The Underside of Joy

by Seré Prince Halverson

  I nodded, though I realized that I understood nothing about my life and the people I loved. She pulled an embroidered handkerchief from the sleeve of her white cardigan and wiped the tears from my cheeks. ‘I will see you upstairs in a few minutes.’ And she climbed heavily up the steps. When I reappeared in the kitchen, she said, ‘Why, there’s our Ella. Help yourself, dear.’

  I took a peanut butter cookie and she bent down and kissed the top of my head, and that was it. She never mentioned the incident again. And I certainly didn’t, either. Until the conversation with my mother just days before, I’d set it back in some far corner of my memory. There was now the undeniable fact that I’d lived much of my life according to that one lesson: Look the other way. Don’t ask. Ever. And good God, don’t say what you really think.

  That night, the night before we were to sign the stipulation that would give me custody, Annie and Zach climbed into the tub while I poured in the milky bubble bath, unwrapped the bars and gave them each one. I sat on the floor and reached over and lathered them up – their pale, soft hair, their sweaty necks, their torsos and arms and legs, the bend of each elbow and each knee. I knew every freckle, every one of their scars and where each had come from, and what the weather had been like each fateful day. Rinsing their sudsy heads back in the water, I soaked in their giggles when I washed between their toes.

  Zach held up his foot and asked me the question that he asked every bath: ‘Mommy? Are you getting the stink out of my stinky dogs?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Now they’re sweetie dogs?’

  ‘Kissable sweetie dogs!’ I grabbed his foot and kissed his toes while he squealed and tried to pull free from my grasp.

  While Annie and Zach shivered, I dried their heads and bodies with warm towels from the dryer, then held pj’s out for them to step into, aligning their feet into the footsies, buttoning tops, snapping snaps, combing down squeaky-clean hair. They climbed up into my bed that night, and I held them, and I held them, and I held them.

  Around 3.00 a.m., I slipped out of bed, stoked up the woodstove, retrieved the letters from the closet shelf, and tiptoed back out to the not-so-great room to discover exactly what it was that Paige Capozzi had written to my husband and children after she had left them on that rainy Sunday, more than three years before.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  February 11, 1996

  Dear Joe,

  I have to leave. I can’t keep pretending to be what I’m not. You know I love Annie and Zach. You know I love you. But there’s this other part of me . . . I’m scared. It’s like I’m my mother down deep inside. But you won’t listen. Dr Blaine won’t listen.

  This is the hardest thing. It’s not fair to you or to them for me to stay. I’m not coming back. I should not have become a mother in the first place. It was crazy to try. But I am crazy.

  All the rain makes me feel even crazier. It’s the sound of water sputtering, pressing me down, all day every day. Las Vegas is dry. It’s warm and light here.

  Please don’t tell the kids I’ll be back. You all need to start a new life without me. Your family will help you. Keep doing the things that come naturally to you, the things that seem to evade me. Play with them, kiss them, hug them, and please never let them go.

  Remember that I tried to do better.

  ∼Paige

  This was the letter Joe had told me about. He hadn’t lied. There was a card addressed to Annie and Zach that had a bear on the front with the words, You know how much I love you? And when I opened it the arms unfolded a foot on each side. This much! And so I’m sending you this bear hug. It was signed Mama.

  April 11, 1996

  Dear Joe,

  Please stop calling. I know you’re trying. This isn’t what I wanted, either. I cancelled my Dr’s appt. I can’t get up today. Something’s always pressing me down. Besides, it’s not like the doctor can do an exorcism on me and get rid of my mother. It’s not like he can go back and change my DNA.

  What if something had happened to Annie or Zach? Think about that, Joe. Look that in the face. It changes everything. I think I can live with leaving. But not if I’d hurt them. What if I’d done something like my mother did?

  ∼Paige

  July 2, 1996

  Dear Joe,

  I know for certain I can never go back. Not to that dark, depressing kitchen that was getting smaller and darker. Soon I would be crouched in a corner on the floor.

  Thank you for not calling again. I can’t be with Annie and Zach . . . and hearing about them is too hard right now.

  I have to say good-bye for good now. I’m sorry. I have an appointment with a doctor tomorrow. Aunt Bernie is taking good care of me. Someday, when Annie and Zach are old enough to understand, tell them their mama loves them.

  ∼Paige

  I wondered why Paige’s lawyer would subpoena these letters. How could they help her case?

  A card for Annie and Zach that said Some Bunny Loves You. There were more cards addressed to them, all unopened. But there were no letters to Joe for more than five months. The next one was still sealed, never opened. As were all the others that followed, even those addressed to the kids. I held the next one addressed to Joe, kept turning it over.

  It was postmarked October 15, 1996. Joe and Annie and I – with ‘help’ from crawling Zach – had just decorated the house for Halloween, I remembered; we’d strung orange lights and filled baskets with maple leaves the colour of fire, with Indian corn and gourds. We cut the pumpkins we’d grown in the garden and lugged them up to the porch. Joe had honoured Paige’s request. He had moved on. Even to the point of deciding not to open this letter that had come eight months after she had first left, insisting she wouldn’t return, five months after she’d said – for the last time – she would not write again, four months after Joe and I had fallen in love. I took a breath. I was tampering with evidence if I opened it. But what I once refused to know, I had to know. I pressed my thumbnail down under the sealed seam.

  October 15, 1996

  Dear Joe,

  Dr Zelwig says I need to start writing you again. I told him you haven’t called or written. He thinks that it’s more than you just abiding my requests. After this morning’s session, he thinks you’re probably afraid of me. That I wasn’t just scaring myself. That you’ve probably always been afraid of me.

  I told him about the big test I threw at you when we first met. He thought it might be good if I wrote you about what I was feeling, and what your reaction might have meant. I know how much you love psychobabble. But these days my life is nothing but, so bear with me.

  Anyway. I’d spent 20 years hiding. People kept telling me, ‘You should model.’ If they only knew. But I kept seeing you on campus with your camera clicking away. There was something about you, the way you looked at things. Patiently, beneath the surface, even. I’d see your name on the photo credits of the school newspaper. I asked you if you did portfolio shots just so I could meet you. You lied and said yes. You even ran out and bought that pretty robe and other clothes to hang on the shower rod to try to make your bathroom look like a model’s dressing room! So we both started with lies, even if they were just white ones.

  I guess I was ready for someone else to know. Someone besides Aunt Bernie to love me. All of me. It was an act of desperation, if there ever was one. From the beginning, I knew what I would do.

  Remember, Joe? Your clicking away. Your surprise at me shedding my clothes.

  And finally, for the first time in my adult life, I show someone the other side of my story. I turn around and the clicking stops. But there’s no gasp of disgust, no fleeing your apartment. I feel your gaze. Later, you’ll ask me how and why. But first you hold out the paisley robe, and I slip my arms through the sleeves. You turn me back around, tie the belt in front. And then you hug me.

  I always loved that story, even though we never told anyone. You promised to keep my secret. But today, when I told Zelwig, he said, Joe covered up the part of you th
at was too difficult to look at.

  I hadn’t thought of it that way. I was so grateful that you looked at all and that you didn’t flee. I thought it was about complete acceptance. But maybe not. Maybe Dr Zelwig is right. Can you see how he might be?

  ∼Paige

  I didn’t want to read the rest of the letters, well aware that I was opening a Pandora’s box and could never go back. But I knew I had to read them for Annie and Zach. It was 3:25 a.m., but I called Lucy. She answered on the second ring. When I asked if she could come over, she said, ‘I’m there. Give me seven minutes.’ She didn’t even ask me why or point out what time it was. And when she got there, she let herself in and curled up on the couch with me and took the letters and started reading them, all without a word. When she had caught up, we read the next one together.

  October 21, 1996

  Dear Joe,

  Today was the best session so far. I actually think Dr Zelwig might be able to help me! He’s found a medication that doesn’t zone me out or make me want to drop dead. And there’s a name for this. Not Baby Blues, like Dr Blaine kept insisting. Most women have those. This is called Post Partum Depression.

  It’s triggered by childbirth. It can be hereditary and it can go on for years. Mine is a very severe case . . . But here’s the best news of all: I’m not my mother! Dr Zelwig doesn’t think I would have hurt Annie and Zach. Because there’s also a rarer form, a more elevated form, that is called Post Partum Psychosis. It only happens in a very small percentage of women.

  He says my mother was one of those women. Joe, she wasn’t a monster. She was just very, very sick. And medication and hospitalization could have helped even her. Had they known back then.

  Even today a lot of doctors aren’t aware of anything beyond the Baby Blues. Like Dr Blaine. But you know what? This has been around forever. Dr Zelwig gave me all this information I can send you if you want. But here’s an amazing quote, from a gynaecologist from the 11th century: ‘. . . if the womb is too moist, the brain is filled with water, and the moisture running over to the eyes, compels them to involuntarily shed tears.’

  I’ve been crying non-stop. Relief. Despair for my mom, for what didn’t need to happen to her or to me. And for the first time, Joe. HOPE!

  ∼Paige

  ‘Paige had hope? On October 21, 1996, Paige still had hope?’ I said, ‘I wonder what would have happened if Joe had opened the letters, if everything would be different now. If he would have sat me down and held both of my hands and told me Paige was coming back. To be with Annie and Zach. And Joe.’

  ‘El, Joe adored you. You breathed life back into him when you showed up here. And Annie. And Zach. Don’t bombard yourself with a bunch of what-ifs, my dear. That’s not going to help anyone.’

  We kept reading.

  December 15, 1996

  Joe,

  Still haven’t heard from you. Finally I called Lizzie. She says there’s someone new. Really, Joe? Just like that?

  Here is the photo of us we sent out last Christmas. Aunt Bernie brought it from her refrigerator. I’ve cut my face out. (The nurse had to watch me. We’re not allowed to use scissors without supervision. Just like Annie’s preschool.) Maybe you can glue in her face. Ella’s. Ella Bean?

  ∼Paige (your wife)

  ‘Ouch.’

  Lucy said, ‘Look, I don’t know what she expected of him. She told him to quit pining away and get on with his life. That’s what he did. Thank God he did. Open the next one. Here, give it to me. I’ll open the damn thing.’

  April 8, 1997

  Joe,

  Well, I finally hear from you and it comes in the form of a manila envelope and divorce documents. And a note that says, I know this is what you want. What makes you think you know anything?

  I know I signed and served you papers for a legal separation. I know I wrote and told you to move on. But I was confused. I’m sorry I said that. It’s not what I wanted then, certainly not what I want now. Haven’t you read any of my other letters?

  I don’t have it in me to fight right now. I’m concentrating all my efforts on getting well. I can’t handle a court battle yet. But someday I will.

  I can’t believe you’re doing this. Zelwig says it’s lack of information and fear.

  They’re MY children, not HERS.

  ∼Paige

  Lucy said, ‘You’re wrong about that one, honey.’

  ‘Not entirely . . .’

  ‘Ella.’

  ‘Well? What happened to Paige? Something must have scared the bejesus out of her when she was little. Something her mom did . . . She obviously did love Annie and Zach. It’s not like she ran away with some Hells Angel to find herself.’ I tore open the next envelope, no longer caring about evidence and tampering.

  May 1, 1997

  Joe,

  The court order came today. You got custody only because I didn’t fight it. Make the most of this time, because you know it’s only temporary.

  Maybe you don’t think I’ll ever have it in me to fight. But that’s because you don’t know the new me. The me that has forgiven my mom and myself. And maybe someday, even you.

  ∼Paige

  There were several more letters pleading with Joe to work things out, telling him about her new career, then threatening to call the kids, threatening a legal battle. And then this:

  February 16, 1999

  Joe,

  I’ve been hesitant to see Annie and Zach without your cooperation. My attorney wants me to move forward with a custody action, but I keep hoping you’ll return my calls or letters. For Annie and Zach’s sake, if not for mine.

  What have you told them about me? Did you tell them I died? Is that why you’re not responding?

  It’s for their sake that I haven’t just knocked on the door or called them. Talk about temptation. I fight it every day. But I’ve tried to be patient and give you time and space to adjust to the idea of me being back in their lives as well as making absolutely sure I was ready emotionally and financially. I’ve tried, but every day without them tears away at me.

  If we get in a full-blown legal battle, it won’t be good for anyone. Please, Joe. You have a new life. You don’t have a right to keep me away from my kids.

  ∼Paige

  I opened the last letter. Sent six days before Joe drowned. Five days before Joe said he had something he wanted to talk with me about.

  June 15, 1999

  Joe,

  I’m going to call you today at the store and send this. After that, you’ll hear directly from my attorney. Please work with me. I am literally begging you. I have to make things right with Annie and Zach. I’m ready and I’m done waiting for you to be ready.

  ∼Paige

  I folded the last letter and put it back in its envelope, as if it were an object I could simply put back in its place. The fire rifled a loud pop. ‘What am I going to do?’ was all I could think to say. ‘What the hell should I do?’

  ‘Ella.’ Lucy took my hand in hers. ‘That is a question I simply cannot answer.’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Lucy, throw me a bone here.’

  ‘No way. No. This is something only you can decide. Dig deep, El. You’ll know what to do. In the meantime, and afterwards, I’ll be here no matter what. Now try to get some sleep.’

  ‘Yeah. Right.’

  She hugged me and left. Somehow, when I climbed into bed, the mattress pulled me with a swift, relentless force into a maze of sweaty dreams.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I woke feeling damp and salty and disoriented, the sun already cresting the treetops. I jumped out of bed, not wanting the kids to think I was slipping away from them again.

  Everything looked different, as if I had journeyed through another country and just returned. My bedroom, the bathroom, the hallway . . . all imprinted with new knowledge, a weary traveller’s perspective. How had I not seen it before? This home had a history. Joe and I had made no
major changes in the house since my arrival, except for the wall we’d torn down between the kitchen and living room. Maybe Joe was afraid walls could speak.

  He had come home one afternoon that first summer and, instead of his usual roll around the floor with Callie and the kids, he paced in the narrow kitchen.

  ‘Doesn’t this kitchen bother you?’ he asked.

  I shrugged. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘It’s dark, don’t you think? And cramped. And the living room is too small. Don’t you find the whole thing extremely depressing?’

  ‘Not really.’ Depressing didn’t even sound like Joe.

  ‘This wall – it could come down easily. It’s not even a load-bearing wall. It’s not a thick wall. It’s just a wall. A wall that should have never gone up in the first place. I don’t know why it wasn’t kept open in the first goddamn place.’

  ‘Joe?’

  He left the house and headed for the barn. On the stove the beets from the garden simmered, bobbing in their ruby liquid. Joe walked in with an axe.

  ‘Joe. What are you doing?’

  ‘Take the kids outside to play. We all need light. We need space. We need air.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ He didn’t look like a man who had simply decided to start a home-remodelling project. He smiled, but his lip was twitching. His eyes shone, daring me. For a second, a cold fear passed through my body – we had only been together a month or so, and I thought, Okay, this is where my loving guy turns out to be an axe murderer. But I saw a tear slip from his eye, a tender vulnerability cross his face. He took the axe to the wall like he was hitting a baseball. It tore through the plaster with a sullen crack.