Entangled (30 page)

Your loving uncle,

Jack Fredrickson

My loving uncle? How dare he use those words!
I crumpled the letter in my hand and threw it across the room. The
lightness of paper being what it is, it inflicted no damage on the
wall where it hit, giving me zero satisfaction. But rage being what
it was, I could no longer hold it in. I swept the contents of my
desk to the floor with both arms. Papers, pens, tissue box,
paperweight, and adding machine went crashing down as my arms
flailed wildly. My brain infused with vengeance, I turned in my
chair and stared into the painted eyes of my Uncle Jack. His
self-portrait held no inkling of the evil that lurked within the
man. Like Dorian Gray’s portrait after his death, it showed a
pleasing likeness. In fact, he appeared almost benevolent and
perhaps thought of himself that way in his twisted mind.

I pulled my chair close and stepped up on the
seat, balancing precariously as I reached up and yanked the
portrait from the wall. The weight of it nearly tipped me over
backward, but I managed to drop it to the floor and climb down
without falling. My heart beat faster as I lifted the framed canvas
and smashed it ruthlessly against the corner of my desk. The frame
splintered apart, and the canvas split across Jack’s nose, leaving
a bloodless gash.

Sally suddenly appeared, the door thrown wide
in her haste to see what was going on, her eyes round with shock
and her mouth hanging open as though she’d never been witness to
impotent rage before. Her glance took in the floor, strewn with
papers and objects, then came back to rest on me as I grasped hold
of the ripped canvas and tore my uncle’s image asunder.

“Holy moly, boss! I could hear you all the
way down the hall. What in the world are you doing?”

Her question struck me funny and I started
laughing. I dropped the painting into a crumpled pile on the floor
and collapsed back into my chair, laughing so hard my stomach hurt.
Concern for my mental wellbeing showed in the way her mouth pressed
tight and her nostrils quivered. She blinked rapidly as though the
picture might change like channels on a remote. Tentatively she
approached, one hand outstretched. “Billie? Are you all right?” she
asked.

My laughter died rapidly when I saw the
envelope at my feet, one of the pictures lying exposed beside it.
Tina’s green eyes regarded me oddly from her ground level view. I
bent and scooped her back inside and pressed the envelope to my
chest, a safe, secure place for our sisterhood of sadness.

“Billie?”

I looked up. Charlie stood in the doorway
now, staring around the room. I thought I detected a satisfied
glint in his eye when he saw the bashed and ripped painting on the
floor. I smiled first at Charlie and then up at Sally who stood by
my side now.

“I’m cleaning house,” I calmly explained.
“Out with the old and in with the new. God save the queen?” I
shrugged and stood up, the envelope still clutched in my hands.
They stared blankly at me as I kicked the painting out of the way
and walked toward the door. “Well,” I said with a sigh, “I think
I’ll call it a day. See you tomorrow.”

*****

Ignoring Mother’s questions at my early
return, I went to my room and climbed in bed, expecting sleep to
avoid me as usual. But weariness took hold as soon as I closed my
eyes.

Dad’s smile, bright with pride, filled my
dreams. We ran through the field by our house, pulling against the
tug of a kite. The wide expanse of blue, bright with sunshine, made
a perfect backdrop for the green and yellow lizard that swooped and
dove with the wind’s erratic current. I pointed across the field
where another kid flew a red and white kite shaped like Mickey
Mouse, and we laughed together, father and daughter.

An ominous, black cloud began to grow and
spread across our sky of blue; rumbles of danger menaced the
lizard-shaped kite and we began to bring it in, giving it less line
to bounce and fly, the string taut as we wound it closer and closer
to the ground. Then suddenly, snap! The kite was gone. Taken higher
and higher by a fierce wind of change, into the storm, perhaps to
be torn asunder with rage.

Dad smiled and turned away, heading for home.
I stared after him. How could he let go so easily, not even look
for our kite where it might land? I yelled for him to stop, wait
for me, but he didn’t turn around.

I heard my name called. Billie! Billie! The
boy across the field ran toward me, his blonde hair bouncing over
his forehead. He held the red and white kite in his hand. When he
reached my side, he placed it at my feet and walked away. I bent
and picked it up, unsure what to do. Should I run and give it back
or accept the gift with joy. I looked up at the angry sky, dark and
heavy with the brewing tempest, and felt the first drops of rain
splash over my face. Drops began to fall in earnest now, pinging
upon the slick surface of the kite and rolling away. I lifted it
over my head and ran for home.

Dad had left the screen door unlatched, and
it banged open and shut in the wind. I hurried toward it, holding
my kite high. Thump. Thump. Thump.

I sat up in bed and stared around the room,
trying to place the sound. Thump. There it was again. It came from
the door.

“Honey,” Mother opened the door and stuck her
head through the opening. “Aren’t you feeling well? I made some
chicken soup and grilled cheese sandwiches if you’re hungry.”

I exhaled a long, relieved breath, and
nodded. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Okay but don’t take too long. The food will
get cold.” She smiled and pulled the door closed on her way
out.

I slid to the edge of the bed and dangled my
legs over the side. Perhaps it was time to confide in Mother.
Keeping her in the dark about Jack and Dad and all the rest of it,
would only make things worse when she eventually found out. And she
would find out, because she was my mother. Even when I tried to
hide things from her, she knew.

The nap had done me good. I felt refreshed. I
went into the bathroom and splashed cold water over my face and
wiped it dry. The mirror reflected a woman I barely recognized
wearing rumpled clothes, one bright-red cheek indented with sleep
lines. We had the same chocolate-brown hair, the same wide
cheekbones, and the same bump in the middle of our nose from
getting cracked with a softball in eighth grade. But gone was the
self-assured attorney, cynical and proud, gone was the chip on her
shoulder, the one she’d been carrying for far too long. The woman
staring back at me now had no idea who she was. All these years I’d
worked to be strong, forged like metal, able to cut men in half
with biting rhetoric. But inside I was still an eight-year-old
girl, shutting my eyes to block out the truth. And the truth
was…I was afraid. Afraid of life. Afraid of love. Afraid that
even God no longer cared.

I closed my eyes and shut out the woman in
the mirror.

“Billie, aren’t you coming to eat?” Mother
called again from the bedroom door.

I stepped out of the bathroom and flipped off
the light. “Yes, I’m coming. I finally get to sleep and now you
want me to wake up,” I muttered under my breath.

Mother stood outside my door, her arms
crossed. She pursed her lips as though she had something to say and
then shook her head.

“What?” I threw up my hands in a shrug. “I
know it was my turn to make dinner. I’m sorry I fell asleep, but I
really needed a nap. I promise to do it tomorrow night. And since
you’re going out Friday, I’ll make dinner Saturday too.”

“Tomorrow is Friday, honey.” She stared at me
as though I’d grown two heads. “You slept through the night and
well into the afternoon today. Sally called this morning to see if
you were all right. She said you seemed unwell yesterday.” Mother
put her hand over my forehead and held it there, the human
thermometer. “You don’t feel feverish,” she said, a slightly
suspicious tone to her words as though I were still thirteen and
trying to skip school with a fake case of Malaria.

“No, I’m not sick.” I gently removed her hand
and tugged her toward the kitchen. “But at the news that I slept
through nearly an entire day without eating, I suddenly feel
famished. Where is that soup you were talking about?”

Mother dished up two bowls of steaming
chicken noodle soup and sat across from me. We ate in silence,
except for the slurping of noodles, which I exaggerated just to get
a rise out of her, but she ignored me. Finally, after I’d eaten one
bowl and started on another, she asked, “Are you going to tell me
what happened, or do I have to pull it out of Sally? Which
shouldn’t be too hard. She sounded rather eager to talk about it,
but I had just stepped out of the shower when she called and was
dripping wet.”

I swallowed the last bite of my sandwich and
looked up. Concern etched my Mother’s face, little lines of worry
stretching from nose to mouth and puckering the space between her
dark, arching brows. She looked every day of her fifty years, and I
blamed myself.

Up to now, time had been kind to Mother,
washing over her with soft breezes and gentle ripples of change.
She was carried with the waves rather than being buffeted. I’d
heard her say more than once that God blessed her with resilience
and great skin. I agreed with both. I hoped she was resilient
enough now to hear what I was going to tell her.

“I’m afraid Sally and Charlie think I’ve lost
my mind,” I began.

Mother raised her brows at that but didn’t
comment.

“Perhaps I should start with what I found in
the cellar.”

*****

“Jack sent you pictures?” Mother asked, her
voice shaking with rage and disbelief. “Why would he do that? How
could he do that? I don’t understand any of this.” She slipped out
of her chair and looked wildly around the room as though searching
for something, a reason perhaps; but there wasn’t one
forthcoming.

“Maybe he was looking for absolution,” I
said, watching her.

She started to put things away, pouring the
remaining soup in a container and storing it in the refrigerator,
her movements jerky and robotic. As she lifted the heavy soup pan
to place it in the sink, she lost her grip, dropping it to the
floor. Two ceramic tiles cracked on impact and the pan clattered
noisily to a slow spinning stop. Mother covered her ears as tears
swam in her eyes.

“Mom, are you okay?” I jumped up and went to
her, reaching for her hand to check for burns, but she held them
tight against her ears. “Mom!”

She finally looked at me and began to shake
with sobs. “I’m so sorry, Billie. I’m so sorry. I should have been
there to protect you. I should have stopped him. I’m your mother,
for God’s sake.”

“I know. I know.” I pulled her into my arms
and we slid slowly down to sit on the floor, our backs against the
refrigerator. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know. Dad didn’t
tell you; instead he covered it up,” I couldn’t help adding.

She leaned her head on my shoulder, her tears
dampening the fabric of my t-shirt. “Why did he do that?” she asked
softly, as though I held the answers to my own pain.

With eyes closed I leaned my head back and
released a soft sigh. The dream of my father and I flying a kite
together had left me wishing for a reconciliation that could never
be. Most of my memories of him were joyful, filled with love. I
adored my father. As a child, I was wise enough to know God hung
the moon and stars, but suspected Dad had the inside track to turn
them on. Why he would intentionally keep such a horrific thing from
Mom and basically ignore my trauma, not get me the help I needed,
but tamp down any lingering memory with a firm hand, was beyond me.
“I’m afraid motives are nebulous. I’m sure he did what he did out
of love — for me, for you.”

She sniffed loudly and wiped at her face with
the back of her hand, oddly inappropriate actions for someone so
attuned to etiquette. “Trust is part of love and what he did wasn’t
trustworthy.”

I sensed the hurt she felt slowly turning to
anger. Having lived with resentment against my father since before
his death, the good memories packed away in the cedar chest of my
mind, I certainly didn’t want mother to fall into the same trap.
Time had a way of clearing things up or fogging things over.
Perhaps we needed a little of both.

“Humans often do things in the name of love
that aren’t trustworthy.” I took Mother’s hand and laced it with my
own. “Daddy wanted to protect me from the pain of remembering. He
wanted to protect you from ever having to know. Maybe he was also
protecting himself by pretending it never happened. Whatever the
reasons, I have every confidence that he did it out of love.” I
lifted her hand to my cheek and held it there, reestablishing the
age-old connection of mother and child. “Remember…I was there. He
picked me up and carried me to the house. He said we were going
home, and I’d be safe.”

Mother’s lips trembled and she pressed them
firmly together, as though holding something back.

“What?” I said, releasing her hand.

“I’m just so angry! How could he do this to
us? His silence has caused more repercussions than the actual truth
would have twenty years ago.” She pressed her palms against her
cheeks and shook her head. “It eroded our marriage, and it damaged
the relationship a mother should have with her daughter. You never
trusted and confided in me when you were a teen.” She held my gaze,
her eyes red and pooling with tears.

I reached out and brushed a stray lock of
hair behind her ear. “Mom. The damage is not beyond repair. And I
didn’t confide in you because I was a
teenager
. But I’m
still young and we have years and years to work on what needs to be
fixed. Please don’t hold bitterness in your heart against
Daddy.”