by Bob Purssell
I understood enough about death to know it was final; that the person was gone and that I would never see or hear from them again. Immediately, I burst into tears and began weeping.
I cried for a long time. I do not know why I cried so much. Neither my parents nor I had ever met my biological mother. Eventually I stopped my crying, and instead, I felt numb for the rest of the day and the next. Then all those emotions seemed to fade away, and I went back to being a seven-year-old kid.
It wasn’t that I forgot Gisele. I wondered about her, about what she was like, but she was gone and that was the way it was.
* * *
Next spring my father cleared a large area in the backyard well back from the house. He then constructed a tall fence around the cleared area. When I asked, my father explained, “We’re going to plant a grove of special trees.”
Several days later, a smallish man, a Mr. Jeffers, visited our home. In a box, he brought ten of the special trees. They were very small and Mr. Jeffers called them seedlings. While my mother and I watched, my father and Mr. Jeffers carefully planted the seedlings inside the fenced area. When they had finished, all of us bowed our heads as Mr. Jeffers said a prayer. One line of his prayer I remember as if it had been spoken moments ago: “Dear Lord, protect these trees from the elements and those of your creation who would destroy them.”
Mr. Jeffers spent the rest of the day with us, and even though it was a Thursday, we had a big dinner. For dessert, my mother roasted four nuts that Mr. Jeffers had brought with him. Each of us had one, and I really liked the taste. I wished Mr. Jeffers had brought more.
Somehow, Mr. Jeffers understood what I was thinking and asked, “Have you ever heard the words, ‘roasting chestnuts on an open fire’[9]?”
“Sure, we sing that at Christmas time.”
“Well, what you just ate is an American chestnut, and long ago they were common.”
“Why aren’t they common now?”
“Virtually all the trees got sick and died.”
“What made them sick?”
After my mother told him, “We encourage our daughter’s curiosity,” Mr. Jeffers explained how the Chestnut blight fungus[10] had wiped out the vast American chestnut forests that were famous for their rapid growth and rot-resistant wood.
* * *
The next day, after Mr. Jeffers left, I told my mother, “I’m going to call the trees we planted yesterday ‘Gisele’s trees’.”
Surprised, my mother asked, “Why?”
“They both died from the blight.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Well, Father said that Gisele died from civilization’s blight, and Mister Jeffers said the chestnuts died from the blight.”
My mother observed, “That’s an interesting parallel.”
At dinner that evening, my mother told my father that I had an idea. When I told my father what I wanted to do, he thought for a couple of seconds, and then said, “If they’re going to be Gisele’s trees, we’ll have to take extra special care of them.”
Protected from the elements during their early growth, their existence kept secret, remote from other chestnuts, some of Gisele’s trees grew to maturity. Those huge, spreading trees, lucky to escape the blight, now dominate the backyard and are a favorite of local fauna who devour the many nuts the trees drop each year.
* * *
At infrequent and irregular intervals, I would ask my parents about Gisele. They would tell me that they did not know much about her death. While technically correct, in actuality, my parents did know more than they let on.
When I was eleven, I began to learn this on a stormy Saturday afternoon in February. My father was in his study, and I needed to ask him a question. Entering the room, I saw him sitting in his chair surrounded by stacks of papers and files. Forgetting my question and curious, I asked, “What are you doing, Father?”
With his back to me, he answered, “Getting ready to do our income taxes.”
Of course, I had no idea what income tax preparation involved, so, ever curious, I asked, “Is it hard?”
My father chuckled and then explained, “It’s a lot of detail, a lot of paperwork, which takes a lot of time. I’m just trying to get organized.”
Showing my naiveté, I asked, “Can I help?”
Surprised, my father said, “I appreciate the offer, but no, you don’t have to help.”
“But I want to.”
In a move that probably added an extra hour to his labors, my father replied, “Okay, you can do the copying.”
For the next three hours, I assisted my father. My mother stopped by to see what we were doing. Much amused, she departed without offering to help.
During the last half hour of our effort, my father carefully did filing. Trying to be helpful, I would dart around the room retrieving files, notebooks, and papers. One time when I handed him some papers, I saw a file labeled “Gisele” in an open drawer. I made a mental note of its location.
The Gisele file bothered me. Try as I might, I could not stop thinking about what it might contain. I had to see it. I debated in my own mind if I should sneak into my father’s office when he wasn’t around and look at the Gisele file. Of course, I knew it was wrong. My parents had clearly told me that my father’s office was private. However, fully aware I would be a bad person; I nonetheless waited for my opportunity.
A month went by before I got my chance.
* * *
Editor’s Note: In the material provided, Barbara O’Leary would sometimes write in the present tense. She left no explanation for the shift. I have elected not to reformat her writings.
* * *
My father is away on a business trip; I can hear my mother giving one of her students a piano lesson. Purposefully, I sneak into his office knowing he does not lock his file cabinets. For a moment, I hesitate and listen. The student has just started Bach’s Concerto No. 5.
With little effort, the middle drawer of the five-drawer file cabinet slides open. In front of me, I can see the file labeled “Gisele.” For a moment, I hesitate and listen. The student is having difficulty with her Bach.
My resolve intact, I withdraw the file and place it on my father’s desk. Again, for a moment, I hesitate and listen. My mother is playing. She is so much better than her student. For a moment, I stand motionless listening to the beautiful music she is creating.
Consumed by my curiosity, I open the file. The first photograph is a full body shot of a young woman. Her clothes are soaking wet and her long blonde hair spreads away from her head and lies disheveled on the deck of a boat. In the top of the picture is the boat’s gunwale and above that is the water of a canal. The second photograph, a posed head shot of the young woman, is disturbing to look at. The once-beautiful features have a deathly white pallor; the eyes are closed; and there is a prominent bruise on her forehead.
Absorbed by what I am seeing, I ignore the danger of my mother discovering what I am doing. Over time I will commit the words I am about to read to memory. However, even then, at the age of eleven, I largely understand what I am reading.
Beneath the photographs is a typewritten report sent to the FBI by the Amsterdam police[11]. Carefully reading word for word what Hoofdagent[12] Willem Jansen has written, I learn that four years earlier, Gisele’s body had floated to the surface of the Amstel canal in Amsterdam. Passersby had summoned the police who, in turn, fished the body out of the canal. An autopsy reveals that my biological mother had heroin and alcohol in her blood and water in her lungs. The report states, “Subsequent DNA and dental examination have confirmed the identification.”
Suddenly, I realize I have not kept track of what my mother is doing. Alarmed, fearing possible discovery, I listen. The student is playing once again. After thinking she’s not that good, I let out a sigh of relief and resume my reading.
According to their report, the Amsterdam police can only speculate about the events surrounding Gisele’s death. In a paragraph titled “Accident/Suicide Theory” the report explains that Gisele, a known alcoholic and drug addict, in a state of intoxication may have fallen or jumped into the canal and drowned. The paragraph titled “Murder Theory” states that Gisele’s suspected involvement in the drug trade may have resulted in her torture, drugging, and drowning.
Again, I stop and listen. It’s easy to tell that my mother is once again playing. I remember thinking: She plays sooo well.
I had long ago accepted my biological mother’s death. Since my parents have never told me how she had died, the possibility that someone had murdered her comes as a shock. I ponder what I have just learned. Angry, I close the file cabinet and take the Gisele file to my room. There I scan the photographs and the report into my computer. When the second student of the afternoon arrives for his lesson, I slip back into my father’s office. As the student plays Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” I return the file to its place in my father’s file cabinet. Stepping outside my father’s office, my bad deed undiscovered and now hopefully undiscoverable, I listen for a moment to the student. He is good, very good, in fact.
As I return to my room, I am terribly upset about what has happened to my biological mother. I am angry with my parents. Why didn’t they tell me? I decide to tell them I know what has happened to Gisele. For the rest of the afternoon, I plan what I will say when my father comes home tomorrow from his business trip. At dinner, I am very nice to my mother so she will not suspect what I have done. That evening I congratulate myself on how clever I have been.
Next day, I do not feel good about myself. I have done wrong, and I feel bad about breaking into my father’s files. Ashamed that I am a sneak, I wonder why, oh why, did I have to look at the Gisele file? I consider admitting what I have done. My father comes home. Filled with remorse, I greet him at the front door, intent on confessing.
Beaming, he gives me a hug and tells me how much he has missed me. How can I tell him I have betrayed his trust? He has brought me a present. Excited, he shows me a book about playing ice hockey. How can I explain that I have read the Gisele file? My mother appears and my parents hug. They are so happy to see one another. How can I tell them?
I just want to shrivel up and die.
* * *
I never did tell my parents that I had read the Gisele file. They kept their secret, and I kept mine.
The contents of the Gisele file were the first important secrets of my life. In a most fundamental way, it helped shape my development. As I became comfortable with my knowledge of Gisele’s death, I looked upon the file as a gift from my deceased biological mother. The file and the grove of American chestnuts, that eventually became Gisele’s Trees, were my bond to my biological mother. It was my model for the future, a future in which I would learn and keep increasingly important secrets.
CHILDHOOD
Editors Note: In an interview given when she was already in her sixties (15 July 2057), Barbara O’Leary described her early schooling: Homeschooled at a time when the educational authorities saw homeschooling as a threat, I was taught by a successful, but now largely retired, consulting engineer (my father) and a private music teacher (my mother). Schooled year-round, I advanced beyond my age and grade level. Consequently, I easily aced my proficiency exams. By twelve, I was proficient in geometry, had built numerous electronic devices, played the piano with some skill, and spoke French well enough to converse with Parisians during a summer vacation to Europe. My parents, happy with my academic development, were not eager for me to attend the local schools.
* * *
One evening, when I was nine, while my parents were playing bridge with the Ryerson’s, I took a break from my studies. Quiet and unnoticed, I slipped into the kitchen to get a drink of iced tea. Standing next to the refrigerator, I had little difficulty overhearing the conversation in the living room as my father explained, “There are basically two reasons we homeschool our daughter. First, Amber and I can give Barbara a much better education than she would receive at the public school. Second, we don’t want to expose our child to the public school environment.”
“The schools aren’t all that bad,” ventured Mrs. Ryerson.
“We differ on that point,” replied my father. He then added, “We want the best for Barbara, and through good fortune, we’re able to provide her with what we believe is a superior educational experience.”
“What do the authorities think about all this?” Mr. Ryerson asked.
My mother responded. “Barbara has done very well on her exams. She’s two years ahead of her age group.”
“But academics aren’t the only thing in a child’s development,” observed Mrs. Ryerson.
“You’re absolutely right,” answered my father. “That’s why we’ve involved Barbara in the church, athletics, and cultural activities. What we don’t want is for her is to be in an environment where children are not properly supervised.”
“I envy you,” Mr. Ryerson replied. “My grandson has fallen in with the wrong crowd. God, I can only imagine what he’s up to tonight.”
Mrs. Ryerson pressed. “You can’t keep your daughter down on the farm all her life. Aren’t you worried that she won’t be prepared, that she’ll be naive when it comes to the world?”
After a pause, my mother responded. “We’re concerned about that. We’re trying to teach her that there is evil in the world and that there are bad people.”
Ruefully Mr. Ryerson opined. “We all face that problem with our children. Unfortunately, experience is often the only teacher.”
* * *
My mother introduced me to figure skating when I was four. Developing my balance, learning the fundamentals of keeping upright in a world where you are intrinsically unstable, my love of skating grew. By seven, my instructor had me doing simple jumps, and she was beginning to teach me how to spin. It was great fun.
Then something happened.
My father took me to a hockey game. During the first period, I watched fascinated, my eyes never leaving the action. Between periods, eating a hot dog, I peppered my father with questions: Why did that player have to sit by himself? Why did the referee blow the whistle? Why did one player knock the other one down?
After the game, when we reached the car, I asked my father, “Can I play hockey?”
It took little time for my mother to realize what her husband had done to her child. She was not pleased with my near incessant demands for hockey skates, and she was equally unhappy with my father—whom she blamed for “creating a problem.”
Finally, in a rare display of male exasperation, my father declared, “Hon, there are some things you best accept and move on.”
With that, he bought me a pair of hockey skates, and I started playing hockey in the peewee league at the local rink.
Although not a skater, my father was my biggest fan. We had a pond on our property—it had been a working farm at one time—and during the cold weather, he would clear the snow and smooth the ice, so I could do my skating drills and practice my stick handling.
Before long, the intensity of my training produced results. Only two or three of the boys in the league were my equal.
* * *
My father loved motorsport. He had an old turbo-charged Miata that he autocrossed[13] and a go-kart that he raced. On weekends, from spring to fall, he would often disappear early in the morning and return tired at night. When I asked him how he had done, my father, humble to a fault, would say something like, “I did okay.” It was my mother who would tell me what actually happened. Seldom finishing worst than third, he often won in his class. This made me very proud, and I wanted desperately to watch him race.
When I was eight, I asked my father if I could go with him to the kart track. Perhaps trying to avoid a repeat of the hockey experienc
e, he explained, “Motorsports are very demanding. When I’m racing I won’t be able to watch you and focus on the race at the same time.”
Later that summer, on a Friday, my mother left to visit my aunt. At dinner, my father asked me, “What would you like to do this weekend?”
“Aren’t you racing?”
“Not this weekend, what with your mother being away.”
Since my father always posted his schedule, I saw an opening. Pointing to the calendar, I said, “You have practice tomorrow. I can watch. I’ll be good.”
My father tried to deflect me. “Watching kart practice isn’t all that exciting.”
Since I desperately wanted to see my father drive, I replied, “It’s okay. I’ll be good, I promise.”
My father, whom I am positive wanted to do some karting, thought about this for a moment and then proposed, “If you get bored, we can do something else.”
Thrilled and on my best behavior, the next morning I climbed into my father’s pick-up and off we went on an hour and a half journey. At the track, I met kids, some of whom were girls that raced their own karts. Amazed, I watched as every ten minutes or so another group of karts went out to practice. Excited, I waited for my father to take his kart out onto the course.
My mother was right; my father was fast. Frequently, he overtook other drivers in the practice. The electronic scoreboard would flash each driver’s lap time, and my father’s was often the fastest. Next to me, I heard some teenage boys joking. One crudely said to his companion, “That old fart sure knows how to haul ass.”
Far from being offended, the boy’s remark thrilled me. After each practice run, my father asked me if I wanted to leave. I shook my head and pleaded, “Can’t we stay?”
After the fourth such refusal, my father joked to a friend. “I think I’ve created a monster.”
Indeed, he had. That evening, as a treat, my father took me out to dinner at a nice restaurant. While we were eating, I said, “I talked with some of the kids today.”
