An enlightening conversation with Albert, Charles’s father, took place that Saturday afternoon. I was working in the kitchen, and Charles and his mother had taken the children to the pool. Albert had fallen asleep on the oversize chair in the family room. When he awoke, he walked into the kitchen and sat down on the pine, ladder-back chair. As he placed his hands flat on the table, the darkened spots on his skin spread like brown puddles of ink across the wood.
“Would you like something to eat or drink?” I asked.
“No, thanks, Di. I’m fine.” He sat quietly for several minutes; the silence was heavy.
“This is hard for all of us.” I paused. “I don’t know what Charles has told you, but I hope that we can continue to have a relationship.” I was being polite more than genuine, although I did want the children to maintain a bond with their grandparents.
“I don’t know. You’ve done some terrible things.” His jaw tightened, and when I looked closely enough, I could also see the muscle in his left eyelid twitching ever so slightly.
What? I thought. But I said, “I’m sure we’ve both done things in our relationship that have brought us to this point. But, you know, when someone’s partner is very ill, I think that loyalty and support should be paramount. I have been very ill. Charles has been nonexistent in my life and pretty much the same toward the kids.”
“I won’t believe that Charles did anything unless he tells me that he did something,” he added. “You poisoned him against his mother.”
I was incredulous. From the day I had met Charles, he had spoken of hating his mother, and now I was being accused of turning him against her? I said to his father, “Albert, I really don’t know what you’re talking about, I’ve done no such thing. What evidence do you have?”
“At your mother’s funeral, Charles got up and spoke and said that your mother was like a mother to him. He has a mother!” His usual passivity was now markedly aggressive.
It took effort to stay calm, but I did. “You know, Albert, I can understand that hearing Charles say that must have been hurtful to both Marcy and to you. But those words came from him, not me.” If only Albert knew the things Charles had said about his parents to everyone. If only he knew how Charles wished for them to die in a “fiery crash on 95” so he could inherit their money. Those desires had nothing to do with me, but I didn’t tell Albert any of this.
I was finding myself short of breath, and I knew I needed to get away from this conversation.
“I’m really sorry that you feel so angry at me, but this is very difficult to listen to. It really is not at all based on what’s happened, and I am physically having a hard time listening to this.” I didn’t move, but my fingers clenched the cup in my hand so tightly that my knuckles cracked.
“You have not treated us nicely for years when we have visited,” Albert continued, completely ignoring my shallow breathing and increasing distress.
“Albert, I’m the only one who’s been around when you and Marcy have visited. Charles is the one who totally ignores you when you’re here. How can you blame me for something that’s his fault?”
“Don’t you have a mind of your own?” he countered.
“When you visit, I plan things for us to do; I cook meals for us. It would be nice if your son participated, don’t you think?” I stopped talking. This was as distorted and crazy-making as what Charles did to me. I couldn’t win. I also couldn’t breathe.
I stood up and poured the remainder of my tea into the sink. As I watched the golden liquid splash against the stainless steel, I imagined spitting out the venomous sputum that was caught in the back of my throat. “This is too disturbing and crazy; I can’t and I won’t listen to it,” I said, avoiding Albert’s gaze. “I have to leave. I’m going to help my dad pack for the move.”
With those words, I placed the cup in the dishwasher, picked up my pocketbook, and walked out. I could hear Albert still talking as I closed the front door behind me. I got in the car, and as I started the engine, I burst into tears.
I started driving. I turned left out of the gatehouse, my head in what had become a familiar state of dazed confusion. I then made a right and headed north. The canopy of branches enveloped me as I drove, and I felt sheltered. I drove without any clear sense of where I was going. I found myself continuing north on Falls Road. By the time I reached Mt. Carmel Road, the landscape was rural.
The landmarks I passed all held memories of the twenty years I had spent with Charles. I passed the supermarket we shopped in when we first dated and lived together; My Favorite Things, a small shop that sold dollhouse miniatures, where Elli and I had spent hours; the Wagon Wheel, a local eatery that served the best breakfast anywhere; and the spot where one snowy night I had gotten stuck on Big Falls Road and Charles had come to shovel me out of a snowdrift and get me up the hill so I could go home.
There were so many memories. There was nothing in Baltimore that didn’t in some way connect me to Charles. As I found myself driving past all of these places that comprised our life together, I was still trying hard to understand. Had we ever really had a relationship? This would be a question I would struggle with for a very long time. My tears flowed, but my body felt eerily numb.
Next, I drove the winding back roads toward the small cottage where we lived when the children were born. I smiled as I approached what the kids had come to call the Whee Hill, because I would speed up a bit as I went up the hill and then take my foot off the gas as we went down, squealing, “Whee!” with delight. After we moved, the kids would sometimes want to return for a ride down the hill, and we would do that. As I approached the hill now, I smiled and accelerated, then cruised down, enjoying the exhilaration and the memory.
I then drove off the road into the development that Charles hated so much. I parked at the top of a hill and spent a while looking down at our old property. It was very quiet. I could see the rolling hills, the narrow creek that wound its way toward the Gunpowder River, the fenced horse pasture that stood empty now, one lone board missing on the loafing shed that was still in good condition. The chicken coop had been taken down, and it looked like an addition was being built onto the house. Life wasn’t perfect back then, either, but, looking down from the hill, I saw paradise. I closed my eyes and breathed in the cool, colorful spring air, feeling weightless and ethereal.
I walked back to my car and slowly drove off the hill. This time, I got on the highway and arrived at Dad’s apartment. He was on the phone when I walked in; he hung up when he saw me.
“I just tried to call you at the house. I was beginning to get worried. Where have you been?” As he spoke, my feelings gushed out and I told him about the conversation with Albert.
“I don’t understand those people; there’s something wrong with them. I called them a few months ago, and they never returned my call. We’ve known each other for years. We’re like family. You’d think they’d want to talk to me. The apple sure doesn’t fall far from the tree.” He looked tired and sad more than he looked angry. He hugged me tightly and said, “It’ll all work out, Di. I know it will.”
His tone was far less convincing than his words.
“The movers will be coming at nine on Monday. I’d like it if we carried over some of your mother’s delicate things. I’ve put them all together in my bedroom.”
“Do you have some more boxes and paper, or should I run down to the car and bring up what I have in there? I think we should wrap things even if we’re carrying them ourselves.” I started toward the bedroom, thinking of the beautiful things my mother had collected over the years, overwhelmed with the thought of the unpacking that lay ahead. I saw a stack of boxes in the corner of the bedroom and a pile of packing paper in the corner before my dad had a chance to say anything.
“Oh, I see you have everything we need. . . . I should have known you would.” I smiled at him, and he smiled back.
“Come on. Let’s get started so we can get these things over to the house. Then maybe we can go h
ave some dinner—a good meal will make us both feel better.” He winked at me and handed me a piece of packing paper, and I began to wrap two antique bisque vases, one with two delicately sculpted little boys climbing up the sides, the other with the same two boys climbing down. When I was a child, those vases sat on top of two bookcases in my parents’ living room. I would sit on the couch across from them and make up stories about these boys: what adventures they were having, the camaraderie between them, their challenges and their successes.
After packing about five boxes, we carried them down to my car and put them in the backseat. The rest of Dad’s apartment was already packed. He had decided to stay at Lydia’s until the renovations were completed. He wasn’t comfortable staying with us. He didn’t want to be around Charles.
By the time I got back home later that evening, the house was quiet. Marcy and Albert had clearly gone back to their hotel, the kids were asleep, and Charles was down in the basement. I went into my bedroom, and, although I didn’t usually lock my door, this particular night I did. If the kids wanted me, they could knock. I didn’t want anyone, meaning Charles, walking in.
Chapter Thirty-Six
I SAT ON THE FLOOR IN THE NEW HOUSE, SURROUNDED BY boxes and Dad’s furniture. The lights inside were off. The porch light filtered prism-like patterns through the glass onto the face of the grandfather clock that stood tall in the corner. It was midnight, and sticky, hot, and humid, not unusual for an early-June night in Baltimore. The children and I had not yet moved; it would be another week before we did. The predictable chimes of the clock brought some sense of order to the disarray of the room. Even without air-conditioning, in the midst of the renovations and all of the accompanying disorder, with the scent of freshly sawed wood permeating the air, I could finally breathe for the first time in two years.
I was waiting for Jeff, one of my new neighbors, a plumber, who had said he would come over to check the air-conditioning because it didn’t seem to be working.
When he arrived, he spent quite some time in the back, knocking and tapping and checking things, while I sat on the steps, just waiting.
When he reappeared, he looked up to where I was sitting on the stairs and said, “Hmm. I’m not sure exactly what it is. Just give me a few more minutes. I’ll figure this out.” With that, his eyes stopped and he moved his flashlight to a red switch on the wall over my head. He walked over and flipped the switch up. Immediately, the sound of the air conditioner came on. “I think the problem is solved.” Jeff touched my shoulder and smiled. “Your luck is turning!”
“I guess it is,” I said; then we both laughed and hugged. I thanked him for his help, and after he left, I again sat in the dark, smiling and breathing.
It was after two in the morning when I got back home. I saw that Charles was sitting on the couch in the family room. He was on his cell phone, clearly speaking with Victoria, because she was the only person he spoke with at all hours of the night. He averted his eyes as I glanced in his direction. I was well practiced in remaining stone-faced and continued up the stairs. Elli’s tape player was still on, and I turned it off and pulled the covers over her, kissing her forehead gently. When I looked in Sam’s room, I found his bed empty and saw that his patchwork blankie was not there, either. I walked out onto the landing of the loft looking down over my bedroom. There he was, his curly brown mop spread out across a pillow, arms and legs twisted and tangled between blankets and sheets. The long, ragged, faded-red satin piece of his blankie was tucked under his right cheek, clutched between his thumb and his index finger. I walked down the carpeted steps and placed the throw blankets over him, kissing the curls on his head. Then I went upstairs and fell asleep on his bed.
The next morning, Sam wrapped his arms around my neck and asked, “Momma, where were you last night? I waited here for you, but you didn’t come!”
“I thought I told you that I would be at the new house, waiting for Mr. Jeff to come and take a look at the air conditioner to see if he could fix it. Guess what was wrong with it?”
“What?” Elli asked, as she walked down the stairs from the loft above my bedroom.
“Well, after Mr. Jeff checked everything and was beginning to get frustrated because he couldn’t figure out what was wrong, he flashed his flashlight up toward the ceiling. Guess what he saw?”
“A spider?” Sammy blurted out.
“I bet it was the power switch.” Elli rolled her eyes. “What else could it be?”
“She’s right—it was the main switch. Somehow it had gotten flipped off while the guys were working down in the basement and never got flipped back on.”
“Some people are so dumb,” Elli added.
“Elli, those things happen to everybody. It doesn’t make them dumb.” Elli was becoming increasing more critical of others. It wasn’t something I liked to see in my usually sweet and empathic child. I hoped it wasn’t a reflection of the tension she was experiencing, because that was beyond her control.
“Come on. Sam, you go upstairs and get washed and dressed for school, and then come back down for breakfast. Elli, why don’t you come into the kitchen and set the table so we can catch up while I start breakfast?”
I watched as Sam raced up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. His resilience seemed much greater than his sister’s did at this point. I sighed.
“How about some French toast?” I asked, as Elli and I walked into the kitchen. She plopping herself onto one of the white wooden chairs, sunlight streaming in and casting a halo around her yellow curls.
“Nah, I’ll just have a bagel and cream cheese.” She scowled as she got up, got out the orange juice, and poured herself a glass.
“Okay, but I’m going to make French toast for Sam, and there will be enough if you want some. Can you set the table, please, and take out the butter and syrup from the fridge?” I asked, as I began dipping pieces of bread into the egg-and-cinnamon mixture I had just made.
“Mom, can I tell you something?” Elli was walking to the table with a stack of dishes and cutlery in her hands as she spoke.
“Sure, you can tell me anything.” My stomach clenched tightly.
“I know you hate Dad, but I feel really sad that he’s going to be all alone. Especially since he’ll still be in this house for a few weeks after we move out.”
I’m not sure how long it was before I said anything, but when I spoke, I took Elli’s face in my hands and looked her in her sad aqua eyes. Thoughts of feeling like a failure as a wife and as a mother flooded my head. My guilt that I had not been able to keep the promise I felt I had made to Joni, Elli’s birth mother, to give Elli a stable and loving family for life was overwhelming.
“Elli, I don’t hate your father. I am very angry at him, and I am very hurt, and I am also very sad. I know this is very hard for you, and you don’t know how much I wish it could be different. I promise you, though, we will get through this. We all will.” Tears ran down my cheeks as I spoke, and as I hugged her, the saltiness of my tears mixed with the saltiness of hers. I prayed that my words would be true.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
THE KNIFE RHYTHMICALLY HIT THE WOODEN CUTTING board as I diced the blood-red beets. The pinkish juices slowly seeped into the lone crack that ran down the center of the board. I had been prepping myself all afternoon. I had my lines practiced so that I didn’t go off script. It was still the only way I could deal with Charles’s verbal dexterity. The way he used words was really verbal masturbation—he got off on it. I, on the other hand, was merely a prop. My words were just self-stimulatory tools for him.
The movers would be coming on Wednesday morning. Charles had said that he would take the kids to camp, and I had arranged for my dad to pick them up. He had told me that he would give me the $2,500 for the movers. He had not yet told me how much he was going to give me each month for the children. Nor had he signed our custody agreement. Damn, it was hard to get into court. Short of having a butcher knife impaled through one’s chest, blood drippi
ng on the courthouse steps, nothing was an emergency. I was getting out because of a legal term, constructive abandonment. But I still wanted him to sign the agreement! It was going to be a battle, and it all had to do with money. He wanted to make sure he’d pay as little as possible in child support.
Baltimore was such a small community, I didn’t even have to read this in his journal. I heard that Charles had said to someone, “I’ve supported them all these years. Now it’s her turn!” Listening to him, one might have thought I had been out playing tennis for the past decade, rather than juggling a part-time practice, running a household, and actively taking care of two children—not to mention going through infertility treatments and, after that, a diagnosis and treatment for cancer. Heaven forbid I might have felt the need to slow down and have some time to recover and get my strength back. Charles would have said that was selfish, though. He would have said that I was in victim mode. Maybe that was true. I needed to find my equilibrium, to stay focused and on script.
The front door opened and then closed. It was only four thirty. I looked up, and Charles was standing in the archway that separated the kitchen from the family room. My hands were over the sink, beet juice dripping down my fingertips. I let the hot water from the tap wash the red color from my hands and run down the drain.
“Oh, I’m glad you got home early. The kids are over at the new place with my dad. He’ll have them back in about an hour for dinner. It would be great if we talked about the custody agreement.”
“What do you want to say about it? I’ve been very clear about what I want. I want custody split down the middle. Everything fifty-fifty.” He began going through the mail that lay piled on the table.
“Charles, the children and I are moving the day after tomorrow. I would like the agreement signed before we move. I’ve agreed to joint legal custody, but I want physical custody. The kids should have as few transitions as possible during the school year; we can always be more flexible during summer and vacations. We can make sure that you get the number of overnights you want. I just want the schedule to involve as few transitions as possible.” I was trying to be direct and not confrontational, but it was impossible to know how I really sounded, and inside I shook with fright.
Lost in the Reflecting Pool Page 24
