Secret for a Song (23 page)

I
’m
not sure how long I sat there, with my back against my bed. Drew leaving had
caused time to pause. He was the conductor, and he wasn’t there to tell time it
could resume again.

At
some point I turned on the playlist he’d made for me, because it was the next
best thing to having him there. I wasn’t ready to lose him forever; maybe his
music could be a bridge from now to that point. I closed my eyes and focused on
the notes, until it felt like I was suspended in a ball made of nothing but
sound, swirling around and above and beneath and even in me. Until I came to be
made of it, came to be nothing but a collection of musical notes.

I
felt somebody in my room and opened my eyes, which felt curiously swollen. I
put my hand up to them and felt tears, which was bizarre, because I hadn’t even
realized I was still crying. What time was it? The person next to me moved. I
followed the silk pants-clad legs up to a thin torso and then to my mother’s
face, looking down at me.

“May
I turn the music down?” she asked, gesturing to my computer.

I
nodded.

When
she could talk without having to shout, she sat at the foot of my bed, her legs
hanging to my left. We were almost, but not quite, touching.

“I’m
sorry about Drew,” she said. “He looked fairly upset when he left.”

Fairly
upset.
Two words to
sum up the destruction of trust, of a relationship, of everything I’d had to
look forward to every day. I said nothing.

“I’m
sorry, too, for sending your grandmother away.”

My
breathing quickened and then slowed down. It was somehow startling and soothing
to hear her say this now, after all these years, out of nowhere. I nodded once,
to show I was listening.

“There
are some things you could be told, I suppose, now that you’re old enough to
process them.” She took a breath. “Your grandfather, my father, sexually abused
me from the time I was six until I turned twelve. I suppose, at that point, I
got too old for him.” A mirthless laugh. My gut churned; I was sure I was going
to be sick. But she continued. “I hated living in that house with them, in
England. Even now, when I think back to it, it feels like my entire childhood
was nothing but a series of gray days where I sat by the window waiting for a
chance to escape. That chance was your father. It’s why I fled with him to the
States when I was twenty. We got married because I got pregnant with you—the
pregnancy was calculated, on my part. I can admit that now, to myself and to
you. It was one of the best mistakes I made, though I’m only beginning to
realize that.”

I
stared at her, stunned. Then, pulling myself to my feet, sat on the bed next to
her. I smelled tea rose perfume, but though I strained for it, I didn’t smell
alcohol. “Did Grandma know about the abuse?”

She
stared straight ahead, the lines at the corners of her eyes deepening. “I told
her. I finally plucked up the courage when I was nine, and told her what I’d
been enduring nearly every night for three years by then. And she didn’t
believe me.”

I
couldn’t imagine being sexually violated by my own father. Having Dr. Daniels
be a pervert and come on to me was sickening enough, disgusting enough. Perhaps,
now that my mother was divulging something so very difficult, I should’ve
hugged her. Or patted her shoulder, or held her hand. Any of a dozen things to
show I was sorry that had happened to her.

But
I didn’t have it in me. I didn’t. So I just listened.

“My
father died suddenly when I was about seven months pregnant with you. I didn’t
go to his funeral, but I went to help my mother pack up and sell the house. We
never spoke of what he’d done, not since that day when I was nine. So when she
asked if she could come take care of you, I agreed. I was terrified of having a
child of my own when the reality of being pregnant sank in. I was even more
terrified when I found out you were a girl. I had terrible visions of your
father doing to you what my father did to me. I thought I’d kill him if he ever
tried it, but you never know. Maybe I’d be afraid of being homeless, out on the
street. I hadn’t finished my college education. I couldn’t support a child.
Anyway, when she offered, I said yes, mostly because I was used to saying yes
to her. So she came to live with us.”

I
tried not to think of my life if my father had turned out to be a pedophile
instead of just absent. “So why’d you send her away?”

My
mother sighed, a deep, deep sound, which seemed to come from the center of her
soul rather than from her lungs. “When you turned six, I began to have
nightmares. About people hurting you, hurting me, or hurting the both of us
together. They became so bad I couldn’t sleep. Your father convinced me to go
see a counselor.” She shook her head, and a strand escaped from her perfect
chignon. She appeared to not notice. “The counselor thought I was expressing my
fears about what might happen to you, that I was projecting what had happened
to me at your age. The abuse was beginning to resurface in my mind. I’d worked
so hard to bury it, Saylor. I’d married your father to get away. I’d got
pregnant so he’d have to stay with me. And then, when I realized I didn’t love
him and I wasn’t particularly suited to being a mother, I started drinking. I
thought I was a master at keeping the demons at bay, but I wasn’t. I was a
failure.”

She
blinked rapidly. I thought she might cry, but her eyes were dry. “I didn’t want
to work hard in therapy, like the counselor suggested. I decided I’d done
enough of that. So I told your father we had to send your grandmother away. He
didn’t know about my past—still doesn’t—but he agreed. He and my parents had
never much liked one another. They always blamed him for stealing me away.”

I
felt the stirring of anger and hurt in my chest, just like I always did when
the subject of my grandmother being sent away came up. “Didn’t you...didn’t you
even
think
how it would affect me? After she’d been my constant
companion for six years?”

My
mother looked down at her pants, began to iron out a small wrinkle with her
thumbnail. “Of course I thought about it. I agonized about it. But when it
happened—we got into a big fight while you were at school one day. I wanted to
give her time to tell you, but she was spiteful. She decided to punish me by
punishing you. She was gone before you came home from school that afternoon.”

“Yeah.
I remember.” I’d come home and headed to the kitchen to look for my
grandmother. She was usually in there, setting aside an after-school snack for
me. But the kitchen was empty. My mother was at the breakfast nook, her head in
one hand, staring into her tea cup that was probably full of liquor. I blew
right past her and went upstairs to look in my grandmother’s room.

It
was empty, too, the nightstand drawers open, as was one door of the armoire.
Her saris and cardigans and shoes were gone. The bed was neatly made; my mother
hadn’t gotten around to stripping it yet. The only indication that my
grandmother had ever been there was a single tortoiseshell hair clip. I used to
wonder if that had been her signal to me, a sort of goodbye in the only way she
could say goodbye without being intercepted by my mother. But now I wondered if
that was true. Maybe she’d just forgotten it and left it behind. Or maybe she’d
decided she didn’t want it after all.

“Why
are you telling me this now?” I asked. I tried to calm the anger. “Why now,
after all these years, when I’ve asked a thousand times before?”

“I’m
making some changes,” my mother said, looking right into my eyes. The brown
that usually vacillated between hard, unyielding stone or frosty, smooth glass
was now warm, more alive than I’d ever seen her eyes look. “I’m learning a lot
in my state-mandated alcohol counseling sessions. I’ve made mistakes, Saylor,
I’m not denying that. But no one says you have to wallow in your mistakes.” We
stared at each other for a long minute. “And if we’re being honest, we have to
look at every truth. I think your Munchausen has been just as destructive to
our lives as my drinking. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I
was instantly angry, my hackles raised, my back up like a feral cat about to
start a fight.  But then the fight went out of me, like air out of a balloon.
What was the point in lying? Hadn’t I lost just about everything there was to
lose to my disease? My voice came out a whisper, the weight of it too much to
bear. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve made life so difficult.”

My
mother didn’t rush to reassure me, and for that I was thankful. When I fell
silent, she said, “You can turn your life around at any point you want.
Tomorrow’s going to come, whether you decide to change or not. It’s up to you
whether you want tomorrow to be the first day of your fresh start.”

“Dad
wants to send me to North Carolina.” The words hurtled out of my mouth before I
knew I was thinking them. I wasn’t sure what I expected from my mother—indignation?
Anger? For her to tell me she’d talk to my dad, make him see that wasn’t the
way to go?

But
she shrugged, something I’d never seen her do. A shrug, to me, belonged to
someone who was okay with not knowing, who was okay, even, with ambiguity. My
mother, queen of controlling everything, didn’t shrug. Not usually.

“Maybe
that’s not such a bad idea,” she said. “Maybe you could get a fresh beginning
there. Leave behind all the baggage. Make some new friends.” She gestured to
the syringe Drew had left behind on the desk chair. “Get some new hobbies.”

I
lay down, staring up at the ceiling. “Everything’s happening so fast,” I
muttered. “Everything’s changing.”

“Well,”
my mother said. “Maybe it’s about time.”

O
ne
month later

Dr. Stone sat
back, clasped his hands in his lap and nodded. “Your mother sounds like she’s
coping remarkably well, all things considered.”

The
great thing about shrinks was that they never took anything personally. After I
told Dr. Stone what had happened, what I’d done and how I’d avoided his phone
calls, he hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t looked disappointed in me, or angry.
We’d talked it through. I’d tried to understand my motivations, why I lied. Why
I felt like there was nothing to love about me if I wasn’t sick. I still didn’t
understand it, of course. That would probably take years. But I’d begun the
process. Unlike all the other times I’d been in therapy, this time I really
wanted to learn. I wanted to change.

I
played with the fringe of the pillow I was hugging. “Yeah, she is. She’s doing
really well with her alcohol counseling stuff. She’s different now, like, more
sure of herself or something. It’s hard to explain.” I shrugged. “But it’s
good. She convinced me to go to some Al-Anon meetings. They help.”

“They
can be extremely helpful when you’re trying to understand an alcoholic parent’s
motives. I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with that.” With anyone else, I might’ve
suspected a bullshit motive behind that statement. But I knew Dr. Stone was one
hundred percent genuine.

I
shrugged again, my face flaming. I was still coming to grips with the whole
“survivor of an alcoholic parent” thing. As if many of us didn’t survive. I
hadn’t actually thought of it like that before. Maybe many of us don’t.

“And
how are you coping with not being able to see Drew any longer?”

His
name was like a pebble stuck in my diaphragm. Every time someone said it, the
pebble buried into my flesh a little deeper, making it harder to breathe for
the pain. “I’m doing a little better. It still hurts, but I think this will
help.” I pointed to the envelope beside me.

Dr.
Stone nodded, a kind smile on his face. “Consequences. They’re painful, but in the
long term they teach us a lot. And you’re trying to make amends with that, in a
way. That’s good. It’s forward motion.”

I
smoothed my hand over the envelope, felt its sharp edge. Inside was a USB
stick, and on that USB stick was an app I’d had a program developer write for
me. It had cost ten thousand dollars to hire his team to do it because it was
such a specialized, customized thing. My parents hadn’t got the bill yet, but
luckily, I’d be far away in North Carolina when it came. And by then, I had a feeling
my father would have other things on his mind—like all the mistresses he
juggled on his business trips. That was part of the reason my parents were
separating. My mother had known for years, but only now did she feel like she
deserved better.

The
app was something Drew could use when the FA began to really catch up with him.
He could control his phone by voice, so he didn’t have to use his hands for
things like texting or listening to music. I’d even had them add in a cutting
edge voice-commanded music-mixing component, so he could create playlists and
even record his own songs or mixes on it. It was like a small, traveling music
studio he could take with him wherever he went. There were other features like
calling 911 on command. I’d had them research the best disability and music
apps on the market and combine them into something I hoped Drew would be able
to use. My plan was to drop it off in his mailbox at his apartment.

I
felt this desperate urge to have Drew accept this, as if it were a talisman of
sorts. In the past month, Pierce had passed away—I’d seen his obituary in the
paper. It made me think of the TIDD group, of Pierce saying it was a game of
Russian roulette. Who would be next? It couldn’t be Drew. It couldn’t.

Dr.
Stone’s deep voice punched into my reverie. “Are you all packed for North
Carolina?”

“Yes.
I leave tomorrow at six, bright and early. My mother wanted to drive me, but I
told her I’d rather do it myself. We’ve been spending so much time together, I
felt it would be good for me to just get out and clear my head on that long
trip.” It was something I was really looking forward to.

“It
sounds like you’re all set.” Dr. Stone glanced at his watch. “And we’re out of
time.”

We
both stood in tandem, and I reached out my hand awkwardly. He took it in both
of his. “You know you can call me anytime, with anything you need,” he said. “I
really mean that.”

I
nodded. “I know you do,” I replied. “Thank you. But I really feel like I’m
going to be okay.”

On
my way out, my eye fell on the picture of the Puerto Rican man I’d seen so long
ago. “Who is that?” I asked. “He looks so incredibly happy.”

“That
was my partner, Duncan,” Dr. Stone replied. His eyes were on the photograph, a
small smile on his face. “He died of AIDS three years ago.”

Guilt
and self-loathing pulled at my insides. “How do you do it? How do you sit there
and talk to someone like me when I made fools out of all those sick people?”

He
met my eyes, still smiling. “Because I believe everyone deserves a second
chance, Saylor. I think you’ll do something fantastic with your life because of
this mistake you’ve made. Wait and see.”

On
impulse, I gave him a hug. “Thank you.”

Dinner
at my house that night was a muted affair. It was just Mum and me, Dad’s place
at the table bare. We were still using the nice napkins and silverware, as if
Mum thought we finally deserved to.

I’d
walked in on my parents fighting not long after Mum and I had had our heart to
heart. Maybe “fighting” is too strong, too passionate a word. They were
talking, in quiet voices, with all the emotion of a couple of strangers
discussing the weather.

Mum
had said, “I think it’s time for me to move on.”

“Hmm.”
Dad had sat there with a drink in his hand, twirling his glass round and round.
“Are you sure?”

“We
both know this has been a farce for years now, David. Let’s try to do something
meaningful with the rest of our lives.”

And
that was that. I’d tiptoed back out, and they hadn’t even noticed my fleeting presence
or the space I left behind.

My
last night in New Hampshire, Mum and I sat at the dinner table and talked about
North Carolina, about college, about spring turning to summer. 

By
mutual agreement, we’d decided that I’d head out the next day without saying
goodbye. Mum was letting me take the BMW—she was getting a new car in the
divorce settlement—and it was already packed, ready and gassed up in the
driveway. We lingered for a long time over our plates, even after the food had
gone cold and our waters were tepid.

I
stood up and went around the table. Mum stood and hugged me.

“I
love you,” she said. “I’m sorry I haven’t said that nearly enough in the past.”

I
blinked away the tears. “Hey,” I said, in a not-so-smooth attempt to change the
subject. “What happened to the dollhouse you were working on?” Her crafting nook
was empty, the surface of the table clear of materials for the first time in
years. I noticed some scars and stains on the wood that would probably never
come out.

“I’ve
decided to give up on that hobby,” Mum replied. “I’m going to spend more time in
the present, in real life.”

I
squeezed her hand. “That sounds like a really smart idea.”