Silent Bird (27 page)

Within a few days I learned there were a lot of things Grandmother Russell didn’t like. The house was big and pretty, but there were too many rules. We ate dinner in a sparkling dining room, the three of us bunched at one end of a long black table so clean that I made smudges on it with my elbows.

“
Decent people don’t eat with their elbows on the table,” Grandmother scolded.

I was
n’t supposed to talk unless I was asked something first. I had to scoop peas onto a fork instead of using a spoon. Those were the rules I hated most. I was used to eating in the kitchen with the radio on, the phone ringing, and a cold carton of milk left on the table so that I could pour myself more all by myself.

It was hard to remember all these
new rules.

I also hated talking to Grandmother’s belly and being reminded to speak up and look up and say
“Ma’am” at the ends of my sentences. Sometimes, when Grandmother wasn’t looking, I ran the palms of my hands up and down the dining room table.

There, now I have ten prints,
I would think, and wait for my punishment.

Slowly, as the days passed, I realized I would never get to ride a bike around the island.
Grandmother Russell wouldn’t let me walk down to the ocean, either.

“
You’ll just make a mess of yourself. It’s dangerous. You’ll fall in and drown, and that’s the last thing we need,” she said.

Daddy stayed home too.
He spent most of his time in the little room at his work table, coming out only to pour more honey-colored liquid into a glass. More cough medicine, though he never seemed to have a cough.

I hated that medicine.

S
ome things were good there on the island. Like going to bed.

Back home before the divorce, Mama used to read
me a story every night. After that, Daddy would come in to kiss me and tuck me in. Now Daddy put me to bed and tucked the blankets around my shoulders. Sometimes he rubbed my back until I fell asleep.

One night he asked,
“Are you sad, love?”

I clutched Rabbit under the blankets and said,
“No, Daddy.”

“
You’re not sorry you came with me?”

“I miss Mama.
Don’t you?”

He did
n’t answer. He never answered any of my questions about Mama or about calling Mama, so I stopped asking. I thought it was important to be good, so good that everybody in this house would be happy. Then maybe we could call Mama and make her happy too.

One night I heard a lot of shouting downstairs. Lying in bed, I clutched Rabbit tighter and awoke some time later to Daddy sliding under the covers
next to me. He had his pajama bottoms on but no top, and his skin felt hot.

“
How’s my princess?” he whispered. “Believe me: your tired old dad could use a nice long hug.”

He smelled
really bad this time. But I rolled over and hugged him and felt sad when he abruptly got up and left the room. He didn’t even say goodnight.

The next night he came back
and we hugged in my bed again. And the next, and the night after that.

One night
I lay awake for a long time waiting for the door to open. It didn’t. But after I fell asleep, I felt Daddy’s body move next to mine, felt his hot skin and furry legs and smelled his breath.

He was drinking medicine again…

“I’d like to stay with you until morning, sweetheart. Would you like that?” he asked.

I snuggled against him, nodding
hard: up, down, up, down.

The ocean sounded so loud crashing below my window. If it was the same ocean as the one back home,
maybe Mama would come and find us and we could be one family on Long Island again. I wanted to ask this in my prayers but wasn’t sure how. Grandmother Russell said Jesus Christ was God, and my real Grandma back home said He wasn’t.

I decided to be nice, so He could be nicer
back.

“
Please, Sir, let Mama come find me so we can all be together and I can see Grandpa before he goes to the heart doctor. And tell Mama I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye when I left. I think Daddy is sorry too. And please make Grandmother Russell let me make noise when I play. Thank you. Amen.”

“Oh lo
ve,” Daddy sighed, stroking my hair in the darkness. He smelled so stinky, and his voice was blurry and hard to understand. “I never meant to harm you. You’re the most important person in the world to me. That’s why I wanted you to here, in my home. But this isn’t working, is it?”

I didn’t say anything. Was Jesus answering my prayer already?

“I know my mother is difficult. Believe me, I know.”

To my shock,
he
began to cry—my big Daddy! Shoulders shaking, he covered his eyes with his hand. He didn’t make a sound, but I could see the tears leaking out the sides.

I wanted to tell him we should
just get back on the boat and head for home. Instead I waited patiently in the darkness as if I had always been doing this, as if I had always known how to witness grief.

I waited with a patience that
would change me for the next twenty years.

When his shoulders stopped shaking, Daddy rose onto one elbow. He
smiled at me sadly, with swollen eyes. “You’re so important to me, Pilar. So sweet. I love you so much.”

When he
leaned down and brushed his lips gently against mine, I kissed him back hard.

I
kissed
him
. He didn’t force me.

I did that on my own.

“I love you too, Daddy.”

He enfolded me in his arms, and I settled comfortably against his stomach to doze.

I awoke to
more kisses.

Somehow my nightgown had gotten all bunched up under my arms. I was lying on my side facing Daddy. O
ne of his big hands was caressing my bare stomach. His other hand ran lightly down my back, cupping my bottom the way Mama used to when she rubbed me with powder or lotion.

Then th
at hand moved again, slowly, lightly, inching its way to a place Mama called “private parts.”

I held my breath.
I reached down to push the hand away—then stopped.

Daddy
’s happier now
, I realized. He was breathing hard, but not crying.

I hoped with all my heart that he would never cry again.

After a while he gave a great shudder and clutched me to him so hard I couldn’t breathe. Then he let out a long gasp and turned away.

I lay very still, listening to the wind outside, and the grumble of the sea. After a while I pulled the hem of my nightgown down where it belonged. I pinned one hand between my legs.

“Pilar...” Daddy said. “This has to be just between us, okay, sweetheart?”

“What does, Daddy?”

“Me coming to visit you tonight. It’s our little secret.”

“Okay,” I said
sleepily.

I had no one to tell secrets to anyway. Not until we
got back home to Mama. It was sad not having her or my toys or any friends here on this cold, pretty island without cars or highways.

But I did have
Daddy and Rabbit.

And Rabbits knew how to keep their mouths shut, so maybe they were the best friends of all.

Now that I’ve said it, please let it go
, I begged Jeannot silently.

Don’t ask me anything…and please, please don’t say you don’t understand why I did what I did. Don’t ask me to justify it.

Because there are some things that can never be fully explained even by Freud himself. Like just plain missing your father, no matter what he is or was, just ’cause you like the sound of his voice and don’t hear it enough.

Or remembering bits and pieces of good times, like when I learned ride a bike without training wheels.
Because I learned with
him
while he held on to me and gave instructions like a proper father. Or when I used to ride around on his nice, wide shoulders, grabbing at branches over my head as we hollered and laughed with one voice.

Jeannot didn’t ask me anything, as it turned out. He just stared into my eyes.

“I’m telling you this because I love you,” I said. “I’m telling you so you’ll understand that I know when someone is not to be trusted, even if that person is…family.”

Jea
nnot seemed to be gathering his thoughts; reining in his galloping feelings. I didn’t blame him. No, I didn’t blame him one bit.

I kept talking. “But that’s not all of it. That’s not the only reason I don’t want you to move back here.
I hate to see you give up your dreams. Your music. And…I don’t want to live here. I want us to stay where we are.”

He
half-raised his hands. “I guess I am not really surprised. About
your
family. I did have a bad feeling. But Pilar”—spreading his hands again, helplessly—“can’t you see what is happening here?”

“
What do you mean?”

“Y
ou don’t trust men. That is what you just told me. After what your father did to you, why should you? I mean: my God. No wonder you are so sensitive! But you are finding evil everywhere, even in
my
family!”

“No.” I grabbed his arm. I
t was very hot, like my father’s chest used to be in that little bed on that little foggy island. “That’s
not
it. Your father—”

“Your panic attacks, your
sleepwalking. Maybe even your nausea! Now I see why you won’t take the pregnancy test; why you refuse to face things.
Chérie
, you agreed before that you need help, yes?” he said patiently, too patiently. “A psychologist. You agreed to go with me. Don’t you see, this is not about
my
family? It is about
your
family. And why you came to France in the first place, yes? Because you need help and could not get it at home!”

I shook my head.
NoNoNoNo
.

“
Please, please, get some help. And for now let’s be reasonable and go back to my uncle’s house and spend the day with my family. Later we will find a solution, together. You and I. Because I love you so much,
Chérie
. More than the sun and the moon.”

“
No
. I know what you’re thinking but this is
not
about my family! I mean: the part about my father is. But not…the other!”

“
You are not being rational right now. You know you are rational.”

“
That’s not true,” I said softly, though part of me wondered: Is it?
Is it true?
Am I nuttier than a Jewish fruitcake?

The Evil Eye.
Seeing evil everywhere…

I gras
ped one of Jeannot’s hands, brought it to my lips and kissed it. Then I released him. “I’m sorry you don’t believe me. But I can’t stay. You do what you must…and I will too.” I hesitated. “It is, I believe, time for me to go home.”

“
Home? Which home?”

“
My
home.”

“You mean…America? N
o, Pilar, that is not”—his voice faded off. His mouth hung open.

“
To talk to my mother, at the very least,” I said. “Because even though you’re wrong about your family, you are right in one way: this is about my family too.”

“
Chérie
, please. Wait. Stay here, let’s talk about this.”

Believe me, I was tempted. M
aybe I would have waited. Maybe I would have weakened and capitulated and stayed with him right then and there if I hadn’t felt a tug in my lower belly, followed by a rush of warmth inside my pants.

Blood.

I was having a miscarriage.

The night before I left for college, I almost forgave my father.

He'd visited me in the tiny bedroom I'd called my own since Mom and I moved from the big house in the Hamptons after the divorce.
That room had been my sanctuary for fifteen years. It hadn’t changed much since kindergarten: yellow flowered wallpaper, lacy curtains; my stuffed animals lining the floor against the wall. The only alien presence was the row of suitcases open like hungry clams on the bed.

Except they were
n’t empty. They overflowed with clothing, books, notebooks, sketchpads, keepsakes. Proof that I would be gone for most of the year in case my mother needed evidence of that reality when she came in from the kitchen where she happened to be cleaning the oven at nine o'clock at night. Proof for me, too.

“
You’re not going so far as all that. You can drive home every weekend if you prefer,” said the familiar deep voice behind me, its urbane British accent roughened by cigarettes.

I spun, startled by the intrusion—and automatically tugged
down the hem of my oversized T-shirt.

My father stood in
the doorway. He made it look too small for a big kid’s room. His thick twist of brown hair, threaded with gray, had not receded an inch after all this time. Yet the lines beside his eyes and bracketing his mouth had eroded into trenches. His cheeks looked perpetually chapped. I instinctively checked his eyes. They were clear. He was still staying away from the evil fluid. The dreaded “cough medicine.”

Good for him.

“I
don’t
prefer,” I said coolly. “It’s time for me to move on.”

H
e walked all the way into my room as if I was still little and no invitation expected or needed.

“
Moving on is never so simple,” he said. “No matter where we go, there we are, if you understand my meaning.”

“
I appreciate the tip.” My voice sounded skeptical though he really
did
know something about failing to move on. My whole life had been full of unexpected appearances and disappearances as he traded New York for England and Sark and who knew where else and who else.

He
sure didn’t know how to move on. God only knew if I’d turn out any different.

“
Pencils?” he asked dryly, reaching into one of the suitcases. “You think they don’t sell art supplies on campus?”

“
Please leave it. I won’t have much spending money. I need my drawing stuff.”

He put the pencil down.
“Were you intending to tell me that you were leaving three weeks earlier than planned? I heard nothing from you. You didn’t return my calls.”

“Things have been hectic.” I paused. “
How did you find out?”

“Your mother
. She rang me with your schedule.”

“
She did?” I fought down anger. “Well. I figured you'd already gone back to…wherever.”

“
Now, Pilar.” He touched something else in one of my suitcases. “You know I want to see you settled at university.”

I knew it, but I was a consummate liar.
Like him.

“
Oh, I didn’t know. I didn’t think it mattered.”
Even if you’re paying my tuition!

“
You don’t believe that,” he said mildly, as if he knew the things I held against him would never be fully believed.

Then h
e changed the subject.

“
Your mother's quite upset at you leaving, much less three weeks early.”

“Really. Well.”

“Surely you can understand? Empty nest and all that.”

“
I know. But she’ll get over it.”

He turned and looked me
straight in the eye for the first time since entering the room.

I made myself look back.

“
You've really grown up, haven’t you, Pilar?”

At some level I'd been waiting for these words to come out of his mouth.
He'd said them to me a thousand times in a thousand ways since I was five; I'd learned to hate hearing how big and grown-up I was. Yet the words seemed different now. It took me a minute to realize that he sounded...wistful. The way you’d expect any decent father to sound when his only child was about to leave home for college.

It disarmed me. I wanted to hate him
all the more for that.

“
I think you've done a damned fine job with yourself,” he went on. “I recall your high school guidance counselor claiming you'd never get into college. Yet here you are, ready to spread your wings.”

Better than my legs
, my mind retorted—and shut down with an almost audible snap. As if being kidnapped by your father and taken to a cold house on a cold island in the middle of the English Channel and then molested should leave no mark. As if remembering the baths, the long baths he gave me there, or the bribes he paid me when I was older, should wash away my anger too.

He turned his head to look out the window.
“You've done wonders, you and your mother. God knows I haven’t been much help, though I tried to be in my own way. I am glad to do this for you, to pay for your studies. It’s important to me.”

I shuddered.
What did he expect me to say now? You’re right, Dad; thanks to you, I'm heading for a bright future.

“
I haven’t forgotten anything,” I said instead. “I still remember everything that happened. Even if you act like it’s all changed.”

“
It
has
all changed.” He actually sounded surprised. “We’ve put the past behind us, haven’t we?”

“
That doesn’t mean it’s forgotten.”

He looked away.

“I’ll never forget,” I said. “Ever. And one day I’ll tell Mom. Then she won’t forget either.”

He turned back toward my luggage.
“Ah, Pilar, aren’t things easier now? We don’t need to bother your mother with the past, do we?” He scratched the base of his neck.

And for some reason, that harmless little gesture pushed me over the edge.

“I’m tired of protecting you,” I growled. “I
am
going to tell on you someday, whether she believes me or not. You wait and see!”

He nodded but did
n’t look too alarmed. Maybe because he knew I was full of shit.

I
leaned past him and began pulling old T-shirts out of a suitcase. T-shirts were cheap. I could buy new T-shirts on campus.

“
Well, then. Despite all this, I do have a bit of a going-away present for you,” my father said.

He turned toward me so abruptly
that I straightened in alarm. But his face remained businesslike, almost stern. He placed an envelope in my palm. The envelope had a distinct bulge to it.

“
Some spending money,” he said.

I opened it.
Riffled through crisp new bills.

Then again, more slowly.

“
This is a lot of spending money,” I said.
Bribery money.

“
Maybe. But as you said, you are on your own now, right? You need a cushion in case you need something and can’t run home.”

“
I won’t need this much.” I wanted to shove his envelope back at him. Really I wanted to.

I did
n’t.

God help me, I even struggled with the part of me that longed to th
row my arms around his neck. That longed to thank him for thinking of me, for helping me. I just stood there, clutching the envelope in front of me like a bouquet, my head lowered over it.

“Please,
take care of yourself. And be gentle with Mum.” His voice had turned gruff. “Don’t waste your money on fancy clothes.”

It was a joke.
I snorted.

“
Well, I’ll be off then,” he said, “and let you finish packing. I’m glad we had a moment to talk.”

He hesitated, then leaned forward and kissed my cheek.

And
he was gone. One moment he was still there, overfilling my little room. Next there was this void, a void that continued more sharply with his death only one month later.

“
Thanks for the money!” I shouted at the open doorway—and immediately wanted to chomp off my tongue. Mom might hear me yelling this stuff to him and get really upset by the gift. She'd feel inadequate, the way she often did after my father’s gifts.

I sat on the bed amidst my overflowing suitcases...and tears.

Was it okay to hate someone you loved?

Was
it?