Driving With Dead People (30 page)

And then there was Mom.

The blond psychologist at the psychiatric facility in Washington had been right about my facing Mom’s role. It
was
the hardest part.

I’ll never know why Mom slathered all three of us girls with Vaseline every night. It didn’t make sense. Did it have anything to do with Dad? If we were chapped or red for some reason, why wasn’t she curious about what was causing it?

Why wouldn’t she let us wear panties to bed? I had friends who remembered their mothers telling them they needed to “air themselves out” at night, so maybe that’s all there was to that. But I worried.

Mom’s insistence that Dad was harmless made him more dangerous. She wasn’t monitoring him—no one was.

Again, I remembered Mom warning Becky about the way Dad looked at her when she was in junior high. At least there was that much awareness on her part—but why didn’t she make sure Becky was safe? Why didn’t she kick Dad out right then?

I can’t forgive my mother for choosing not to change, for living her life exactly as she did before the abuse came to light, whipping into a fury if I talked about it. Refusing to see what I was forced to see—through JoAnn and through my own experiences—irreversibly separated us into two different worlds. She lived in the past, and I lived for the future.

Mom chose not to confront Dad—even though they lived eighteen miles apart, even though she occasionally ran into him at the gas station or the grocery store. “He won’t care,” she said, not realizing that
we
cared. It would have been an attempt on her part to protect us, not just from the sexual abuse, but from the violence as well.

The worst and most unforgivable thing of all was that she declared herself one hundred percent “not responsible.”

I let go of Dad first (or rather, he let go of me), and now it was time to let go of Mom.

The last time I spoke to my mother wasn’t the worst talk we’d ever had, it wasn’t an argument, but it was, in my mind, the end. Years ago, hearing her tell the story about Dad and how one day, when she was standing by the washer in the hallway, she suddenly didn’t care about him anymore, I didn’t know that was how she and I would end. Nothing dramatic, nothing came crashing down; after an ordinary phone call, I just didn’t try to love her anymore.

It began with my phone ringing and then a really high voice (my mother’s) going, “Say ‘yippee’!”

“What?” I asked, trying to buy time. I’d had a long day.

“Just say ‘yippee.’ Right now,” she demanded.

“Why?”

“JUST SAY IT.”

“No.”

“Why do you have to ruin it for me?”

“Ruin what?”

“Exactly. You don’t even know why I called. Now I don’t even want to share my good news with you, so there.”

“Mom, I just came from the emergency room. I hit my head on the trunk of my car and got seven stitches in my forehead. I’m not in a great mood. What do you want?”

“I want you to say ‘yippee.’” She couldn’t stop herself.

“Yippee,” I finally said.

“That wasn’t even excited, that was shitty. Just forget it.”

“Well, thanks for calling, anyway,” I said. “Have a great day.”

“It was a happy day until now.” She was pouting.

I got off the phone as quickly as possible.

Mom has some version of what that conversation was, and she has some version of who I am, and I don’t care what any of that is. It’s not the truth. It never will be.

We hung up and I haven’t spoken with her since.

Knowing there is no cavalry is much better than hoping for a cavalry that never comes. I am strong because I have to be. I am the cavalry.

It’s 2006. I’m out of the worst of it, but it was in no way a “happily ever after” ending. It couldn’t be. It’s been the steepest climb to where I am now.

I live in Los Angeles with my beloved husband, Matthew, and my precious son, Aidan. JoAnn lives three blocks from us in California. She carries the scars, not just on her arms and hands but in her bones, in her life. We both do.

I think of JoAnn and how comfortable her life is now—how having her close by comforts me. Last week I was dropping Aidan off at her office. When we pulled up, she was already standing beside her little red sports car, impeccably dressed, talking to three colleagues. Aidan jumped out, anxious to show Aunt Jo a rock he’d found. She squeezed him tight, both of them smiling. They are the best of friends.

Becky has never come forward or tried to analyze her place in all of it. That’s absolutely her right. It flipped my life completely upside down, but I would tell anyone that it was worth coming out the other side. I might not be completely free of my past, but I’m no longer paralyzed by it.

It’s impossible for me to see Becky, who is still living in denial. I don’t want things to be the way they were, and she can only (unconsciously) repeat what was.

Jamie is gone. I have no idea where. But he can’t be part of my life as long as he’s drinking and violent. I’ve had enough of violence and deceit. Still, the thought of Jamie can bring me instantly to tears. Whenever I hear Neil Young, I immediately think of him sitting on the floor of the condo in San Diego, his brown head bent over his acoustic guitar, strumming “The Needle and the Damage Done,” as he sings quietly, “I caught you knockin’ at my cellar door.” And that’s it, really; it’s the damage done.

I’ll always be damaged in a way. I had hoped that I could completely heal those cracks, but I’m starting to think the real trick is learning to live a full life in spite of them. Cracked people are everywhere, and so I can forgive myself for being overly anxious or easily frightened. But I will no longer allow myself to be swallowed by my past. I insist on having the happiest life I can muster, and I am in control of that now.

I don’t see Dad. I’ve had no contact with him since the “not a dime” birthday call fourteen years ago.

Actually, there was one communication, but it was indirect.

Six years ago Julie Kilner was visiting me in Los Angeles and, having no idea what had happened to our family, turned to me and said, “I ran into your dad last week.” I held my breath. “I asked him how you girls were, and he said, ‘As far as I know, they aren’t dead yet.’”

I was caught off guard by how much this disturbed me. I must have unconsciously fantasized that Dad was sorry for all he’d done. Instead, he wished us dead.

I clicked open my cell phone and dialed 1-800-flowers. I ordered a fifty-dollar bouquet to be sent to my dad’s address at Lake Hiawatha on Father’s Day, which was one week away. When the operator asked me what to put on the card, I didn’t hesitate:

I would jog his memory of who we used to be—remind him of all he’d screwed up—so if someone asked about me, maybe he wouldn’t say, “She’s not dead yet.” Maybe he’d remember and say nothing at all. Maybe he’d remember that I loved him a long time ago, loved him despite everything else, and wanted him to love me too. And that was where it all began—and ended.

I’m driving through Elk Grove, surprised to be back in Ohio after so many years. I came back to find the newspaper records of Sarah Keeler’s accident, to visit the Kilners, and to officially say good-bye to home—not the people, the place.

Driving past the empty lot where Dad’s store should have been, and a huge CVS drugstore in place of Conroy’s Pharmacy, I wonder what’s left of me here.

I’m staying at the Holiday Inn Express out near the hospital where I spent the night with my kidney infection in high school. The hotel is new and I’m the only guest. It’s strange to be in my hometown in a hotel, and stranger still to be the only occupant.

I drive to Galesburg to see my old house. As I head into town, past Wanda’s farm, I’m stunned to see the gigantic maple trees that lined our street are gone. Galesburg is now three blocks of small houses in the middle of a flat, leafless field.

The biggest shock is our house. It’s empty with a
FOR SALE
sign stuck in waist-high grass. The windows are broken and there’s a deep sag in the worn roof. A dead plant hangs from a dirty white plastic hanger on the front porch, where the blue paint is peeling and the porch swing dangles by one rusty chain. The shrubs surrounding the house have been pulled.

I turn into the driveway that is now a crumble of cement, gravel, and dirt, and I’m suddenly the kid who wet the bed and rode my bicycle up to the cemetery to see the sunken grave. My knees might as well have scrapes and bruises on them for how young I feel.

I walk to the backyard where our climbing trees once grew. There are no trees at all, except for the small maple we planted in the west corner when I was nine, the year my hip was dislocated. That tree is now grotesquely huge, reminding me how long I’ve been gone, and Sarah Keeler longer still. It doesn’t seem possible that that much time has passed, but the wrinkles across the tops of my hands tell me otherwise.

The white rail fence in the back is gone now, allowing Whitmore’s field to spill into the backyard. Nothing separates one from the other. Standing back there, I can see Alton Cotterman’s old house. His rusty metal glider, from where he fired all those shots, is still sitting on his back patio. He died more than eleven years ago.

I walk toward our house and check the doors—they’re locked. No one locked houses when I lived here. We didn’t even own a key. The danger was inside, not out.

I push my head through an opening in one of the broken windows. There’s maroon paint randomly splashed across the dining room walls and an old box spring lying on the floor. In Jamie’s room green wallpaper has been ripped off the walls and hangs in jagged strips. There’s shattered glass on the faded red carpet where he worked on his model cars.

I walk around to the front porch and peek in through another broken window, where I see the living room. I’ve never seen my house without our furniture. Mom moved out long after I was gone.

What happened here?
I wonder, scanning the overgrown trash-riddled front yard. But I know what happened. There’s just no pretty facade to hide it now.

I move to the front sidewalk and look across the street at the Galesburg Methodist Church. It looks exactly the same. The stained glass window with Jesus’s face is visible from where I’m standing. I still miss the Sunday mornings when, for forty minutes, we sat as a family and sang “We Gather Together” in unison. We didn’t know, sitting in our Sunday best, that for reasons too tragic to imagine we would not end up together.

I climb into my Hertz rental and drive around the block. Someone is living in Mammaw and Papaw’s old house. I wonder if the root cellar under the pantry is still there.

On down the street, I notice that Granda’s trailer, like Granda, is gone. Granda died with my arms wrapped around her tiny failing body. I held her gently but firmly just as she’d held me throughout my childhood. I helped Dave Kilner lift her carefully onto the stretcher in her white short-sleeved nightgown and cover her with the black velvet drape embroidered in red. I stood in the snow without my coat, watching them drive away together.

The garage where she killed her cat still stands. It looks run-down and unsteady. I feel like kicking it over.

Down the street I see the blinker light still flashing, and the Galesburg Tavern, which is not only still in business but has a sign nailed to the front door that reads
KARAOKE EVERY SATURDAY NIGHT
. Uncle Ernie quit drinking years ago and died suddenly last year of a heart attack. So I know he’s not in there.

I drive back to Elk Grove, past the Rotary Club where I met Julie Kilner for the first time. It’s still there, only now the sign reads
PIONEER ENGINEER CLUB
, and when I crane my neck, I can still see the dirt tractor-pull track where Papaw competed.

Julie and I had dinner at Pizza Palace last night, ordering a taco pizza and a pitcher of Pepsi. We needed to catch up. She and Jay are planning their twentieth wedding anniversary and raising two handsome boys.

As she sped away in her Honda, I could hardly believe how many years had gone by since we’d lain in coffins.

I make a left into Maple Creek Cemetery and park in the back.

Walking down the newly paved road to a grave I haven’t seen since I was twelve, I pull my glasses out of my purse and wipe the lenses on my sweatshirt. I’m looking for Sarah Keeler. I forget the color of her headstone but not the location: section fifteen, tenth row back.

The last time I saw Sarah, she was by herself back here. Now there’s another stone to her left. It’s gray, like Sarah’s, and has a cross with a flower wrapped around it just like hers. I instinctively hope it’s her mom, so she won’t be alone anymore.

I slip on my glasses and lean down to read the names on the stone. It’s her mom and dad, who both died recently, within three months of each other. I’m not sure what I believe happens after death, but I am comforted that they might all be together after thirty-four years.

I pull a crumpled blue Kleenex out of the pocket of my jeans, realizing I’d imagined Sarah’s mom to be all the things mine wasn’t. I’d pictured them as the perfect mother and daughter, senselessly separated. Now that I’m forty-three, I know that’s not realistic. They would have gone through their own highs and lows, hopefully faring better than Mom and I.

I look at Sarah’s stone and feel compelled to leave flowers or something meaningful to thank her for secretly sustaining me all these years. For being the dead girl so I could be the live one.

But it doesn’t feel appropriate.

I look up to see a line of cars snailing around the bend of the road. Liz Kilner is driving the new black hearse, leading the way. I don’t wave because she’s working, but she gives me a thumbs-up, so I wave after all.

I turn back to Sarah Keeler and sit in the grass. The cars stay for five or six minutes, and then Liz Kilner leads them back out the gate. I look over and there’s the tiniest casket sitting there. It’s a baby.

I remember Mom saying, “Babies aren’t people until they’re two years old.” I bet these grieving parents don’t feel that way.

A thin man in overalls jumps down into the grave, and another man in a brown canvas jumpsuit carefully hands the casket down. The man in the hole gently takes it and I can’t see it anymore.

Dried leaves blow across the winter grass and I pull my hood up over my head. Purple and yellow crocuses are starting to push through the black Ohio dirt.

I can see Wendell’s grave, where Tim gave me my first kiss and presented me with the plywood stop sign that hung inside my childhood closet until I was almost twenty.

Another headstone stops my heart. It’s across the narrow road, a rust-colored stone with the names David and Joan Kilner engraved on it. I hurry over. I spoke to them an hour ago, but in my heightened state of nostalgia and anxiety I worry they’ve been buried since then. It’s enormously reassuring to see the death date blank for both of them.

I look to see what section they’re in, and the small black-and-white marker reads
SECTION
.

I hike across Highway 64 to the cemetery office. A big-bosomed woman in black stretch pants wants to know what I want. Being in the plot-selling business, she knows everyone in Elk Grove, and I am an outsider.

“Are there plots available in section fourteen?” I ask.

She walks to her computer. Standing behind her chair, she holds a pair of broken glasses up to her eyes with one hand and taps the keys with the other. Dropping the glasses onto her chest, where they swing from a silver chain, she declares, “Looks like it.”

“How much is a plot?” I ask. Judging from the sigh she expels, I assume I’m taking up too much of her time.

“Five hundred,” she huffs, handing me a card with a phone number and a picture of the entrance to Maple Creek Cemetery on it. I head out the door and can feel her watching me as I cross the small gravel parking lot.

Five hundred dollars isn’t that much. I open my cell phone and call Matthew in Los Angeles. I’m interrupting him. He’s either writing a script or hanging out with our eight-year-old son and his friends.

“Hello?” Matthew’s voice sounds just right to me. Like home.

“I’m at the cemetery,” I say.

“Sounds like you’re having a fun vacation,” he teases.

“Plots at Maple Creek are only five hundred dollars,” I tell him.

“There’s room with the Kilners. Maybe we should get four and then we’d have them—just in case.”

“Four?”

“You, me, JoAnn, and Aidan,” I tell him.

“I don’t want to be buried in Elk Grove,” he says. “I don’t know anyone there.”

“Where do you want to be buried?” I ask.

“I haven’t thought about it,” he says.

“Think about it, because I want to be with the Kilners, not with Liberace or Bette Davis under the burning fake sun at Forest Lawn,” I say. “I want to be under an oak tree covered in rain or snow.”