Secrets in the Shadows (25 page)

Days passed without my aunt Zipporah mentioning my mother again. I began to think she had agreed to go see her just to keep me quiet, to satisfy me, and that when asked again, she would come up with some excuse as to why we shouldn't go. I was about to ask when she announced to Tyler that she and I were taking the following day off.

She looked at me and winked.
"No, we're going to visit someone."
I was surprised she hadn't discussed it with him

beforehand, but this was truly going to be our secret, our own special experience. Whether or not we would ever tell anyone, especially my grandparents, was something we would decide later. So many years had passed that neither of us could predict how this would turn out. We didn't know if it would be a blessing or a terrible blunder.

For Aunt Zipporah, it was truly the opening of old wounds. For me, it was risking some terrible disappointment that would or could reinforce all the terrible things I had thought about myself. Both of us could turn in a deep depression and do great damage to not only ourselves but also the people we loved.

I couldn't imagine being more nervous about anything than I was about visiting and finally meeting my own mother. in the morning I changed three times, unable to decide what I should wear. Did I want to look as pretty as I could, as old as I could? Should I wear a lot of makeup, no makeup? Should I look at the pictures of my mother Aunt Zipporah had and try to highlight the resemblances?

And when we got there and I was face-to-face with her, should I come right out and tell her who I am? Would Zipporah? Would that be psychologically damaging to my mother and cause new problems? What if that drove her to try suicide, too?
That's all I need,
I thought,
another reason to believe I can bring only bad things to People.

I finally settled on a blue skirt and light blue blouse. I styled my hair the way Rachel had shown me and put on just a little lipstick. Aunt Zipporah wore one of her newer skirt and blouse outfits, too, and brushed and pinned her hair. She wore no hair bands or any of her Indian jewelry either. The two of us were as simply dressed as we could be.

"Ready?" she asked me when I walked out of my room. She was waiting in the kitchen, sipping some coffee and looking out the window.

I nodded. "Do I look all right?"
"You're fine," she said. She put her coffee cup in the sink and smiled at me. Then I followed her out to her car.
It was a perfect day for a drive--sunny, with only a few scattered clouds looking permanently pasted against a deep turquoise sky. The brightness brought out the vibrant mint green in the leaves, giving the forest and the tall grass a richness that suggested nature was bursting with new life. Even the shadows looked intimidated and retreated.
We drove in silence for a while. The trip would take us the better part of two hours.
"I don't want you to think I've never inquired about your mother over the past dozen or so years. 1 was very interested in her condition right after . . . after it all was settled, but I didn't want to get too involved because I didn't want to upset my parents any more than they had been."
"I understand," I said.
She looked at me. "Do you? I felt so terribly guilty about everything. I knew I had luirt my parents deeply, especially iny,. father, because he had defended me when the police were being very inquisitive. After the truth came out, I had done great damage to his legal reputation. Your grandfather was, and is, too sweet a man to have made me feel any more terrible than I did, but all I had to do was look at his face and I could see the pain I had caused, both Jesse and I had caused. Your mother's name was almost a curse word after that. To show any interest in her was truly like throwing salt on a wound, so I found new friends as quickly as I could, especially at college, and tried to keep myself involved in everything I could, any activity I could.
"It got so I didn't enjoy returning home because I would start thinking about Karen, about your mother, and remember every detail about that time with her hidden in the attic. I would even break out in cold sweats thinking about it.
"Sometimes, I wonder if I didn't get married quickly just so I could avoid going home. Don't ever suggest such a thing to Tyler," she added quickly. "I mean I do' love him very much and he's brought me so much joy, but there are lots of reasons, deep reasons sometimes why we do serious things in our lives. Nothing is simply black and white. But," she said, smiling at me, "I don't think I have to tell you that"
I. just nodded. I didn't want her to stop talking. First, it was soothing for me, and second, she was telling me more about a time that had been forbidden to me.
"Anyway, from time to time, I did try to learn how your mother was doing. Not being a member of her immediate family or anything it was difficult, but one day, years later . . . in fact, I was already married and living here . . . your grandfather told me about her. Unbeknown to me or even to Jesse, he had periodically inquired about her discreetly. Your grandmother never knew about it and doesn't to this day, I believe. I mean, she knew some of the basic things we all did in the beginning, but as far as I know, she didn't make inquiries even though, being a nurse, she might have had an easier time finding out things than any of the rest of us."
"It was always hard to get Grandma to tell me anything about her, and it still is."
"Yes, I know. I didn't know until years later that part of what my father agreed to do when he and your grandmother took you in to live with them was to pay for your mother's stay at the clinic and treatment there. This better place was part of the arrangement your grandfather made with the district attorney in a plea bargain. Karen would have had a much harder time of it if your grandfather didn't take on her case.
"I've never been there, of course, but from what know, it's a very nice place and doesn't look like any insane asylum or anything. The patients are people from well-to-do families, some suffering from addictions and others from different psychological conditions, so your grandfather was a great deal more involved in it all than people knew, than even I knew at the time."
"1 always suspected something like that," I said.
"From what I know," she continued after a short pause, "Karen hasn't made much progress. She is stuck in time and resists all efforts to cause her to accept where she is and what's happened to her. She's kind of like Baby Jane. You ever see that old movie with Bette Davis and Joan Crawford?"
"I think so," I said.
"Now, you wouldn't just think so if you had seen it," she said, smiling. "Bette Davis is sort of stuck in time when she was a child star.
"I guess in a real sense your mother was a child star. When I think about us back there, about her, I realize she was always performing in one sense or another. I told you how we would make up our own world in the attic and how we did similar things in the village and in school. She rarely let go of that. She rarely walked off the stage, and when she did, when she was up in our attic hiding, she remained in the wings and pushed me out on the stage to be her surrogate so she could live vicariously through me while she was in hiding.
"She's still in hiding, Alice. In a sense, she's never left the attic."
"Maybe that's why she doesn't remember me, won't remember me," I said.
Aunt Zipporah tilted her head.
"What do you mean? How does that follow?"
"If she remembers me, remembers having me, remembers all that came afterward, she leaves the attic," I said.
Aunt Zipporah nodded.
"Yes, maybe. You always surprise me, Alice. Just like she always did," she added, and we rode on for a long while, swimming in the pools of our own thoughts, focused and concentrating like two devoted athletes determined to cross the English Channel.
I didn't know we were approaching the psychiatric hospital when it came into view. Aunt Zipporah had the address and directions, so she knew we were just about there, but she was right when she described it as anything but an insane asylum. The main building was located on what looked like prime sprawling acres in a scenic region of upstate New York. The property was well maintained, and we could see a number of grounds people at work on the lawns, bushes and gardens.
The house itself was a Tudor-style old mansion with brick wall cladding and two large, elaborate chimneys. As we turned into the driveway, I could see small tabs of cut stone embedded in the surrounding brickwork. The doorway was arched.
"Impressive," I said.
"Some very wealthy person donated this house to be a psychiatric clinic," Aunt Zipporah explained, "because of her own son's mental illness."
"How did Grandpa find it?"
"Like always . . . he knew someone who knew someone. That's about the extent of my knowledge about it," she said. "I called and made our
appointment with a Dr. Simons, a woman who is also the chief administrator."
"I wonder if Darlene Pearson ever visited," I said.
"I don't know. Dr. Simons did imply that no one had visited your mother for some time. However, I have this suspicion your grandfather finds a way to come here from time to time. He cares about the mother of his grandchild."
Was this the time to tell her about my father's visit? I wondered. He did confess it in private to me, and it was his secret.
What difference would it make for Aunt Zipporah if she knew? I
thought, and besides, he did say that maybe keeping it a secret didn't matter anymore.
"My father was here once," I said.
"What? When?"
"Not long after it all happened. He told me so during his last visit."
She pulled into a parking space and looked to me before turning off the engine.
"He never told me that."
"He never told anyone. He said she acted as if nothing had happened and she told him she was here more to do the doctors a favor. He said she looked very good, but he also told me she didn't mention having given birth to me. In the end, he said the visit made him feel better, but he never came back."
"I'm glad he did that," Aunt Zipporah said. "I thought it was selfish and even cowardly of him not to care about her anymore. Thanks for telling me. Next time I see him, I'll punch him in the nose."
She shut off the engine.
"Here we go," she said, and we got out.
Inside, the clinic looked no more like a psychiatric hospital than it did from the outside. The lobby was small, but it had a set of matching, comfortable- looking sofas, chairs and tables with lamps, vases filled with flowers, and framed pictures with pleasant rural scenery on the faux painted coffee white walls, which gave the room warmth. Limestone was cut into the light brown carpet.
A tall, stout woman in a blue one-piece dress was dusting and polishing. She glanced at us but continued her work, her face so unmoving that it looked like a mask. I wondered if she was on the staff or one of the patients.
Seconds later, an elegant-looking woman who looked to be in her mid to late forties, came out of a doorway almost immediately, suggesting that some sort of bell or buzzer had gone off to indicate someone had entered the building. She crossed to us quickly, smiling. Her short reddish hair had a shade of amber running through it as well. She was a little taller than I was and wore a dark-blue skirt suit with a white blouse.
"Zipporah James?" she asked, her hand extended. "Yes."
"Well, you're right on time. I'm Dr. Simons," she said and looked at me.
"This is Alice Stein," Aunt Zipporah said. Dr. Simons looked at me and nodded.
"I do see the resemblances," she said, which started my heart pounding. "Karen is outside," she continued, turning back to Aunt Zipporah. "She paints, you know, and she enjoys doing it outside."
"Paints?" I asked quickly.
"We encourage our patients to get involved in some form of art, creation, or another. Karen's gone beyond what we normally expect, and she's become quite good. I actually had someone interested in buying one of her paintings, a relative of one of my other patients, but Karen wouldn't part with any of her work. She nearly cried at the mere suggestion."
Aunt Zipporah smiled at me.
"That sounds familiar," she told Dr. Simons.
"I have to get back to start a session very soon, but I'll be glad to see you before you leave. You can take lunch with Karen if you like." She glanced at her watch. "We serve in about an hour."
"Thank you," Aunt Zipporah said.
"Let me show you the way. We'll go through the coiTidor to a side door."
She started back toward the door from which she had emerged, and we followed.
"How many patients do you have here?" Aunt Zipporah asked.
"It varies, of course, but right now we have twelve. However, none has been here as long as Karen has," she added, pausing at the door. "But I take it you know that."
"Yes, of course," Aunt Zipporah said.
"She's a delightful young woman. I don't think there's a mean bone in her body." She leaned toward us. "Can't say that for everyone here."
"Is there anything we should or shouldn't say?" Aunt Zipporah asked.
"Well, I would prefer you didn't discuss the events that brought Karen here."
"There's no chance she would bring any of that up?" Aunt Zipporah asked, finally exhibiting some nervousness of her own.
"Nothing is for certain, but that's highly unlikely. As I explained on the phone, Karen is like someone stuck in time, someone for whom the clock has stopped, if you will, and it stopped before the tragic events occurred. She lives in her own reality when it comes to all that. You'll see for yourself. Don't press her or contradict her. Of course, I'll be very interested in the effect your visit has on her. We might not see that effect for a while after you leave, maybe days later, if at all."
We followed her through the doorway but walked only a little ways through the corridor before she took us out a door and onto the grounds. A few hundred yards or so ahead there were two huge weeping willow trees, and between them, in the shade, we could see my mother seated before an easel, painting. She had her back to us.
"I'll send someone out to fetch you all for lunch, probably my head nurse, Lila Mills," she said as we walked toward the trees.
"It's very peaceful here, beautiful actually," Aunt Zipporah said.
"Yes. Meditative, conducive to mental health," she added with a playful smile. She winked at me, and then she paused and we stopped.
"Something wrong?" Aunt Zipporah asked.
"No. I just wanted to direct myself to you, Alice, for a moment. It will be difficult for you to understand, but she might not pay much attention to you. Whatever does block her memory might block her awareness of you. Don't get upset if she ignores you entirely."
"Okay," I said, and then after a moment I added, perhaps too harshly, "she's ignored me all my life. Why should I get upset now?"
Dr. Simons didn't smile. She nodded and continued walking.
"Karen, dear," she called as we drew closer. "You have visitors."
My mother turned very slowly and looked our way. It was truly as if her mind, which had stopped time for her, had been able to stop aging for her as well. She looked more like my sister than my mother. I thought she could be stepping out of one of the pictures I had seen of her and Aunt Zipporah. She held her paintbrush up and then put it down and rose, smiling.
"Zipporah? Is that you?" she asked.
Dr. Simons smiled at us.
"You'll be fine," she said. "Enjoy your visit."
She touched my arm as she started back toward the building and left the three of us alone.
"Yes, Karen. How are you?" Aunt Zipporah asked her.
"I'm great. You look tired though, Zipporah. Have you been up all night studying for some stupid test?"
She turned to me, holding her smile. She ran her gaze over my face and then turned back to Karen.
"You've got to tell me everything that's been going on. Don't leave out a detail, no matter how small it might seem or insignificant. You never saw the importance of the little things like I did anyway. Oh, I have no more chairs here. Do you mind if we all sat on the grass? It's beautiful grass. They take such care of the property, don't you think? Well?" she followed before Aunt Zipporah could respond. My mother's burst of verbal energy was too
overwhelming. We both simply stared at her.
I recalled a conversation I once had with my science teacher last year. We were talking about what was known about memory, and he spoke about dogs and how their owners could leave them for days, even years, and when they returned to them, how the dog would behave as if they had been gone only minutes. "They don't have the sense of time passage we have," he said.
Was that what my mother had lost, her sense of time passage? Couldn't she see how much older Aunt Zipporah looked? How could she think she had just come from school? And what about me? Where did that put me?