by Anna Burke
“Look, Dad, I’m working on it. Not just the boundary issue, but a lot of things. I’m always glad to see you, and love hearing about your work, but you don’t have to babysit me if you need to get back.”
“I still need more help to set limits—you get the incremental commitment problem from me, I’m afraid.” Hank let out a loud sigh. “Don’t wait until you’re as old as me to figure it out. When you’re my age, it’s not so easy to get caught up when things get backed up. I love you and if you need me I’ll be here—work be hanged. It will always take second place to you, Jessica.”
“I know, Dad. Thanks. Paul Worthington and Amy Klein have my back at the moment, but I’m dealing with the same issues about work, on a much smaller scale. So I totally get it. The holidays are coming and I’m on the mend, let’s do something fun together, okay?”
“That’s a great idea. Let's go to the Nutcracker or the symphony for a Christmas concert, or something here at the McCallum. I’ll look for some dates for us. In the meantime you have to promise to recover, and stay out of trouble, okay?” Before she could answer, his cell phone rang. He took a quick look at the number, “I’ve got to take this, Jinx, and I will need some files I brought with me. Sorry,” he said as he stood up, planted a kiss on the top of her head, and moved inside the house.
That conversation set off a surge of anxiety about her workload. Her job with the firm had taken off in the fall, almost as soon as the doors opened at the Palm Desert office. On Labor Day weekend she and her mother had hosted the Van Der Woerts for dinner. With her mother at the helm, the evening had been a delightful one. Cocktails and a dinner party had become a more elaborate affair than Jessica had envisioned. There were several mutual friends and acquaintances in the area who knew both the Huntingtons and the Van Der Woerts. Before she knew it, an intimate dinner party had grown to include over twenty people. After that, Jessica’s new practice expanded fast. Most likely at her mother’s urging, several dinner party guests had contacted or referred someone to Jessica for legal advice.
Jessica fought off an image of her inbox overflowing with files stamped "URGENT" in bright red letters. She should take that advice repeated by caring and concerned men in her life and have “COOL IT” emblazoned on a paperweight. Where were the boundaries on her work as a lawyer, or between her problems and those that belonged to friends and family? What was the name of that shrink her father had seen?
“Jessica,” Bernadette called out, “Go tell your mom it’s time to eat.”
“Okay, Bernadette.”
“I can do it,” her dad said, as he stepped to the patio door, with an empty plate in his hand.
“No problem, Dad. My behind is falling asleep from all the time spent in a near-prone position. Get your food. I'll get Mom,” Jessica said, easing herself out of the chaise, which was much harder to do without the use of both arms.
“Mom,” Jessica called out, tapping on the glass door. “Dinner’s ready.” Jessica peered into the shadowy room. Her mother lay stretched out on her enormous bed. She looked so tiny. Was she struggling after finding herself sleeping alone, again? After Jessica’s own split with her husband, there had been a lot of sleepless nights. Online shopping binges with her black AMEX card had been one strategy for filling empty hours provoked by the empty space in her bed.
“Okay, thanks Jessica. I’ll be right there.” Another failed marriage couldn’t be all that easy to handle. Giovanni had called, but her mother hadn't said a word about their conversation, or why their marriage was over. Jessica wanted to ask, but felt constrained by her mother. Their relationship was often circumscribed by bonding rituals around shopping and spa visits, sharing food and wine, or a round of golf. She knew so little about her mother as a person, or her experiences as a woman. Why was that?
Maybe, tomorrow, I’ll ask her, point blank, about Giovanni, Jessica thought as she shuffled back to her seat on the patio, taking care not to jar her still sensitive ribs. Dinner was delicious. They ate red snapper, “Vera Cruz style,” according to Bernadette, accompanied by tiny roasted potatoes served alongside baby carrots tossed in a mango salsa. Alexis joined them, but said nothing as she picked at her food. She ate little, but refilled her wine glass several times.
On the outside, quiet prevailed, although this dinner was a homecoming, of sorts. Inside, Jessica was growing more and more upset. It was good to be back in the lap of luxury and behind the gates at Mission Hills. Peter and his guys were back on duty sitting out in front of the house until the police learned more about the man who had attacked Libby. She was safe for now, but not happy. What was getting to her was the undercurrent of a too-familiar, yet mysterious, family dynamic.
Her mother sat, tired, withdrawn, and a little shaky. Her father, worn out, but also wary and on edge, stole worried glances at Alexis. Even Bernadette grew quiet after a few attempts at conversation went nowhere.
Another old feeling swept over her—guilt. How much of all that worry and weariness is my fault? Jessica wondered. This time, it was no debacle ending in expulsion from private school—two, in a matter of months—or a world-class tantrum that weighed them down. Instead, she had been tossed off a mountain in a fracas with maniacs, and may have been next in line for attack by that guy who shot his way out the hospital. Were they sad, angry, or too exhausted to speak? Her mind raced as the guilt hammered at her. The difference between the 34-year-old Jessica and the 14-year-old one was that she now knew she was no mind reader. Nor was she willing to ignore feelings that something was wrong.
“Okay, you guys. What is going on? Are you all ticked at me?”
Alexis looked up. If she was aiming to meet Jessica’s gaze as she tried to feign wide-eyed innocence, it didn’t work. She had to correct, mid-course, to make eye contact with Jessica. As she did that, she slopped the contents of her wine glass on her white linen pants. She looked down and swiped at the damp spots on her lap.
“Good thing it’s a white wine, huh?” she asked, and then giggled. Jessica could see Alexis the society-darling-Mom struggling to kick into gear. But with less skill than normal, or Jessica might have missed it. It dawned on Jessica how often her shape-shifter mother went from sullen social isolate to social butterfly when prodded or provoked.
“No one’s upset with you, Jessica. I’m not sure what’s going on either. My guess is your mother is drinking too much—again. I’d say she’s well past tipsy.” Alexis tried to look offended, but once again, her gaze missed the mark. She had to readjust her line of sight to send daggers at Hank.
“Mom, are you loaded?” Jessica asked. Alexis did that morphing thing and the anger toward Hank dissolved into society-girl giggles. That stopped when Hank spoke again.
“I figure she’s had a head start on the rest of us or there’s something extra in the mix. Am I right, Lexi?” His use of that pet name softened what was otherwise a harsh question.
Jessica flashed on a glimpse she had caught of the bedside table next to her mother. Pill bottles, several of them were on that table, one with the lid off. She hadn’t thought twice about it. Her mother always had pills around—lots of them. Alexis had long been a hypochondriac, concerned about her own health and quick to run Jessica to a doctor, too. It had never occurred to her that all the pills might mean something else.
“Besides boundaries, Jessica, therapy has given me a better appreciation for directness. Consider this an intervention, Lexi. Not a well-planned one. The timing may suck, given Jessica’s latest troubles, but enough is enough.” Bernadette spoke next, in a soft, firm tone.
“The jig is out here, Alexis, don’t you think? The goose is out of the barn, too, and you better spit out the beans.” No more tender voice had ever uttered such a garbled string of idioms. A pointed silence followed. Finally, Alexis spoke, a misery on her face and in her voice.
“Yes, I have a problem. More than one, in fact.” Alexis tried to steady her voice. Her eyes had filled with tears and her lips trembled. “I’m sick.
13 French Toast Debrief
The next morning, Jessica took her time climbing out of bed. She was raw, mentally and physically. The whole impromptu “intervention” with her mother the night before had been revealing, but unnerving. Not only was her mother dealing with cancer, but alcohol and drug abuse. Learning that her mother had cervical cancer was bad. That she was putting off surgery because she didn’t want to give up her pills and alcohol was terrifying and infuriating.
Jessica had fought off the urge to take her mother by the shoulders and shake her. She wanted to shake her father, too, and even Bernadette for keeping so much hidden from her for so long. But Jessica wasn’t in any condition to shake anybody—with one arm in a sling and the other hand bandaged. What good would that have done anyway? Jessica struggled to make sense of the new reality unveiled to her. Life as she knew it had changed, in a matter of moments, on that patio at dusk.
Her mother had been forthcoming about the problems she faced, but her thinking was far from clear. Alexis knew she was in trouble. Still she stunned Jessica when she hesitated about getting into treatment after admitting she needed it. She didn’t balk, but wheedled and attempted to stall.
“I can’t go... I, uh, what about Giovanni?” Alexis asked.
“What about him?” Bernadette countered. “He’s not going anywhere and you don’t know for sure what you want to do about him, or you would have done it. Get yourself cleaned up and what to do about Giovanni will become clear, too.” Alexis nodded, sniffling.
“Jessica needs my help,” was another tack she took, to which Jessica replied as fast as she could get the words out.
“Mom, if you want to help—if you care about me, you’ll get treatment now!” Jessica had tried to keep the anger out of her voice, without diminishing the urgency she intended to convey. Not just anger, but panic had set in. The panic she so often felt when forced to reason with the unreasonable.
With a little more coaxing, Alexis agreed to get into treatment. Hank was on the phone immediately and found her a spot. Nothing was available at Betty Ford, so Alexis agreed to go to another classy rehab center—this one in Malibu. Jessica sat in silence, a stunned 12-year-old again, as the three adults took action. More than falling off a mountain, this long held secret had knocked her flat on her back. Once her mother had gone to pack, it had taken Jessica half an hour to speak without anger; first to her father, then to Bernadette.
“Dad, I don’t understand. Why did you keep this part of our family life from me for so long?”
“There are so many reasons. I spent years in denial about your Mom’s problems. She was such a delight to have in my life so much of the time. Alexis was enchanting to be around, so full of energy and life. Then, this other side of her emerged, soon after our marriage. She became moody and withdrawn at times but who doesn’t? At first, even that didn’t set off any alerts. In time, things got worse. Still, she was such a good actress that if I said anything to her, she’d pull it together for a few days and I’d think I was crazy.”
“Did she have problems growing up? Grandma Emma always seemed happy to see us when we visited. Mom was a little quieter around her, but they seemed to get along.”
“Emma and your mother were opposites. Emma was stern, and so much more rigid and uptight than Alexis. She was critical of Alexis, too. Her criticism seemed to be typical ‘generation gap’ things—disputes about clothes and makeup, etiquette, all rather superficial. Did your mother ever complain about being whipped with hangers or other ‘mommy dearest’ type moments? No. And Emma stayed out of our affairs once we married. We didn’t visit that often, but when we did it was always tolerable.”
“What about her father?” Jessica was almost afraid to ask, given the horrid things that Libby and her doctor had cooked up to torment and extort her parents. It felt wrong to be asking such questions, like she was trying to pin the blame for her mother’s problems on her grandparents.
“He was an affable guy. He drank a lot, but I never saw him drunk, if that’s what you mean. The man always held a responsible position at work, and the community held him in high-regard, so if he had a problem, he kept it hidden. I never asked Alexis any of these questions so I don’t know if there’s a family history of alcohol or mental health problems. At some point I became concerned about her mood swings and how much she was drinking, plus all the pills. When the news about Betty Ford’s problems came out, and she announced she was opening her clinic, I made a stab at getting Alexis to do something. She went into treatment and gave it all up right before she became pregnant with you. After your birth she hung on for a while, but then slipped back into all the old patterns. She had an injury or two, or so she claimed, and the pills showed up again. I asked, but she told me to back off. She argued that doctors wouldn't give pills to her if she didn't need them. I'm not sure she ever stopped long enough to figure out if the booze and pills was the source of her problems, or if something else was going on. I felt confused and blamed myself. It was hard for me to gauge how much my work was impeding our relationship. At some point my harping no longer seemed effective. I wasn’t sure what to do, much less what to tell you. You were so young.”
“Did you know about this, Bernadette?”
“Sì, Jessica, some of it. I did what I could to get Alexis to get help. It was hard to get the complete picture. I wondered about all the medicine she was taking, but like Hank says, she always had a reason—headaches or back pain from falling off a horse or pulling something playing golf or tennis. It was always somethin'.” Bernadette shook her head, looking every bit her age.
“I’m sorry I left, Jessica,” Hank added, “but this went on for years and I had reached the end of my rope. The tension between us was causing you harm, and I figured that outweighed any good I could do. It's like I had become part of the problem rather than the solution. We separated for a while and I hoped she’d come to her senses. You know, figure out which problems were because of me, and which were her own? That didn't happen, so I gave up and agreed to a divorce. Eventually, she went into rehab again somewhere in Switzerland—soon after Jessica went off to college in Irvine, right Bernadette?”
“Yeah, that helped some, too. She got herself cleaned up and was sober for a while, but the drogado wasn’t the only devil in her life, Jessica. I don’t think she’s faced up to all of them yet.”
“Isn’t Switzerland where she met that Cranston guy?” Jessica asked.
“That’s right. She was feeling better after the treatment. Then she met Cranston, fell in love and married him in no time at all. Too fast, I thought, but what could I do?” Bernadette said.
“We had lived apart for years, but I was heartbroken, Jessica. But when I saw her again after that, it was a relief to see her happy, so I hoped he’d succeed where I failed.”
“He turned out not to be so good for her. Soon she was back on the party-wagon. On the wagon, off the wagon, I forget which is which when it means she’s doing good or not-so-good. When she wasn’t around, it was even harder to tell what was going on. One day, Cranston's gone and another guy's there. Was that a good sign or bad? I didn’t know for sure.”
“I hated being kept in the dark. The undercurrents made me crazy! I thought it was my fault that our family fell apart.”
“Jessica, when you were young we told you it wasn’t your fault. Later when you became an adult you were so busy making a life for yourself—college and law school and Jim and the bar test. With a job and a wedding and the house-fixing what could you do about your mother’s life?”
“Bernadette’s right. By that point your mother was my ex-wife. What she did wasn’t my business anymore—unless it had to do with you.”
“It was so confusing. I knew things weren’t right. There was so much I didn’t understand.”
“You were a child then, Jessica. I wasn’t sure what was going on with your mom either. We did what we could to reassure you we both loved you even if we couldn’t work things out between us. That wasn’t always
easy given the way you acted out, I might add.”
“I know, Dad, I feel guilty about that too!”
“I don’t want you to feel guilty. All I’m saying is that we all did the best we could. Now that you have divorced Jim, it must have crossed your mind that if you had kids, things would be more complicated than they are. You’d have difficult choices to make, deciding how much to say to your child about Jim’s behavior and the problems in your marriage. I didn’t want my disappointment to turn you against your mother. It wasn’t Bernadette’s place to tell you more than I did. I just kept most of what was going on, or what I assumed was going on, to myself. All I could do was to tell you, over and over again, that your mother and I never stopped loving you even when we couldn’t be together anymore.”
“I am grateful for that, Dad. You’re right. I have given a lot of thought to how much more difficult divorce would have been if Jim and I had a child. Having to be in the same room with him still seems like more than I could bear. So, thanks for figuring out how to make that work with Mom.”
“It was hard at first, but my relationship with your mother improved, especially when she was sober. I can’t tell you for sure how I know that. There’s just something different about her when she’s sober and when she’s not. It's clear she hasn't won whatever fight she’s been waging to achieve sobriety. Given the way all the old patterns reappear, I’m with Bernadette that Alexis has not faced down the demons that bedevil and beguile her.” Jessica was curious and would have liked to hear more about those demons, but an interruption ended their conversation.
“Well, if you all are through psychoanalyzing me, I’m packed, demons and all.” Her mother stood in the doorway, lit from behind. A strange halo illuminated her as she spoke. A rush of emotions overtook Jessica. Anger and fear, supplanted by sorrow, and even pity, for this woman she loved. All those years of her mother’s life spent in turmoil. Jessica felt crushed by the waste of it all—the loss of what might have been. Now Alexis was sick with cancer, too. At least there was still time for her mother to sort things out. In a split second, Jessica was at her mother’s side, pulling her as close as a one-armed woman with battered, sore ribs could. Her mother clung to her as best she could without causing Jessica more pain. They wept for several minutes.
