“What’s the matter, Sammy?” I walked over and rubbed his back. The sobs continued.
Finally, through halting breaths, he whispered hoarsely, “Momma, don’t let Daddy hurt me anymore.”
“What happened?” I looked at Elli as I continued to rub Sam’s back.
“Sam didn’t get on the elevator fast enough for Dad.” Elli scowled. “So he kicked him in the butt to make him move. I told him he better not do that again. Then he told Sam not to act like a wuss,” she added.
I leaned over Sam and, hugging him, said, “I promise you Daddy will never hurt you again. I will take care of this today. But if either of you is ever scared or worried when you are with your father, you call me immediately.”
Before we left for the fair, I wrote a letter to my attorney, Dan, asking him to send Charles a certified letter that put him on formal notice that if he hurt Sam again, I would report him immediately to the Department of Child Protective Services and the police. I hand-delivered the letter to Dan; he had a letter out to Charles by five o’clock that day.
Charles never mentioned the letter to me, although I knew he had received it. After that, whenever he got upset with one of the children, he always made sure to tell me exactly what had happened. He knew I meant what I had said. It was the mark of a true narcissist: they fear someone only when they think that person has more power than they do.
I didn’t plan to tell Charles about the townhouse. I would have liked to just pack up and disappear, but I knew I couldn’t put that kind of pressure on the kids. Also, it was still hard not to automatically tell him things, whether I wanted to or not. They just came out in moments of calm.
“Charles, I want to let you know that I found a place and I plan on moving in mid-June,” I said one evening, shortly after the contract on the house was accepted.
“Well, since you found a place, I guess I ought to get an attorney.” Charles shook his head as he continued, “I just don’t know how I’m going to free up the money. I guess your dad is going to be paying part of the rent, right?”
“Actually, no, he’s not. He’s holding the mortgage, and I’m going to be making the mortgage payment to him. He’s the landlord.” We both had our therapist masks on, and so we were both speaking in neutral voices, not indicating anything we were feeling beneath the surface.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, Charles asked, “Do you think we want to have a miniature poodle?”
I shook my head, speechless. I walked into the other room, the thought Why does he keep asking about “we”? It’s so bizarre spinning circuitously in my head. Then I caught myself and once again remembered that nothing is random, everything is calculated, even the way the words in a sentence are ordered. Charles was in his mode of showing his “goodness” by finding a home for his dead acupuncturist’s dog. If I was off balance, perhaps I would think he wanted to reconcile and I would say yes to the dog. Of course, I would then be stuck with it.
It was no different from how he had gotten me to agree to file for bankruptcy during my cancer treatment. He hadn’t been willing to talk to me about anything I saw happening in our relationship; he’d always said, “We’ll work on it once you finish treatment.” Then, within weeks of my finishing treatment and days of our signing the bankruptcy papers, he’d told me he had decided the marriage was over.
No, saying “we” as we were talking about separating was not a new thing; this was the crazy-making behavior of my marriage that had existed for years.
I walked back into the family room with a basket of laundry, and as I began to fold Sam’s shirts, I looked over at Charles, who was just sitting quietly, with a half smile on his lips. Perhaps he was meditating.
“So, about this mini-poodle you’ve been talking about. I really have no interest in another dog, Charles. I think Knaidl is enough,” I said casually, as I folded a shirt.
“Okay. I just thought it might be nice for the kids to have another dog, and Knaidl would have some company.”
“There are a lot of things that would be nice for everybody, but I’m not taking on another dog right now.” I continued folding and making piles of clothes, much more meticulous than usual.
Charles got up from his seat and started to walk toward the stairs. Just before he started down, he turned and said, “It’s not a problem. I just thought you’d want to do it for the kids.”
“No, not this time. This time, my decision is going to be based on what’s best for me, which will in the long run be what’s best for the kids,” I said, as I put the folded and sorted clothes back into the basket.
Charles walked down the stairs, and I heard the door close behind him.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“DADDY, CAN YOU AND I CAMP OUT IN OUR SLEEPING bags in front of the fireplace tonight?” Sam asked one cold March evening, pouncing into Charles’s arms when he walked through the front door. He had been talking about camping all afternoon. “We have marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate, so we can even make s’mores. . . . Please? Please?”
“I don’t want to sleep in the family room, but the s’mores sound great to me,” Elli added, as she walked through the foyer and heard what was going on.
“Sounds like a real possibility; it’s Friday, and there’s no school tomorrow. We’ll get everything ready after dinner.” Charles couldn’t say much more because Sam was already off and running to get his sleeping bag and pillows to bring downstairs.
I had been pulling some baskets off a shelf when everyone came down for dinner. On top of the pile of baskets was a hand-woven hat with a long orange toucan feather and woven birds and fish decorating it.
“Where’s that hat from? It’s really neat.” Elli got up, took it in her hands, and looked at it closely. “These birds and fish are great.”
“They are, aren’t they?” said Charles. “Before you were born, I went on a trip to Hawaii. When I was on the Big Island of Hawaii—Hawaii is made up of a lot of islands—this guy, with a toucan named Toco, was making hats, so I got one. The feather is one of Toco’s feathers.”
“That’s cool,” Sam exclaimed, as he took the hat from Elli to look at it more closely.
I was stunned. Charles hadn’t gone to Hawaii by himself. We had gone together. He had bought the hat for me.
Yet here we were and it had become his trip, his hat, his experience alone. When I spoke with the kids, even at this point, I always spoke about things we had done; I didn’t exclude Charles. Again, I felt my anger building, at being treated as if I had never existed.
But then I had a realization. In my days of raging at Charles, I would say, “You are such a master manipulator of words.” Now, though, I saw it much more clearly. When he wanted me to adopt the mini-poodle he spoke of “we.” When he wanted to make sure I knew I did not exist for him, he spoke of “I.” It was all manipulative, and I had to be aware enough to respond to the intent of the words, not the words themselves. With Charles, I could not be real. I had to always listen with the ear of a therapist, not a lover. So, this time, I handled it differently when he spoke of “his” trip to Hawaii.
“It was such a great trip. The sand on the beach was black from the volcanoes on the island, the water was turquoise blue, the food was wonderful, and Toco the toucan was hysterical! Wasn’t he, Charles?” I smiled as I spoke.
Charles was silent. The muscle in his cheek twitched. I couldn’t do anything about it when I wasn’t there, but I sure as hell would not allow myself to be so blatantly discounted in my own presence and in my own home. It may have been insignificant, but I felt empowered, and for a few moments there was a conversation about our trip to Hawaii, though I didn’t fool myself into thinking it meant anything more than that I had taken control and not allowed myself to be the victim of his denial of my existence.
In order to really be empowered, though, I still needed to find a way to copy his journal. There was too much evidence in it that I could use to my advantage in multiple ways. I especially wanted the pages where C
harles had written about still writing prescriptions for Victoria and about her giving him money. These things would not look good in court. These things would be leverage in relation to his keeping his license.
Perhaps Victoria was out of town, because the day after the camping trip in the family room, Charles said he would take the kids to see a Star Wars exhibit that had opened at the museum in DC. They were thrilled, and I knew I had several hours to myself. They left at about noon, and I knew it would take them about forty-five minutes to get there. Forty minutes after they left, I called Charles.
“Charles, I gave Elli some money to get a present for Ezra’s birthday party tomorrow. Could you make sure she remembers to get something in the museum shop?”
“Sure, no problem. Any idea what he would like?” he asked.
“I don’t know; he likes to put things together, and he likes science, so anything like that would be fine. Thanks a lot. Enjoy Star Wars.” I said good-bye, assured that they really had gone and would be away for a while.
I made another call. “Hi, Rick. I have the opportunity to copy the journal over the next few hours. Are you available right now?”
Rick was an old friend. He had been my service chief when I had worked at the hospital, and we had remained good friends. He was retired now. Both he and his wife had had some serious illnesses, and he had been one of the many who were a great support to me. He happened to have a copier that would work quickly, and he had offered to copy the journal whenever I brought it over.
“Come on over, Di. I’ll put some hot water on for tea and make sure there’s plenty of paper in the copier. You and Jane can chat while I do the dirty work. I’ll enjoy it!”
“Okay, I’m on my way.” I hung up, ran down to the basement, saw the journal on Charles’s desk, grabbed it, and ran out to my car. My heart was pounding. I felt so much like the bad child. Yet I had to do whatever I could to protect myself and my children and our future.
The whole time Jane and I sat in the kitchen, I could hear Rick calling out to us, “This stuff is sick, really sick. When did you say you’re moving? It can’t come soon enough.”
The feeling in my chest was like a rubber band being pulled, about to snap, the direction of its impact unknown but the danger very real. Even though I had been reading the journal for months and copying all of the e-mails Charles and Victoria had written to each other, somehow this felt worse—I think because, as always, I was still so caught up in how Charles would judge me. He would call me a “sneak,” say that I had no boundaries. And, despite knowing what I knew about him, I felt guilty. He was right—I was a sneak.
“Here it is.” Rick finally walked out of his study and handed me a thick, sealed envelope, along with the journal. “Put it somewhere safe; in fact, you probably want to make a couple of copies, and don’t leave any in the house. Give one to your attorney right away, okay? Do you want to stay awhile?”
“No, thank you so much, but I need to get this back to his desk. I’m too nervous having it out of the house.”
Jane and Rick walked me to my car. We all hugged, and I thanked them again, then got in my Subaru and rushed home to return the journal to its exact placement on Charles’s desk. As I drove off, I thought about Rick and Jane. Rick had not always treated Jane in the most respectful way. Then she had cancer, and shortly after that, he, too, was confronted with his own mortality with a cancer diagnosis. Their relationship changed. By now, I knew that would not be the case for Charles and me.
I was home a couple of hours before Charles and the kids arrived.
“Momma,” Sam blurted out, as he came running into the kitchen, where I was sitting. “You should have seen it. They had the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon, and we got a virtual jump to light speed. It was so cool. Even Elli had fun!”
“Yeah, it was pretty neat. Did you know, Mom, that the idea for Darth Vader’s helmet came from those Japanese feudal samurai movies? I love everything that has anything to do with Japan!”
“Wow, it sounds terrific. I’m sorry I missed it.” I looked over at Charles as he was walking in from the car and said, “I guess you really struck gold with this exhibit. It sounds great!”
He shook his head, said, “I’m really worn out,” and walked down to the basement and closed the door. The kids continued to share everything they had seen. I hoped I had left the journal exactly as it had been.
As was always the case, I still went through periods where I wanted to read his journal, to know what he was thinking, to understand him. The kids had enjoyed the Stars Wars exhibit so much, I was curious what he had to say about having been with them all day.
On Sunday morning, Charles said, “I’m going to go over to the office to do some paperwork. I have a lot to do.”
“I guess you’re not coming to my swim meet this afternoon?” Elli said preemptively.
“Oh, sure I am. I’m coming from the office. Just remind me of the time.”
“Mom, what time do we have to be there?”
“You have to be there at two o’clock, Elli,” I said, trying my best to sound nonchalant. We all knew that Charles had not remembered the swim meet and likely would not show up.
“I’ll see you at the swim meet,” Charles called out, as he walked out the door and left for the office.
“Yeah, right,” Elli said, sarcasm oozing from her lips in perfect harmony with the rolling of her eyes. “Mom, do you think he’s going to see Vic, his ‘best friend’?”
I couldn’t help but laugh, which made Elli laugh, and together we turned the heaviness into the kind of raucous, loving melancholy that sometimes only women, even mothers and daughters, seem to share. Finally, as we both caught our breath, I said, “I really have no idea where he’s going, and to tell you the truth, sweetie, wherever he’s going, it’s okay.”
“Yeah, Mom, and I hope Vic goes with him, wherever it is. They deserve each other.” And then we laughed some more.
“It does make me sad, though,” I said, putting my arm around Elli’s shoulder, and then asked, “What about you, sweetie—does it make you sad?”
I could always tell when the tears were coming. Her cheeks would begin to get pink blotches, her jaw would clench, and then her beautiful, almond-shaped blue eyes would be brimming over.
“I’m getting used to it. He just isn’t the dad I’ve always known. I don’t know where my dad went.” There was a pleading look in her eyes as she spoke.
“I wish I had an answer, but I don’t. I do know for sure that your dad loves you and your brother. He loves you as much as he can love anyone.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s the problem. Mom, I feel like going and taking a bath, okay?” she asked.
“Sure. Just please clean the tub when you’re done,” I reminded her.
Sammy was watching a video, and so I did have a chance to go down to the basement and take a look at what Charles had written about the outing he’d had with the kids the day before.
The journal was on his desk, and I found the entry easily:
I was glad that I took the kids to the exhibit. They seemed to enjoy it, but for me it was kind of boring. I could have spent the day with Vic, and had I known she was coming back from Texas a day earlier, I wouldn’t have suggested going to the exhibit at all. Their mother enjoys doing things like that with them. I have broader things I can teach them.
Broader things to teach them? What the hell was he talking about? That was his grandiosity. He didn’t have time for the ordinary tasks of parenthood—those would be too mundane for his level of greatness. He was absolutely right about one thing, though: I did love doing things with my kids; it brought me joy and did the same for them.
“Momma, do you want to come up and play Star Wars with me?” Sam called from the top of the stairs. “You can be Princess Leia.”
“Sure, I’d love to play Star Wars. I’ll be right up,” I called back, as I placed the journal back where I’d found it and climbed the stairs.
Surprising all o
f us, Charles did make it to the swim meet, just in time to see Elli in the two-hundred-yard freestyle medley. She beamed when she saw her dad standing there, cheering, as she got out of the pool. I was glad for Elli that he was there, but for myself, I would have preferred he wasn’t. I didn’t like that it had to be okay with me that the kids loved him.
BY the last day of March, the financing for the house was already approved. Dad had made a large down payment so that my house payment would be low. The deed to the house was written as a living trust so that it would automatically be passed on to me without any sort of taxes or legal process when he died. He had thought it all out so that everything was the way he wanted at the closing.
Afterward, Tim, Dad, and I went out for lunch to celebrate. It was a clear, bright day and the scent of spring was everywhere, along with the colors of the crocuses and daffodils.
After lunch, Tim drove Dad home because I had to do some errands. As I often did, I took a shortcut down St. John’s Lane. I loved that route; it was so peaceful driving beneath the canopy of towering trees, prisms of light hitting the glass occasionally. And seeing our old house still brought me a sense of warmth and comfort. My loving feelings about that home overrode all the losses that had occurred for almost two years now.
My windows were open to let in the cool breeze, the sun was shining, and there were no other cars in sight. I drove past our old house on the left and then the soccer field of the girls’ school on my right. There was a gentle curve in the road, and then my next recollection was that I was sitting in my car, disoriented, in a ravine, going in the opposite direction, only an inch from a huge oak tree. Everything looked very familiar, but I wasn’t quite sure where I was. I thought, If I just sit here for a few minutes, I’m sure I’ll figure out where I am.
Two women came running to the car from the nearest house.
Lost in the Reflecting Pool Page 21
