The First Day of the Rest of My Life (26 page)

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Authors: Cathy Lamb

BOOK: The First Day of the Rest of My Life
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But he wanted to talk about the article. “Madeline, my dear,” he said one night after a dinner of seafood pasta and Caesar salad, his voice raspy. “This reporter.”
“Yes.” I reached for his hand across the kitchen table, feeling nauseated at the thought of that article. See what stress does? It makes you physically ill.
“You said this reporter is researching the trials, what my daughter did in court. . . .” His voice trailed off. Anytime my granddad, tough, weathered, strong, brought up my momma, he would cry. Sometimes it was only his eyes flooding, other times he had to leave the room for a few minutes.
I waited.
“I know she’s writing about what happened to you and Annie. Does she—” Another pause. “Does she have the photos in hand?”
“I would think that she’s seen them, Granddad.” I hadn’t asked. I didn’t even want to know. It made me feel like my stomach was grinding rocks. I thought of my young self. I wanted to protect my young self—my old self, too. I wanted to protect Annie. “I don’t know how, but Sherwinn mailed them out. It probably wouldn’t take much to get ahold of them. Journalists are tenacious.”
He ran both of his hands over his face. “I’m so sorry, my love.”
“I am, too. I wish she would leave it alone, not drag this whole thing out. Annie’s carved a King Kong and she’s working on a shark if that tells you a bit about her mood.”
Granddad cleared his throat. “Honey, I have to ask you another question. Is there anything else this reporter is writing about?”
I remembered Marlene’s questions, the questions that had plagued me.
Can you confirm that your grandma was born in Holland before moving to France as a young girl? Can you confirm that your grandma was one of eight children and her parents’ names were Solomon and Yentl Levine? Can you confirm that your grandfather’s parents’ names were Shani and Tomer Laurent and their family has lived in France for hundreds of years? Can you confirm that your grandfather had two brothers, Meyer and Sagi? In doing a little research, I am very confused about something else, too. If you could call me, perhaps you could clear things up.
“I’m confused. I don’t understand but . . .” I told him the questions Marlene had asked me.
Granddad’s face dropped into his old, age-spotted hands. “That’s it then,” he whispered. “That’s it.”
I could hardly speak. My granddad had rarely appeared defeated in my whole life. Watching him grieve over my dad, even as a child, I knew he was broken. When he was at the hospital with Annie and me and he realized the abuse we’d suffered, I saw his devastation again. During my momma’s trial, the night before the jury came back, same thing. His worry had almost killed him, and when he could not rescue my momma, that bleak, raw grief swallowed him.
And now. He’d had another blow. A hammer blow. “What’s wrong, Granddad? Granddad, please. What is it?”
He shook his head, his broad shoulders caving in.
“Why did she ask that, about Holland? Your parents’ names aren’t Shani and Tomer. You don’t have brothers. She’s obviously confused and for some reason is researching another family for an article about Momma, but I have no idea why.”
“Dear God,” he said, his words raspy.
“Dear God.”
“Dear God,
what?
” I pleaded. I was getting so tired of not understanding whatever my grandparents were hiding from me. I’d had enough lies in my life and they were all scraping me bloody. “Please tell me.”
He turned pale—a sickly, pale color—and whispered, as if to himself, “It will all come out. She’ll find it. She probably already has. She knows.”
“Please, Granddad . . . there’s so many secrets in our family. Annie and I have asked you questions a number of times, especially since Grandma started living in the past, but you keep putting us off. I think we need to know at this point. We need to know why you’ve buried your own history.”
He hugged me close, then rasped out, “Very soon, I will tell you, Madeline.” Then he muttered, in French, “I will have to, or she will do it.”
I buried my head in his shoulder. Marlene was unearthing so much, too much, forcing us all into a place we didn’t want to be. How can one person do that to another? We were children then, yet here she was, ripping our past out into the open, tearing our lives apart, as if she had every moral and ethical right to do so. As if she had every right to ruin us one more time. She had all the control. She had control over me, over my own family. She wanted to write the article and damn the consequences to us. I felt that fury scalding my stomach, the rage that always simmered.
“God help us,” Granddad muttered. I lifted a shaking hand to his cheek and wiped away a tear.
His tears poured over my hand, the drops hot, despairing.
“I love you, Granddad, I love you.”
“And I you,” he choked out. “And I you.”
But I knew this: My hand was being forced, and his would be forced, too.
 
Grandma and Granddad saved us in many ways. Their love, attention, kindness, and compassion never wavered.
When we first came to live with Grandma and Granddad, Annie and I would often sleep in their room. In an alcove, where Granddad used to have his desk, they fit in a queen-sized bed for us. Covered in a yellow, poufy, flowered bedspread and an abundance of yellow pillows with lace, it was our haven. Our nightmares were on lower drive in that room, but if we did wake up, terrified and screaming, or if Annie tried to climb out a window, or fling herself through the French doors, or if she tried to hide under their bed, or started throwing books while screaming, Grandma and Granddad were there to soothe her, to hug those night terrors away.
And if I woke up in a rage, furious, flustered from being hit with a vision of Sherwinn, or a whip, or a run-down shack that smelled like must and lust, Grandma knew it right away. She would comfort me with her magical stories of swans, and as soon as dawn crested over the mountains, we’d be slinging saddles over horses, galloping on the trails around the property, the violinist in my head playing something fast paced, angry, as if he were being chased, too.
“You girls are always welcome,” Granddad told us, when we were adults. “Life gets hard, and if you want to come back and sleep in the same room as your Grandma and me, you can. Some people might think it strange, I think it normal. Fortunately, I haven’t worried about what anyone thinks of me since I was eight, anyhow. I love you, girls.”
But in our high school years Annie and I both went into self-destruction mode. This is not atypical for people who have experienced abuse and who have endured the traumas we have. We started partying, experimenting, trying to drown ourselves in stuff we shouldn’t have been in but reached for, anyhow. We never snuck out to clubs to go dancing, though. No way. Annie and I don’t dance.
Grandma and Granddad found out about our rebelliousness. I distinctly remember both of them charging into a house where we were at a party, no parents home, inebriated. He was in a tux, she in a silk, flowing black dress. They had been at a fancy dinner, where they’d donated money to a drug rehabilitation center, ironically enough, because they strongly believed in “second chances.” They hauled our asses out of there so quick, it felt like we were flying.
After some rapid, supersonic detective work, where they found out that Annie and I had been lying about our whereabouts and what we’d been doing, and we’d been skipping school, those two went on hyperoverdrive.
Since we had proven ourselves “irresponsible,” they came to school
with us
. Granddad went class to class with me for a day, and Grandma went with Annie. The next day they switched. They even sat with us at lunch. We drove there and back with them after our sports or after-school activities, like my violin lessons. It was
humiliating.
My award-winning violin teacher, Jeanine Emros, who was also a rebel violinist, like me, was pleased to have them with us at my weekly two-hour lesson. “Lovely people,” she said. “Now, we’ll work on your classical pieces, then a bit of bluegrass to shake things up, shall we?”
From our after-school activities, we went to work in the stores. We got home at ten at night, and we did homework, under their watchful eyes. On weekends, we worked at the stores starting at six in the morning, basically moving boxes and sweeping floors and cleaning bathrooms. When we got home, we worked on the farm. We were exhausted, but we did not get into trouble anymore. We didn’t have the energy.
One afternoon, six weeks after the punishment began, Annie and I lay between the rows of lavender, wiped out. Our grandparents scooted right up that hill to scold us. “Up you go, ladies. Laziness and slothfulness is a sin! Idle hands will make trouble!”
Annie said, “I give up.”
I said, “I surrender. You win.”
Our grandparents hugged us close. “You were out of control. We had to step in to get control.... We love you, that’s why we played it tough.... If you weren’t going to follow the rules, we were going to follow you until you did. We love you.”
Annie and I nodded, we got it. We understood.
We expected to be invited in for a huge celebratory dinner, you know, a “Now we’re all getting along” type of thing. “Hooray for family! Hooray for our girls who have seen the light!”
Nope.
“There are berries to pick in the south field,” Grandma said.
“When you’re done there, the barn needs to be cleaned out. Cut some lavender to sell in the stores. You two need to make more wreaths. At least fifty,” Granddad said. “Up you go.”
They worked our bones to brittle ends, but we did not get in any more trouble. They dragged us through the danger zone of despair, until we were able to fight the despair on our own.
They literally, physically, saved us.
They’d lied to us about their past. Lied by omission.
But I loved them. I loved the liars with all my heart and soul.
18
M
y momma’s brain tumor was discovered on a bustling Friday at Marie Elise’s French Beauty Parlor. Every pink swivel chair was taken, a head warmed under every dryer, and on every pink fainting couch lay a chatting woman. The curling irons curled, the nails were polished, the hair was dyed, highlighted, washed, rinsed, cream rinsed, and cut, the talk was quick, the laughter a pleasant staccato rhythm.
Annie and I were serving cookies on trays to the women lying on the pink fainting couches while they passed a bottle of wine back and forth. We frosted them with pink icing and added Red Hots in the shapes of smiles. We were also serving pink lemonade. Not only could we avoid Sherwinn all day when we were at the beauty parlor, Momma paid us five dollars at the end of the day. Not bad.
I listened to the women chat back and forth, as two violinists played a piece by Bach in my head, not loudly.
“I swear my gas is worse today than it was two years ago. It’s got to be my age. Excuse me, again! . . . I cannot control my Lillianne, she and that boyfriend sneaking out to meet at night, why, he has long, shaggy hair, he’s a dreadful hippie . . . my anxiety got the best of me yesterday . . . did you see
One Life to Live
yesterday on TV? The guest doctor is enough to get my engine running . . . I have not had sex in five years. Five long years. I think if I did, my orgasm might give me a heart attack . . . I’m going to buy a poodle. Better a poodle than a man . . . do they have whorehouses that women can go to and buy a man for an afternoon ? . . . darn it, I forgot to buy sugar . . . have you tasted Ed’s cinnamon rolls? He’s going to win again at the bake-off, I know it, beats me every year ...I think I saw Tessa and Yvonne holding hands the other day, they’ve been living together for thirty years now, they must be the best of friends . . . did you see how Jessie Liz’s son painted another picture of a naked woman on the back of Ed’s Groceries? All the men sneak back to look at it. . . .”
Everyone took our cookies. “My goodness, aren’t these delicious ! Did you girls make them?”
We did. We had made them with our momma the night before. She had a headache in the afternoon and said her eyes felt funny, so she took a nap, then we baked together, sifting flour, measuring sugar, cracking eggs, dropping in red food dye. We snuck Red Hots.
Sherwinn was out of the house. We didn’t care where he was, so for a minute we could pretend he did not exist. It was just us and our momma in our sun-filled kitchen with the window that overlooked our sea, the sun shining down on the frothing waves with a friendly smile.
“Yummy! You girls, bring us a couple more, please. Do you girls have a tip jar? I want to pay you for these scrumptious cookies!”
We were pleased with the idea of a tip. Why, we could go downtown then and buy nail polish and sparkly eye shadow or flowers for Momma.
The corners of Annie’s mouth tipped up, she so rarely smiled anymore.
“Gracious God!”
“What happened?”
“Marie Elise! Marie Elise! Call for an ambulance, hurry, hurry!
Hurry!”
Annie and I dropped our trays with the pink cookies and rushed to our momma. She lay on the floor writhing, twisting, shaking, her eyes blank, like she wasn’t there, her back arching up and down.
“Get the girls out,” Mrs. Grasher ordered as she bent over our momma. She was a nurse and I heard her say, “She’s having a seizure. . . .”
The women hustled us out the door, even as we fought to stay, as we called to her, “Momma, Momma, Momma,” the pitched screech of the siren petrifying.
What was going on? Was our momma dying? Would we have
no
parents? Help our momma! Help!
Outside Annie and I hugged each other, and the ladies who had pushed us out the door wrapped their arms around us as we wailed in fear.
 
“I am sorry, my loves, my dearest grandchildren,” Grandma told us two nights later, holding us close together on her lap in our living room. She and Granddad had flown in immediately on a private jet. She was dressed impeccably, black slacks, silk shirt, a purple scarf, sparkling jewelry, her wedding ring heavy on her finger. Her clothes directly contrasted with the raw, aching pain in her blue-green eyes, so like Annie’s. “I am so sorry, beloveds. Your momma has a brain tumor.”
 
The tumor was inoperable. They would treat it, they would pray.
Our momma walked into our house by the sea about a week after she’d had her seizure. She was wearing a pink dress with a flared skirt and had her hand under Granddad’s crooked elbow. When she saw us, her face wreathed into smiles. “Pink Girls!” she yelled, and flung out her arms.
We were inundated with exquisite meals and treats from everyone in our town, and people were in our home all the time, trying to help or visiting. Our grandparents moved in, without even asking Sherwinn, which I heard him complaining about. “This is my house. I am in charge. I’m the man. You didn’t ask, Marie Elise, for my permission.”
I wasn’t surprised to hear my momma say, “They’re moving in. If you don’t like it, move out.”
Sherwinn slammed out of the house that night, the door rattling the rafters, and I dropped to my knees and prayed that he would never come back. The prayers were not answered.
Annie and I loved all the people in our home. We did not love that our momma had a brain tumor—that part frightened us so much our bones knocked together. We saw Sherwinn glaring at us and we ignored him, shaking inside, but we could be brave on the outside, because we felt safe with our grandparents around, safe with all the friends.
As for our momma?
We saw her sobbing sometimes in the kitchen, her shoulders shaking, when she thought she was alone. We saw her bent over in the garden, her hands to her face. We saw her staring out at the sea from our deck, rocking herself. We heard the notes of her violin floating back to us on the wind as she stood on the cliff, her mouth moving, as if she was talking to someone.
But, in front of us, she was all smiles, hugging and loving us, baking all sorts of French desserts like Clafoutis aux Cerises, chocolate ganache, chocolate truffles, crème brûlée, crème caramel, and pumpkin soufflés. She cut way down on her hours at the parlor, so she was home when we got home from school if she wasn’t at a doctor’s appointment or the hospital.
She wore pinks, reds, yellows. She used yellow ribbons for hope to hold back her hair. She told everyone, “I’m gonna beat this, you watch me . . . No, I never ask, ‘Why did this have to happen to me?
Why not me?
You won’t hear any whining out of my mouth . . . don’t you look gorgeous today, Gretchen . . . I can volunteer at Quilting Sunday, that would be my cup of tea, I’ll bring my Pink Girls . . . God’s got His arms around me, I can feel them . . . I am so fortunate to have you all in my life . . . you made me dinner, again? Sheri, aren’t you the best? Gregor Stein! You made me my favorite banana bread, aren’t you dear?”
Sherwinn’s true colors started to show to our momma. He wanted a warm woman in bed and he wanted hot meals and he liked that our momma had a comfy home by the sea and money to boot and daughters to hurt. But he didn’t like all the attention she was getting. He didn’t like that there were people around all the time, so he couldn’t get at us. He didn’t like that he had only been married a few months and already he had an inconvenience on his hands.
“Can we not talk about your tumor, Marie Elise, I’m sick of that topic . . . dammit, you haven’t made my breakfast . . . no, I can’t drive you to the doctor, I have plans for today . . . somebody’s gotta work since you aren’t workin’ as much as you used to . . . shit.”
Sherwinn’s attitude, his lack of caring and help, infuriated our momma, I could tell, and they started having some rip-roaring fights, which exhausted her.
There was one thing she took action on, though. When Sherwinn was gone, two attorneys came to our house. One was Jack Shears, a friend of my dad’s, another was Melanie Cho, who was a friend of my dad’s in high school. Our momma was in bed and Jack, Melanie, and our grandparents went up to her bedroom and shut the door. Annie and I knew that a shut door meant we should listen in.
“We have to make this airtight so my girls get every cent of my money. It is your job to make sure that this happens, Jack, Melanie,” Momma said, her voice only above a whisper from being worn down by her tumor. “I love those Pink Girls.”
She outlined the money that our dad had left her. She made sure that her will gave us, her girls, that money, including the money that our dad’s parents had left to Momma. The house and all the possessions would go to us. Our momma had been smart enough to sign a pre nup with Sherwinn, and that pre nup came into play.
And, most importantly, she was adamant about who we were to live with when she was gone. “Madeline and Annie are to live with my parents. Sherwinn is not to gain custody.”
Annie and I sagged against each other. We did not want our momma to die, but can you imagine, two innocent girls, in deathly fear that if their momma dies, they will be handed over to a child molester?
Over the next couple of months Momma’s health declined and improved. She was hospitalized often, slept for hours, and was in and out of doctors’ offices. We dove onto the same waves of emotions that people go through when fighting a terminal illness : Hope and despair and around again. She fought back nausea and vomiting and exhaustion.
But, when she was well, she held out her arms and the three of us danced a waltz on the grass near our house by the sea.
Her friends were her anchors.
“We’re all wearing pink,” Trudy Jo said. “To give your momma encouragement.” She switched over to Shakespeare, the “real man” in her life. “And thus I clothe my naked villainy . . . They did make love to this employment . . . unsex me here.”
I put my hand over my mouth. I didn’t know what “unsex me” meant.
Carman burst into song, her champagne glass held reverently high. “For your mother, honey.” She cleared her throat. “My friend, my forever friend. . . .”
“We bought your momma a pink robe, pink slippers with feathers, and two sets of pink jammies,” Shell Dee said, “so her body will be comfortable. Here’s some interesting facts about the skin that covers our bodies: The average person, man or woman, has about, get this, twenty-one feet of skin! At the end of the year about one-point-six pounds of skin has flaked off! Disgusting! Think of all that dead skin flaking off billions of people on this earth. In fact, when there’s dust in your home, it’s mostly skin that’s leaving your body!”
Ugh.
We begged our grandparents not to leave, but a few weeks after the diagnosis, they had to. Grandma had books due, Granddad had the stores, and Momma had temporarily stabilized and seemed to be responding extraordinarily well to treatment. I could tell that our granddad and grandma hated Sherwinn, and they talked to our momma about their dislike, Grandma especially being blunt in calling him a “crude, white trash orangutan” and Granddad calling him “a pure asshole. Let my attorney handle the divorce for you, honey,” but my momma couldn’t do it then. Too much. A tumor in her head and a divorce?
The three of them had one enormous strike against them, though: They could not imagine the crime that Sherwinn was committing. It was not in their repertoire. It is not in any sane, kind person’s repertoire. Kind, sane people don’t do that type of thing.
Once they left, Sherwinn, Pauly, and Gavin started in on us again.
We shut down, Sherwinn’s threats to kill our momma and make it look like it was part of her “damn brain tumor” solidifying us into rigid, semidead girls. “I didn’t sign up to be married to a sickie and a weakling,” he shouted as he shoved us back into the shack as an orchestra playing Mozart blasted through my mind, blocking out the rest of what he said.
He lurked around us, like slimy pollution. Behind her back he once wielded a knife, a warning to us not to tell. He put a dead mouse on my dresser and held one finger up to his mouth and said, “Shhh, Madeline.” He showed Annie a picture of a woman’s corpse, and giggled.
Sherwinn was a nightmare we lived with every day, and while our momma fought for her life, we fought for our lives, too.
Click, click, click.
 
What do I blame for my momma’s mistake in bringing Sherwinn into our lives? I blame her brain tumor. It was clearly growing before she even met Sherwinn, and I think it affected her judgment. I blame her entrenched loneliness after my dad died. I blame Sherwinn’s captivating, deceitful personality that swept my momma off her feet. I blame the mysterious grief she carried with her that I never understood, the tears that fell down her face when she played her violin and spoke in French, as if reaching for someone, a hand out in despair.
I could hate my momma for bringing Sherwinn into our lives. I could hate her for being blind to his demented personality and what was happening to us in her own home. But the truth is, he only lived with us for a few months. When she found out what they did, she killed all three of them.
Even so, could I hate my momma for bringing total emotional devastation to Annie and me?

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