Me Again (23 page)

She leaned forward in her chair. “I’ve thought about this a lot, and that’s what I kept coming up with.”

I tried to piece this together in my mind. “So I shut myself down, to keep from getting hurt?”

“That’s part of it,” she said, “but I think it goes beyond self-protection. You were always so caring, so sensitive. Always watching out for your little sister, and so considerate to everybody around you. It really was your defining quality.”

Again she sighed. “I don’t know, Jonny – it’s probably really out of line for me to say any of this.”

“No, please – keep going.”

“Well, the more I thought about it, the more it didn’t seem like just a case of you shutting down to protect yourself. Instead, I think you were following your own sense of logic. From experience you had determined that when you loved something or somebody, something bad would happen to them. So the way I see it, you decided to stop loving anybody, so nothing bad would happen to them. You stopped loving your parents...”

I finished her sentence. “To protect them.”

She nodded. “To protect them. At least that’s my theory.”

“What about you?” I protested. “I didn’t stop loving you.”

“You didn’t need to. I was out of the picture after your family moved away. Those two times I visited, I saw a little spark when you talked to me, but you had already completely shut down with the rest of your family. And that probably took a conscious effort, since you saw them every day.”

Mrs. Margolis sent the last few Cheerios to the insatiable Stanley with an underhand toss.

“With me,” she said, “I think it was out of sight, out of mind. I wasn’t around, so you didn’t need to consciously shut down your feelings for me. In the long run, I think that was just as well. I can’t bear the thought of you completely shutting me out.”

I shook my head, trying to take all this in. “God, that must have been awful for my parents.”

She shrugged. “Jonny, it sounds horrible to say this, but at that point your whole family was damaged goods. Each of you just found a different way to deal with it.”

Her expression changed, and she got up abruptly. Startled, Stanley scrambled off the porch, vaulting the steps to land on the concrete walkway below, where he turned to look at us.

“Oh, what do I know, anyway?” she said, as she stooped to gather up her coffee cup and cereal bowl. “I’m just an old woman – not a psychologist.”

I stood up and gently laid a hand on her shoulder.

“No,” I said. “You’re a wonderful friend.”

She turned to face me, and I continued.

“And what you said makes sense. It... it rings true. Thank you.”

She said nothing, but her eyes showed her relief.

“Thank you,” I said again, wishing the words could more accurately convey my gratitude for the woman’s candor with me.

Bored with the conversation, Stanley turned and darted up the massive maple tree, disappearing into its foliage.

I stepped aside as Mrs. Margolis bustled past me, and followed her inside the house. She busied herself around the kitchen while I stood and absorbed our recent conversation. I think we’d both run out of things to say.

After a moment Mrs. Margolis put down a dishtowel and faced me, with just the hint of a smile.

“You go put your shoes on,” she said. “I’ll drive you home.”

Chapter 28

W
HEN MRS. MARGOLIS DROPPED ME OFF, I braced myself for greeting my parents, but found the house was empty. Both surprised and relieved, I took the opportunity to freshen up with a much-needed shower and shave. That helped, but I was still tired from my fitful night in Mrs. Margolis’s guest room. I decided to brave the intricacies of the coffeemaker in the kitchen, and was filling its water reservoir when my father walked in.

“There you are,” he said, smiling. “I hope I didn’t miss your call.”

He laid the car keys on the kitchen counter. “Your mother is playing bridge, and I went out to run a quick errand, and it ended up taking longer than I thought. Sorry.”

I shook my head. “It wasn’t a problem,” I said. “Mrs. Margolis dropped me off. She said it was on her way, anyway.”

“So, how are you feeling?” he asked, his smile fading. “Your mother said you got sick last night. Was it from that restaurant you went to? What’s it called, Sinatra?”

I had forgotten I told him about my plans for the previous night. Now it seemed a lifetime ago, both in time and importance.

“Sonata,” I said. “And no, I only met somebody for a drink there, as it turned out. I ended up eating at Mrs. Margolis’s, and her cooking is excellent.”

“Tell me about it,” Dad said wistfully. “The thing I miss most about living next door to her was her leftovers. That woman could
cook!
”

Feeling somewhat vindicated that my father had been the first to bring up the past, I decided to take the plunge.

“Dad, if you’re not doing anything, I wondered if you could maybe give me a ride.” I fiddled with the coffeemaker, not meeting his gaze.

“Sure, no problem,” he said. “Where did you want to go?”

I turned to face him. “I was thinking maybe the cemetery.”

Dad’s eyebrows furrowed, more an expression of confusion than concern.

“What cemetery? Oak Ridge? Did you want to go to Lincoln’s Tomb or something?”

Meeting his gaze I quietly said, “Wherever Maggie is.”

The only sound was the hiss of the coffeemaker, which I absently hoped was an indication that I’d loaded it correctly.

Dad’s mouth opened, but he didn’t make a sound. Finally he swallowed, then stammered, “You... you mean...”

“Wherever Maggie is buried,” I said. The words felt strange on my lips – I found it difficult to use the name of somebody I loved in the same sentence with a word associated with death. Whether this was grief or some post-stroke neural hypersensitivity, I was keenly aware of how much I didn’t like hearing those words together.

My father was still groping for words. “How... how did you...”

“I found a picture of her.”

“But when?”

“It doesn’t matter.” I didn’t want him angry at Mrs. Margolis, although I’ll admit I had a hard time picturing this man angry about anything. He was, as Mrs. Margolis had observed, perpetually distant and unengaged, though not in a cold way.

My father’s next question surprised me.

“Do you remember her?”

“Yes.” I decided he deserved more than that, so I added, “I didn’t. But now I do. Not everything, but some of it is coming back.”

Dad was looking down now, so I was unable to read his expression. Finally he said, “Do you remember when she died?”

“No. And nothing after that, either.”

Dad nodded. “That’s kind of what I thought.”

I guess Mrs. Margolis wasn’t the only one who had noticed me shutting down. While I was digesting this, Dad dealt me one more blow.

“You don’t remember me, either. Or your mother.”

He said it calmly, with no note of accusation. And I felt I owed him an honest answer.

“No,” I said. I wanted to add something to that, but I was at a loss.

Dad nodded again, the two of us staring at each other in silence. Then the coffeemaker beeped.

“Well,” Dad said, “let’s not tell your mother about that, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Okay,” I said, still thrown by this conversational turn, but somehow touched by my father’s immediate show of concern for my mother’s well-being.

“You make enough coffee for both of us?” He nodded towards the coffeemaker.

“I think so.”

“I’ll get us a couple of travel mugs. We can take it with us out to Oak Ridge. Are you ready to go?”

Dad had gone from airy and unengaged to direct and no-nonsense. But there was no anger or impatience. No sternness. Just a pragmatic acceptance that the cat was out of the bag. And yes, that is the phrase I conjured as I evaluated his behavior, further evidence of my stroke having left my mental dictionary of clichés completely intact while cleaning out all my mathematically-oriented grey matter. I guess that’s the way the cookie crumbles.

It wasn’t far to Oak Ridge, which was Springfield’s main cemetery. We drove for a time in uncomfortable silence, but then I decided to quit skirting the matter.

“How could you not tell me?” I demanded. “I thought you promised there’d be no more surprises.”

Dad kept his eyes on the road as he spoke. “To be fair, Jon, you were talking about surprises that happened while you were in a coma. Maggie’s been gone for... twenty-something years.” Catching himself in a math reference, he said, “It happened back when you were all little kids.”

“I know,” I said, “but you never brought her up. My god, there’s no evidence that she ever even existed. No photos or anything.”

“Oh, there are photos,” he said. “They’re just all put away.”

“Hidden, you mean.” My anger was creeping out now.

“Jonny, they’re in the same drawer with all the other photo albums. We just don’t bring those albums out anymore.”

“But why?”

We came to a stoplight, and Dad took the moment to turn to face me. “Do you have any idea how painful it is to look at the face of a child you lost? A child that’s supposed to
outlive
you, for Christ’s sake?”

I had never heard this normally taciturn man raise his voice before, and the effect was unnerving.

The light turned green, and he shifted his focus back to his driving, his voice more calm. “It’s not like we made a conscious decision to hide her, or wipe out her memory or anything. It’s just something that gradually happened. Little adjustments we made, like taking her photos off the wall. Not hanging her stocking at Christmas. Not because we don’t want to remember her, but because we don’t want to be reminded that she’s gone.”

Dad ran a hand through his hair as he drove. “Christ, it wasn’t like we knew what we were doing. We were in shock, or something like it. Hell, nothing felt normal, not for a year or so. And even then, it wasn’t normal. It was just what we had left. The way we found to get by.” He stole a glance at me. “And we had to find
some
way to get by, because we still had you two kids to raise. And we still had a marriage – what was left of it – to try to keep together.”

Now I was feeling a little sheepish. “I guess I hadn’t thought about how hard it must have been for you.”

“It’s not the sort of thing people think about. Because it’s too terrible to think about. But as a result, when it happens to you, you’re completely unequipped.”

Dad shook his head. “Christ, Jonny. We were groping. Both of us. It got easier over the years, but it’s still there. This stuff doesn’t ever go away. It’s always there. And then your stroke happened. I mean, what the hell was
that
about?”

His last question baffled me until he went on.

“First I lose my daughter. My little girl. And then – then I lose you.” There was a catch in Dad’s voice, something I’d never heard before.

“But I’m back now,” I said, eager to ease this man’s pain.

Dad looked over at me, his voice soft and defeated. “And you don’t even remember me.”

I had no reply for that. We drove on, each sipping our coffee.

Finally Dad broke the silence.

“Your mother... well, the way she handles all this is to talk herself into seeing the bright side of things. You know, like believing that Teddy’s worth a shit.” Dad smiled grimly, and I felt myself responding in kind.

He continued. “Me, I take kind of the opposite approach. I lost my little girl. Then I lost you. After that, I quit kidding myself that I could hang on to anything I cared about. God was going to do whatever the hell he wanted, no matter what I did or how I prayed. And it seemed like he only went after the people I cared about. Your sister. You. Your mother.”

Dad paused to sip his coffee, then sighed. “Jesus – you don’t know how it hurt me to see your mother suffer, first over Maggie, then over you. So I just decided to start playing my cards closer to my vest. I figure maybe if I don’t let on that I care about somebody, God won’t – hell, I don’t know – smite them or whatever.” He took another sip of coffee, then he turned to face me.

“Because I honestly don’t know if I can take any more smiting.”

It was the single longest speech I ever heard the man make. And it made me realize that the way he coped with loss was not unlike my own method – we both shut ourselves down to pain. I just pushed it a little more, apparently: I also shut myself down to love. I guess Father really does know best.

* * * * *

The entrance to Oak Ridge Cemetery opened on to a narrow but well-maintained blacktop road that snaked its way around grassy hills adorned with a variety of tombstones and statues, some old and ornate, others sleek and modern. Dad drove slowly, staring intently from side to side, I presume watching for familiar landmarks.

“How do you find anything around here?” I asked, as we rounded yet another identical turn, surrounded on both sides by the stately trees that shaded the graves.

“The sections are all numbered,” he said, “but I know the way, even without them.”

I looked at him. “Have you been back here since... well, since she was buried?”

“Many times,” Dad said, his eyes focused on the road. “I come here every year. On the anniversary of the day that it happened.”

“Oh.”

“Your mother came once. It was more than she could handle, so now every year I come out here on my own. And she stays home and... well, I don’t know what she does. We don’t really talk about it. It’s just what we do. But I take my time coming home, and I usually find the photo albums on the bed, and a wine glass in the sink.

“Oh,” I said again, feeling even more guilty for having assumed my parents had forgotten about my sister.

Some large structure – are they called mausoleums? – caught my eye as we passed, triggering a memory.

“Did I ever come here with you?”

Dad nodded, slowing the car and pulling to the side of the road at the foot of a hill.

“Once,” he said. “I brought you and Teddy out here. Big mistake.” He shook his head, remembering.

“Teddy started running around the tombstones, yelling about ghosts and skeletons and vampires. It was all I could do not to smack him.”

He looked at me.

“And you – you fell on top of her grave and started clawing at the dirt. I was too busy trying to round up Teddy to notice before you’d made a complete mess of yourself. Your hands were covered with dirt, and you were crying in a way that was just...” He shuddered at the memory. “Jesus, it was an awful thing to see.”

“Sorry,” I said instinctively.

“Ah, hell. So am I,” Dad said, again with that break in his voice that was excruciating to hear. “Anyway, we’re here.”

With that he killed the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt. I sat stupidly frozen in my seat.

Dad looked at me expectantly. “You still want to see her grave?”

At that point I wasn’t sure I did. But I felt I had put him through too much to not demonstrate the proper level of respect.

“Yeah,” I said. “Okay.”

“Okay then,” Dad said, and opened his door.

On foot, we made our way uphill, stepping gingerly around gravestones that rose like buildings on some miniature green-paved street. Many of the graves were meticulously maintained and decorated with fresh flowers. Others stood stark and unadorned, looking lonely and neglected by comparison.

“It’s over there,” Dad said, “by that tree.”

A lone grey marble stone stood in the shade of a large, misshapen tree. On it was engraved “Margaret Elizabeth Hooper – Beloved Daughter,” along with numbers that I assumed were the years of her birth and death.

“I bought this whole section,” Dad said. “There’s room for all of us here, in addition to wives and children for you and Teddy.”

He looked away, his voice cracking. “I just didn’t want her to be surrounded by strangers, you know?”

Regaining his composure, he said, “Some people go ahead and put their own gravestones up in advance, marking where they’ll eventually be buried, you know, so that people know it’s a family plot. The salesman tried to talk me into that, but I just couldn’t put my wife’s name on a tombstone, not at the same time I’m putting my daughter’s name on one. Jesus.”

With that he stopped and turned away, wiping his eyes.

I drew closer to the stone. It stood about knee-high, and without thinking I stooped to touch it. The marble was smooth and cold under my fingertips.