I make a beeline to the kitchen, where I pack snacks for the kids, cook breakfast, and prepare food for the dog. The kids are up! Their sleepy bodies maneuver to the orange bar stools at the kitchen island, and they eat silently while they slowly wake up. I brush Matson’s hair with the brush from my swim bag. My husband, Dines, appears. He is dressed and smiling as he enters the kitchen singing.
“Good morning, good morning, good morning to you! The day is beginning. There’s so much to do. Good morning, good morning, good morning to you.” He kisses each child on the head, and the act provokes their first smiles of the day. Dines drives the kids to school, grabbing Matson’s dinosaur snack box. I quickly dry my hair and dress. Chris has, in the meantime, retrieved Carolyn, and I make her breakfast – an egg sunny-side up, some fruit, and a Brazilian cheese ball I bought this week from Whole Foods. I typically ask her about how she slept or how she feels. She shrugs most mornings and sighs. I tell her my plan for the day, and I head for my home accessory studio. I load my truck for a home staging installation, or I pull furnishings for an upcoming design job the next day. Sometimes, after breakfast, Carolyn sits with me in my design studio and watches. Often Chris takes her on a walk, and I am alone. I work until 2pm. I can barely force myself to swallow three bites of lunch before rushing to school to pick up the kids. I like “pick up time”. I have a brief moment to close my eyes under the shade of one of the trees that cover the one hundred and fifty acre campus. I am “mom taxi” from 2:30-5. Or I am “Carolyn taxi” if she is home and has needs. I run to the store between kid activity stops – my daughter’s riding lessons, Matson’s tennis lessons, piano… I cook dinner. In all honesty, I no longer care about the carbohydrate content or the organic element of these meals. It’s enough that food gets cooked and people get fed. I help with homework – Matson is organizing his third grade research project on Chumash Indians. Fliss is working on her fifth grade Excel math sheets. I make sure everyone is bathed and in bed. The entire household, including Dines is sound asleep by 9pm. Now I do client paperwork or research brain cancer. My computer busy work normally lasts until just after midnight. In four to five hours the day begins again. I take five milligrams of Melatonin to sleep and Carolyn’s Bio K because I am constipated. This can’t be my permanent schedule, but in the state of things, it is how I survive.
Chapter 8, Minneapolis, 1977
YOU CAN JUMP SO HIGH
My mother has announced during our winter vacation Carolyn and I need to learn basic survival skills. As a start, she has signed us up for beginners’ swimming lessons every Saturday at the Minneapolis Fairview Hospital. The smell of chlorine enters my nostrils from the changing room before I even see the pool. The pool area is kept very warm for the physical therapy patients who use it each day before swim lessons. On the coldest Minnesota days I close my eyes while my mom helps me into my swimsuit, and I imagine I am on a warm, sunny ocean island. I haven’t seen the ocean. I wonder if it smells as pungent as the chlorinated pool. I timidly walk hand-in-hand with my mother to the pool deck. The floor feels warm and slippery beneath my feet. Mom seats me on a metal bench near the shallow end of the pool. Carolyn, three other girls, and I sit together. She is far braver than I, asking today if she can jump off the diving board. I’m scared to put my head too far under water, let alone jump off a diving board that plunges kids into the deep end of the pool. We are diligent in our lessons and learn to kick, swim with our head down, and pick up objects from the bottom of the steps in the shallow end of the pool. The weeks have given us serious skills, like blowing bubbles underwater and playing an underwater game called Teddy Bear on the pool floor. We can both swim the stroke they call “crawl.” I learn to breathe on both sides. Carolyn insists she will only breathe on her right side. Each day we grow more confident in our abilities. Today, our instructor announces all who want to jump off the diving board can do so at the end of the lesson. Carolyn is thrilled. I pretend to be thrilled too. Flying gleefully into the air, she rebounds off the end of the board – up –up –up, giggling the whole time until her descent into the heated pool water. Now it’s my turn. I walk onto the seafoam-green diving board. My knees start shaking. I am trying to be brave. I am frozen until I see my sister, who is dog-paddling from the side of the pool and yelling encouragement at the same time. “Go, Lila!” she says. “You can jump so high! It’s so fun!” As she talks, it is difficult for her to continue paddling, and she swallows water and spits it out immediately.
“Are you going to do it again? Jump?” I say in a soft, timid voice.
“YES!” she yells, hoisting her upper body above the pool’s surface. She is treading water, a new skill we have been taught. I do a tiny bounce, plummeting into the water chest first. It stings as I sink further into the deep end. When I realize I am far under the surface of the water, I look up. The top seems so far away. I use my arms, swimming up and up. I am getting tired and can hardly hold my breath. I am dizzy. Then I see Carolyn. She helps me to the top and to the side of the pool where I can hold onto the coping. “You did it!” she says. I cough. I swallowed some water. “I did! I did it!” I shout. I put my little arms around her neck, and I kiss her soft, chlorine-smelling cheek with pride.
Chapter 9, Palm Springs, 1998
PRINCE CHARMING
The air smells like a combination of chlorine and cocoa butter sunscreen as I recline poolside with my sister, soaking up the warm desert sun. Los Angeles is colder than usual this fall, and here in Palm Springs, it seems that it’s still summer. I have joined my sister and her in-laws for the holiday weekend in Palm Springs. They gather at their family vacation home, located on the oldest and last remaining guest ranch in California. It’s called Smoke Tree Ranch. It is a place of history. Families have been here for three, four, and five generations. The ranch is filled with Smoke trees and Tamarisk trees, not just Palm trees, which are usually the sole tree equated with Palm Springs. There are remnants of an old railway stop on the ranch – fenced and safe-guarded to preserve them. There are tennis courts – some clay and some regular hard courts. The pool is long and rectangular and heated to a balmy ninety-two degrees per the request of the primarily retired residents of the ranch. There is a giant main ranch house building that was rebuilt after a fire claimed the original one around 1990. Residents of the ranch gather to eat in this beautifully furnished rustic building if they don’t feel like cooking in their separate residences. They also gather to play Bingo, sing karaoke, or enjoy pre-dinner cocktail hour. I am always hesitant to fly all the way back to Minnesota to see my family for a brief stay. The airport in Los Angeles is crazy on holiday weekends, and my sister’s invitation to the ranch, including this poolside bliss, is a much more attractive alternative. On the way to Smoke Tree, my sister informs me from the driver’s seat that this weekend is the opportune time for me to meet a guy -my ideal type, apparently, and “totally the perfect husband.” I giggle when she says these words. Carolyn always wants me to do what she is doing. In her mind, now that she is getting married, I too should get engaged. Our first morning waking up on the ranch, Carolyn, Chris, and I head from Chris’ family home on Rock Nine to Rock Two. This is how houses here are organized. There are no street signs. We find ourselves at the home of the supposed “perfect man,” Dines Francese. His family home has a back gate that leads to a trampoline built into the ground. We jump and jump and jump. The patio door swings open, and out comes a classically tall, dark, and handsome young man. His smile is more infectious than a news anchor’s smile. He is wearing dark green khaki shorts, a collared shirt, and adorable sneakers. I am smitten. My heart skips a beat. We hot-tub and swim for hours, and we laugh. He doesn’t ogle my bikini-clad body like most of the guys I meet in Los Angeles. He looks deeply into my eyes when we talk, and he smiles constantly, which makes me look deeply at his lips. I try to stay focused on his eyes. The more I talk to him, the more I make discoveries. He is kind – truly kind. He is gentle and more charming than he is good-looking…and he is be
yond good-looking. He is super handsome. Dines IS Prince Charming. He is even more attractive than Andy Garcia in my favorite movie, When a Man Loves a Woman. I giggle to myself, realizing his brilliant white teeth remind me of Andy Gibb.
My sister has just introduced me to the love of my life. I am on cloud nine. She beams watching us together. Carolyn has done it again. She has found the man I couldn’t find on my own. It makes sense. Who else would have known my perfect fit?
Chapter 10, New Port, Rhode Island/New York City, September 2001
WE’RE UNDER ATTACK
Dines and I have spent a long weekend in Newport, Rhode Island at his cousin Olivia’s wedding. I have not spent much time on the east coast, and Newport is a particular highlight for me. Many colonial buildings still remain, including the church where the wedding will take place. Some of the stalls inside the church face one another, most likely due to the fact that at one point the chapel was attached to a friar’s residence. I have never seen a church this old but remember reading about them in prep school. Newport also boasts many remaining mansions from America’s Gilded Age. Dines and I tour The Breakers, the home of Cornelius Vanderbilt II, a member of the wealthy Vanderbilt family. Its lower two floors are now a museum. The home was built by architect Richard Morris Hunt. Its design is spectacular. It overlooks the Atlantic Ocean. The interiors of the home were designed by Jules Allard and Sons and Ogden Codman, Jr. My interest in interior design makes this tour one of the most memorable outings of our trip. There are seventy rooms in the mansion. Marble was shipped from Italy and rare wood was purchased from Africa for the interiors. The home contains mosaics from countries around the world. Rumor has it that Cornelius Vanderbilt purchased many of the structural accents from a chateau in France.
Dines is instructed to wear a morning coat to the wedding we will attend in Newport. I have to look up what this is: “a type of tailcoat, a coat with a section of it literally cut away. It’s considered formal daywear, commonly worn at weddings, funerals, and baptisms in England, and has a pair of tails behind it.” The wedding is an opulent affair, and the reception is at Dines’ cousin’s home that stands on Bellevue Avenue not too far from The Breakers. The property is unnamed, which is rare for this legendary street. Dines tells me this is because his cousin felt it too pretentious to name it. I find this impressive. Having never met Dines’ east coast relatives, I am exhausted from one “meet and greet” after another as well as wedding activities. We tour Bailey’s Beach Club – a staple in the Newport summer for the upscale social crowd. As we drive around town, Dines points out beaches where he attended clambakes when he was sixteen. We walk on Easton’s Beach with tourists and eat great seafood at restaurants sitting over the water. For a brief weekend we escape in the dream of New England…
My sister has invited us to stay at her New York City apartment before we travel back to Los Angeles. We had thought initially to go on an early morning flight out of Newark, but with the time change and the need to recover from our festive weekend at the wedding, we opt for a flight a few hours later. Carolyn has left early for a workout at Chelsea Piers before opening her gallery. I wake up at about eight-thirty, dress, and walk across the street for a cup of coffee. We have about twenty minutes before we need to leave for the airport. When I reach the cash register, a man runs into the deli saying to the clerk that he thinks a private plane has hit the north tower of The World Trade Center. Seconds later, a woman yells that a second plane has hit the south tower. She is frantic, yelling that New York City is under attack. I run back across the crowded street and up the two flights of stairs to Chris and Carolyn’s apartment. Dines and Chris are up, sitting at the small living room table in their boxers and t-shirts, eating cereal. “New York City is under attack! We’re under attack! Two planes just hit The World Trade Center! Turn on the news!” Chris and Carolyn don’t have television, so we turn on the vintage radio that sits on the window sill. We are told two commercial planes have hit The World Trade Center. Then, it is reported, a third plane hits the Pentagon. It occurs to me this could be the beginning of World War III.
I can’t move. I remain standing, still in the doorway. Another flight flying toward Washington, DC has reportedly crashed. It is just past ten in the morning. There is no cell phone reception, and suddenly I am worried about Carolyn. She is near the Twin Towers. I tell the boys we must leave the apartment and find a television. Chris says there is one in the small neighborhood bar down the street. When we make it outside, people are frantic. We enter the bar and quickly are updated. The towers have fallen in. Thousands of people are believed dead. We still have not heard from Carolyn. Finally, we see people running up the street. They are covered in ash and soot. Some people are bloody. We decide to return to the apartment, where, to our relief, Carolyn soon returns. She says she didn’t see the planes hit the towers, but she saw people jumping from the highest floors of the buildings. She had to walk and run forty-eight blocks home because all public transportation had been shut down. She is in a state of shock and panic. Her voice quivers recalling the details of what she has seen. Just the day before, Carolyn and I had taken the subway to The World Trade Center platform, to go shopping at our favorite bargain store, Century Twenty-One.
The platform is now buried deep under the rubble of the buildings. People are buried where we stood less than a day before…
Carolyn and Chris remain in New York City for a year following the attacks. The massive clean up continues throughout the year as the rubble is too hot to remove quickly and every inch of the fallen buildings needs to be combed for victims and evidence. I remember thinking, the night after the terrorist attacks, that the smell of garbage outside Carolyn’s apartment smelled better than the air. I remember inhaling, smelling burnt metal mixed with singed human hair. In the ninth grade I smelled something similar when my science partner, Taylor, mistakenly lit his bangs on fire with a Bunsen burner.
Shortly after Carolyn is diagnosed with brain cancer I read a story in the New York Times about an increase in immunity cancers in New York City – specifically in areas surrounding Ground Zero where The World Trade Center had once stood. These include breast cancer, skin cancer, lung cancer, and glioblastoma. First responders are the first group diagnosed, more than ten years later. Business owners and residents are reporting diagnoses now - eleven to twelve years later. Carolyn’s lifelong dream had been to run a successful art gallery in New York City. She achieved her dream. It breaks my heart to think the pursuit of this dream may have been, in the end, what killed her.
Chapter 11, Northern Minnesota, 1977
SLIDING
Having my Gramma Vera visit us is a dream come true! She is the funniest person I have ever met. She sometimes makes me laugh so hard I spit food out of my mouth! She is an expert watermelon seed shooter. She makes her own glue and is extremely handy around the house. She hates cooking. We often eat cereal for dinner if we are alone and she is babysitting. Gramma Vera is a cleaning fanatic. She lives hours away but comes to stay for weeks at a time and cleans our house top to bottom. She is a tiny lady, probably because she is always moving. She says her energy “is a curse, and if you’re lucky, you won’t inherit my restlessness”.
In 1977 Gramma Vera is diagnosed with lung cancer. I am five. Carolyn is seven. She is transported from her home in the northwoods to the University Hospital in Minneapolis. We visit her, and she is so tired and full of medicine that she doesn’t seem like herself. My mother sits with her in the hospital and cries when she gets in the car to drive us home. My Grandpa Vern, a quiet, gentle man, sits with grandma too, often sleeping in her room. Gramma Vera and Grandpa Vern were high school sweethearts. The theory is, his introverted self got a kick out of her extroverted self. Together, they were a magnificent duo. If I was seeking fun, my Gramma Vera was always the solution. If I was needing reassurance or a hug, I would seek out my Grandpa Vern. My mother swears she never heard them argue but admits that if an argument had happened, Gramma Vera would have wo
n.
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