re young. There are lots of possibilities for you, but only if you get help.”

“I think it’s too late,” she said. “I have no one. Not even my children.”

“Well, you have me, but only if you follow the doctor’s recommendations. If you don’t, I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

“Oh, I doubt he’ll be much help,” she said. “He wants me to go to a hospital. A hospital for crazy people.”

“That’s not correct,” Jo said. “It’s a rehab facility for people recovering from depression and other mental and emotional disorders. The doors are not locked.”

“I bet they have rubber rooms...”

Jo laughed and smoothed Hope’s hair. Then she clutched her hands. “It’s all up to you, Hope. You still have family, but only if you’re honest and truthful. You might be able to repair your relationship with your daughters in time, but they aren’t going to help you pretend—they’ve been clear, they’re done with that. I’ll be there for you but only if you get help. So what are you going to do?”

“I’ll do what you want,” she said. “But I’m so sad. Do you think I’ll ever stop being so sad?”

“What are you so sad about, darling?”

“I mapped out the perfect life. Absolutely perfect. And it didn’t work.”

Jo was flabbergasted. “That’s because it was pretend.”

“It was still perfect,” she said.

Jo sighed. “I don’t know if a month is going to be enough.”

* * *

Jo couldn’t help but feel she had failed her children, even though there wasn’t much more she could have done. Hindsight is so excellent—now it was clear that had she contacted Frank Griffin years ago, things might have been better. She had met him at the wedding, of course, but it was like meeting him for the first time now. She liked the bike shop owner so much more than the VP of finance. The old Frank, in the company of his rich, stuffy parents, was so uptight. He had looked thoroughly bored and unhappy. What a shock to learn he was! But this Frank, comfortable in his own skin, was so charming and kind, so thoughtful and concerned.

She thought of Krista back then. She could not have stopped her from acting out no matter what she tried. Likely in the face of her family disintegrating around her she gravitated toward teenagers who she could attach herself to, feel acceptance—and they were a bad lot.

Her thoughts turned to Beverly. Beverly had come a long way—she was the content mother of two. But getting there had been such a struggle and no one could have made it easier for her. Beverly was the one who had been with Bunny when she drowned, Beverly felt guilty and responsible for twelve-year-old Bunny’s death; sneaking out on the lake in the rowboat had been her scheme. She spent years in therapy.

Not many months after Bunny’s death Beverly’s counselor reported that her depression was not responding to medication and she was concerned by her suicidal thoughts. The counselor recommended a foster home where she might have a better chance of getting her life back. It was a farm in southern Minnesota and there were usually six teenagers at a time. They thought Beverly could benefit from a few months there—there were farm chores, animals, even riding horses. The couple who operated the farm were both social workers and could provide counseling as well as close supervision. Just a few months, the counselor said.

Beverly never lived at home again. She bonded with the Swensons, Joy and Glenn, and she blossomed through high school, even helping with other teenagers in residence. But Beverly was the only one who stayed on as the closest thing to a family member they had.

Fortunately, Jo and Beverly did stay in close touch and saw each other regularly. If Joy and Glenn came into the city, they brought Beverly to see her mother and there were days Jo could drive or take the bus to the farm to spend a day with them. That first year was so hard, being separated from her youngest child. But as Beverly grew stronger and happier, Jo realized it had been a godsend. A gift.

Beverly was forty now and it had really been no surprise—she was thoroughly a country girl. Her children, a boy and a girl, Alex and Becca, were twelve and fourteen. She had married a man who came from a big family farm near Red Wing and the kids had lots of 4-H blue ribbons for everything from canning to raising a calf. Though Beverly had never stayed a night with Jo, Jo had spent a few nights at Beverly’s farmhouse. She loved Beverly’s big, quiet husband, Tom. If Jo was visiting Beverly and her family, Glenn and Joy often made it a point to visit, as well. And it was no surprise to Jo when Beverly and Tom became foster parents.

Jo called her youngest daughter. “Beverly, it’s Mom,” she said. “You’ll never believe what I’m calling you from—my very own iPhone. I’m even doing email.”

“Get outta town!” Beverly said. “Tom,” she yelled. “My mom has a cell phone and email!”

“Did hell freeze over?” he yelled back.

Jo laughed happily. “I have some things to tell you—I’ll try to give you the condensed version.” She explained about Hope and the girls and especially about Frank. She told her Megan was hanging in there but she certainly wasn’t robust looking. Charley was managing all the details, Krista was working at the lodge and seemed happier than Jo would have thought possible and Jo and Lou were speaking again. “Not everything is resolved between us but I’m very hopeful.”