Conundrum (10 page)

“But years later, still, you never talked about him, never gave us a clue about Dad’s life or personality.”

“You kids never asked.
”

I almost scowled at her remark. “Well, maybe it would do this family some good to sit down together and talk about it.”

My mother grunted and shook her head. “Lisa, it’s been, what, twenty-five years? Just what on earth will that accomplish? You haven’t been listening to me. Dredging up bits of the past will do nothing to help Raff—it will only make him angrier and obsessive. The best thing you can do for your brother is trust the doctors. They’re the professionals and will see to it Raff gets better.” She pulled a compact out of her purse and
reapplied
her lipstick.

Frustration rumbled through my body like a
passing
train.
Why was she so resistant? I resented her unwillingness to talk about my father. Not just because I felt she owed
it to
us kids to tell us about him. But, more pointedly,
she seemed not to care about
my father
,
and her tone spoke defiance and disrespect to his memory. And that prompted me to blurt out
my plans
without thinking.

“I’m going to take a trip to New York. To see Mandy and her dad.”

My mother stopped in the threshold and turned to face me. Her words came out slow
ly
and enunciated. “That’s a bad idea.” She scowled but kept her voice quiet and controlled. “
But, you’ll do as you wish, always running foolishly into decisions and regretting them later. Don’t think about anyone else but yourself, what heartache it may cause Raff.”

I called out to her as she walked down the steps to the driveway. “I would never say anything to hurt him. I’m not stupid.”

She shook her head and got into her car without a wave or good-bye. I hadn’t seen her that pissed off in a long time.
As I watched her Mercedes coupe head down the road, Buster and Angel trotted past me into the house. By the time I had grabbed a
rag to wipe the table, the dogs had snuffed up all the crumbs from the floor.
I gave them each a biscuit and herded them out the
kitchen
door, closing it behind me.

I’d hoped my uncle would have called by now. I was more eager than ever to talk with him, and
considered
what questions I would ask. Would he answer me truthfully? Maybe I would wait to delve into the sensitive issues until I saw him. Talking over the phone was awkward, and I wou
l
dn’t be able to see his expressions.

That decided it for me. I would stop at the travel agency on my way to my landscape job and book a flight. I called Jeremy at work and
informed
him about my sudden trip to New York. He was polite and didn’t ask questions. I told him I wanted to see my cousin after all these years
,
and he agreed to house-sit
. He suggested a vacation would be good for me, help me clear my head. I didn’t tell him that was the last thing I wanted to do—clear my head. I had high hopes this trip would fill my head to the brim with facts about my family.
Whatever my mother feared I’d find out didn’t worry me. I was a big
girl now, and I could take it.
I wanted to see for myself why my mother thought my uncle was a horrible man. Hear his side of the story.

I got in my work truck and started up the engine.
Stevie Nicks was singing on the radio: “Talk to Me.” It seemed an appropriate theme song for my day.
A wave of weariness washed over me. I was already exhausted and the day had just begun. But the sky shone bright with a few soft clouds sa
i
ling overhead. The air buzzed with insects and promised to turn warm and chase the chill away.
I looked forward to digging in the earth, getting my hands dirty, smelling the rich compost
,
and putting plants into the ground. Gardening was all about encouraging life and growth, and adding beauty to the planet. Turning a drab section of
untamed
ground into a work of art. Bringing order to chaos.

I flashed on the recent Challenger disaster, the
film clip of the
space shuttle exploding silently against the backdrop of a beautiful calm day in Florida. How shocked I was
—
everyone was
—
by the unexpected and unthinkable turn of events. The image of the trail of white smoke seemed imprinted on my brain, reminding me again how suddenly things can change—
hope to despair,
calm to chaos.

I grunted. My mission—bringing order to chaos. Finding the door to enlightenment.
I hoped that when the door
finally
swung open, a host of heavenly angels arrayed in brilliant garments would sing hallelujah and healing would flow like milk and honey.
But what I feared was that I’d just find another door, one locked and barricaded.

I thought of Raff’s hopelessness, the way it
had
travelled through the phone lines, his desperate impatience over his impotent medications. How much longer would he have to stay in that hospital? How much longer could he tenuously hold on to his life?
How much longer could he face down the Jabberwock before he fell to his knees and let the beast ravage him?

That
last
question
was one
I didn’t want answered.

Chapter
6

How was it possible my father’s handwriting matched my own? That, more than anything else, startled me as I reread the two-page letter my uncle had faxed to me via the local Kinko’s in Petaluma. Was handwriting somehow genetically passed on?

After the plane took off and leveled out at a cruising altitude, I
let my eyes drift over the rolling sentences filling the pages.
Why my uncle wanted to send me this letter
in advance
puzzled me. We
’d
had a short congenial conversation
,
but I got the clear impression Samuel Sitteroff was one of those people who hated to talk on phones. His sentences were
choppy
and awkward, but he did express
a
warm invitation
for me
to come to New York and visit. He
’d
arrange
d
a room for me in a clean nearby hotel, and Mandy would
come to
the airport to pick me up.

How could I even begin to relate the emotions I felt as I read that letter? Two pages, written
by
my father a few months before he died. Oozing with pain, shame, and remorse. I’d read the
letter a dozen times, but it kept drawing me
.
I was
a
thirsty wanderer in a desert searching for
spiritual
water between the
sparse
enigmatic lines
written
by my father’s hand.
I tried to picture him with a pen in his
grip
, scrawling out the words from his bed of pain.
Rather than provide answers, his secretive allusions to scandal
and impropriety stirred up more questions.
But, most importantly, my mother’s picture of a happy marriage beset by tragedy
had been
shattered.

I read slowly,
wishing I could make the words
sing their deeper meaning
instead of mumbl
e
incoherent hints of anarchy
.

Dear Samuel,

When I read your letter this morning, I cried like I hadn’t in years. There is so much to say, but it’s not possible to fit it all on a piece of paper. The years have somehow forced a hard crust of fear over all the true nature that I have.
There is so much I’ve hidden from you because of shame that I don’t know where to begin.
Someday I want to tell you the real story of my marriage, which is so important in this picture of mine. You’re right—I did intentionally withdraw from you, but you represent all there is in the world to me—love, affection, understanding, father, mother, brother, family,
life.
And you are right, the crap has to stop piling up. Still, what can I say in a letter? When you hear my story, when you listen to what ma
y
appear to you so bizarre, so strange, and in some ways so alien
to
every last thing you believe in, I pray with all my heart that you will have the compassion to still love me.

I’ve sinned so much, my lif
e has been such a mess, especially these last seven months. I’m afraid to say any more in this letter because I don’t know how you’ll take it. I’ll simply say that, while I have the most wonderful children in the world whom I love very deeply, for
nearly
ten years it’s been an ever increasingly difficult married life, exceedingly difficult to endure. There is no point in trying to fix blame. It hardly matters anymore. Guilt on my part was great—I wanted out. But I felt to overcome the guilt that I needed to commit suicide (not very pleasant) through pernicious anemia, drinking,
and
finally
,
emotionally induced leukemia.
I have done something so horrible, I know it will bring grief to my children.
There is so much more, but I’m afraid to go on.

Great guns, I think I could go on for hours but I’ll finish here.
If I don’t get to see you, I’m afraid I’ll have to drop another bombshell in your lap, which frankly I feel would upset you too much now. But as you see, I’m beginning to open up. Write me soon. Love to you from the bottom of my heart.

Nathan

That one sentence stuck in my craw:
“
I have done something so horrible, I know it will bring grief to my children.
”
What was he referring to? Would my uncle have a clue? I thought of Macbeth asking the witches,
“
How now you secret, black, and midnight hags
?
What is’t you do?
”
Their reply
so
branded my mind that I mulled it over for hours
as I dozed on and off during the plane ride
:
“
a deed without a name
.
”
What
unnamable
deed had my father done—something that brought
on the ensuing penalty of death?

Now I had an inkling of why my mother
opposed my
trip
. Fortunately, I
had
avoided further encounters with her before heading to the airport. Jeremy
’d
even offered to give me a lift, but I declined. My mind was too preoccupied with my father’s words
—
words that had infiltrated my heart and mind like a penetrating dye. I couldn’t handle the distraction of trying to make small talk with
Jeremy
, and certainly was not up to wading into deep, treacherous waters of
topics
that centered around either my marriage or my mother.
Instead, I caught a Super Shuttle
to the airport
and, half
aware
of my surroundings
, checked in my bag and found my gate.

Now that I was gaining literal distance from my mother, I
pressed myself to reflect on
the
emotional distance that seemed to be
lengthen
ing daily. Just who was this woman who had raised me? Did I really know her at all?

The intrepid and stalwart champion of her family, the hapless victim of unexpected tragedy—these were the personas my mother wore and which she wielded to gain pity, employment, admiration
, and favor. All done with a quiet and self-effacing grace that drew people to her
over the years of our life in Mill Valley
.
I’m not sure when
things shifted, but at some point, perhaps as we
kids
grew older and appeared less pitiable, my mother stopped evoking compassion and began her more complicated wranglings to gain unwavering loyalty from her peers and coworkers.
H
er commercial pro
p
erty po
r
tfolio grew
,
and she
socialized
with
in the richer entreprene
urial circles of Marin County, attending parties and “functions”
—
fundraisers where she made sure her name appeared on programs as sponsor or donator, and charity events that reflected her concerns for a host of causes—homelessness, education, pollution, and dozens more. She served on the board of the Chamber of Commerce f
rom 1967
–
1970
and occasionally hosted chamber mixers at her office.