The Wild Truth

by Carine McCandless

  In Heather’s bed, I put an elaborately wrapped gift from Santa—her very own Christmas storybook—nestled just so within her plethora of stuffed animals, so that it would seem like Santa had hidden it there just for her.

  When she emerged on Christmas morning, wearing her footie pajamas and a colorful reindeer antler headband we’d found at the mall, she looked as sweet as Cindy Lou Who. She walked slowly into the kitchen, her little fingers pointing down the hallway.

  “Merry Christmas, sweetie!” I said, giving her a squeeze. She stared back at me with eyes as wide as saucers. “What, honey? What is it?” I asked.

  “Mommy Carine! It was Santa!” she finally blurted out, practically hyperventilating. “Come look! He was really here! He was in my room!” She tracked the glitter trail and followed it into the bathroom. “Daddy! The elves used my potty!”

  The ruse had taken some effort and had the exact effect we’d hoped for. Robert smiled at me, and I smiled back. But as the day progressed and Heather carried on to everyone we saw about her special visit from Santa, all I could think was Oh my gosh, what have I done? I lied to her! I have to tell her the truth right away!

  Thankfully, my rational mommy instincts prevailed. We propped ourselves up in her bed that night, reading the special Christmas gift for her bedtime story. I kept the magic going while explaining to her that one day she would learn how everyone gets the chance to be Santa. She smiled and fell asleep in my arms.

  SHAWNA WAS RIGHT—Heather changed me in ways small and large, to the extent that I didn’t miss my independence at all. It seemed to have been replaced with a new mission—and a greater purpose. Regardless of the fact that Heather was not related to me by blood, in many ways I felt like my own past had been preparing me to not be just her mother—but also her advocate.

  Through child support and custody issues, stressful court filings and uncomfortable testimonies, I had to tackle an entirely new set of issues that I had never expected to deal with in my lifetime. Conflict was never Robert’s strong suit, and he was too amenable to Amber’s demands and legal proposals, which provided her a steady income without accountability while she retained primary custody of Heather. I was uncomfortable with the future I saw developing. I had my eyes on the door, envisioning my getaway, but something kept me from leaving. It wasn’t just about walking away from Robert anymore. I was falling in love with Heather even faster than I had with him.

  It was unnerving to witness Robert’s avoidance of tough circumstances, but I tried to understand how difficult it was for him to deal directly with Amber after the way she had left him. He had always said that for any relationship to function at one hundred percent, one person had to make up the difference when the other dropped below their fair share. He’d done that for me many times since we had met, and I resolved that it was my turn. Although I had no legal rights as a parent to Heather, I was practiced at dealing with emotional issues under pressure and was happy that I could help Robert and Amber work through it all by keeping us focused on what was best for Heather. It felt good to be needed.

  Through the years with my daughter, I kept myself in check by asking What would my parents have done in this situation?—and then usually doing the opposite. At first, my fear of failure constantly lingered in our household, though I was the only one aware of its ominous presence. But with my love for Heather, every obstacle became surmountable. And, as I expected it might, as Heather grew up, the task fell upon me to answer her questions about her past. It wasn’t always easy, but I cherished the opportunity to develop that bond of mutual trust and respect.

  In 2003, true to my self-imposed two-year maternal probationary period, Robert and I flew to Hawaii for an intimate wedding ceremony attended by only the two of us and the officiant. On a secluded cliff bluff nestled on the island of Kauai, overlooking blue crystalline waters, we exchanged vows committing us to coming together as Heather’s parents forever. Motherhood was my drug of choice, and I was addicted. I knew then I wanted more of it.

  BECOMING A MOM CHANGED ME significantly in another way, as well, outside of my maternal responsibilities. When asked questions about my family history, I began to speak more openly and honestly. I stopped declining invitations to speak at local schools where Into the Wild was required reading. When students asked about Chris’s childhood—which happened at every visit—I was careful not to condemn my parents, but I spoke the truth. I would remind the audience that my parents were human, and humans make mistakes. I gave examples of the good things they had done along with the bad choices I felt they’d made. The line I was walking felt increasingly narrow and slippery, however, especially as Mom and Dad started doing more of their own outreach, with a very different story about our family and what our childhood had been like.

  Mom and Dad spent part of each year living in the same city as me, and it wasn’t long before they heard about the discussions I was now having about our home life. They began to say disparaging things about me within the community and their church, and one of their favorites was “Carine’s just upset with us because in our wills we’re leaving all of our money to charity.” We did not attend the same place of worship, but word travels fast between congregations. I found their comments very hurtful but not surprising.

  The greatest violation was what I saw as an unforgivable encroachment on Chris’s faith. Mom would consistently use Chris’s last written words against him. “Carine, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she would say if I brought up a painful memory from childhood, her melodic tone piercing my gut. “Don’t you remember the good-bye note Chris wrote? He admitted to God that his life was happy. He had nothing to complain about.” They informed the family that they were born-again Christians and told me the slate had been wiped clean—that there was nothing to discuss. It revolted me to see them use religion as a pardon for their crimes and to know that I had allowed the opportunity for them to use Jon’s book as their new Bible; if it wasn’t in there, it didn’t happen. I was disgusted at the ease with which they exploited Chris’s incomplete story in an attempt to rewrite their own.

  “You’re wrong to use God in this way,” I cautioned them. “Chris said in his last letters to me that his life began during college after he left you two behind. That is the life he was talking about. You know that’s true—he said he told you that himself, and I don’t know how you can claim otherwise.”

  Mom laughed. “God will punish you for not honoring your father and mother, Carine. Don’t you remember His commandment? I feel sorry for you because you will not get to join Chris and us in heaven.”

  And so it went on every occasion I interacted with my parents. As they became more vocal in the limelight, my siblings and I became more exasperated by the mistruths they were spreading. I couldn’t protect Mom and Dad anymore, and they needed to stop making it so hard for me to try. Surely it must be possible to come together in some level of compromise in fairness to Chris, and to ourselves. But I needed backup. All my siblings dealt with these feelings in different ways. Some of us were willing to sit down and visit with an anger that the others found easier to move away from. Perhaps those of us who held on still hoped for change, while others were smart enough to stop waiting.

  When everyone was in Denver at the same time, I took the opportunity to “pull a Shawna” and bring the two sides together to talk things out. I invited Mom and Dad to join Shelly, Shawna, and me for dinner to discuss these matters, to try to improve our relationships and prevent further abrasions—or at least to slow the bleeding. Although history had taught me we likely wouldn’t get through to them, we were still honestly hopeful we could reach an understanding. As my sisters and I headed down the highway toward the restaurant, we devised our strategy. I would do the talking. Shawna would lighten the mood when the tension rose to dangerous levels, which she was well primed to do because she’d had an uncharacteristic cocktail or two before we’d picked her up. And Shelly—she would do her best not to explode.

  We a
rrived first and sat at the table to review our plan again. We predicted how Walt and Billie might act, complete with imitations. We analyzed the menu to see what food would make the least mess if Shelly wound up flipping the table over, and we all had cash in our pockets for a quick exit. The jokes cleared away our discomfort, until a tense fog rolled in with the arrival of The Show.

  Dad greeted the table with a jovial “Hello!” as if we had all comfortably broken bread together last week. In reality, Shawna and Shelly had had very little contact with them in recent years, and my last interaction with them had been through the Virginia Beach gossip mill. Billie placed some homemade bread on the table for us, each carefully preserved in plastic wrap and each one decorated with a different colored ribbon. Aside from that, my mom did not acknowledge me.

  “Why don’t we decide on some appetizers?” I said, hoping to warm up with some meaningless group discussion.

  “Oh look, Walter,” Mom said. “Shawna’s wearing a scarf just like the one Hannah always wears.”

  “Who’s Hannah?” Shelly asked. Mom didn’t answer. It wasn’t for Shelly’s ears anyway; it was for mine. Hannah was a woman a bit younger than me, a devoted fan of Into the Wild. She had befriended my parents, and Mom had started taking her to mother-daughter church luncheons. She had recently informed me that Hannah was their new daughter—my replacement. Hannah’s friend Allan, also an Into the Wild enthusiast, was Chris’s replacement.

  “Hmmmm. They don’t have any vegan options,” Dad said.

  “You guys are vegan now?” asked Shawna with surprise.

  “No. But Hannah is,” he answered.

  Mom arched her brows and gave me a So there look. Shelly and Shawna were perplexed and looked for my reaction, but I didn’t give one.

  We ordered our nonvegan appetizers, and I began. “So,” I said, “there are some specific things we wanted to talk to you about with regards to Chris.” I explained what was bothering us—how the misleading information they were giving about our family, and their not acknowledging the true past of Dad’s history with Marcia, was resulting in Chris’s actions appearing to be those of an immature rebel with no cause to leave the way he had.

  “Look,” Dad said, trying to take control of the situation. “I didn’t agree to come here to talk about any of these things.”

  “I told you when I invited you that was why,” I said, following it up with the obvious, “Why else would we be here?”

  I pulled out a list I’d made of times they had publicly misrepresented our family—either in talks they’d given or in text they’d published. “Instead of putting out all this nonsense about what a perfect childhood Chris had,” I said, “all we’re asking is that you not say anything at all. It’s terribly sad that you lost your son. Sympathy for you is fair and automatic. Why can’t you two just accept that instead of lying?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mom said.

  I got up from my seat and sat next to her. I showed her some of the things that had upset the rest of us so much: lists that conveniently misreported our birth order; words that ignored how Walt was impregnating two women at once, not to mention beating them; pictures that showed us as smiling children in one big happy blended family, images frozen in time that told an incomplete story. “You guys are publicly insulting this family,” I said, tears forming as my voice wavered. I was so overcome I was practically whimpering, and I felt decidedly pissed off that I was allowing myself to appear weakened. “You’re using Chris’s story to try to reinvent our history”—I took a steadying breath—“and in doing so you’re bullying Chris in his death.”

  Mom stared at the evidence in my hands and slowly shook her head in denial. “Hmmm, I really don’t see a problem,” she rebuffed.

  I went back to my own seat, frustrated, my face flushed. On cue, Shawna stepped in. “I think what Carine’s trying to say is that we’d rather you didn’t talk about our childhood at all if you’re not going to do it honestly.”

  “Do you know,” Mom said, looking at Shawna and Shelly, “that Carine has made a lot of money from all of this Into the Wild stuff?”

  “Yes, actually,” Shawna said quickly. “She shared some of it with us and told us to consider it a gift from Chris. It paid for my daughter’s braces.”

  One divisive tactic shot down, Mom tried another. “Oh, Carine, isn’t it you who’s making up false family scenarios just to get attention?” she said. “You’re not as smart as you think you are. I don’t even understand what wrongdoing you’re talking about. Besides, when I met him, your father had his own apartment and lots of girlfriends.”

  Shelly was sitting on my left and turned to me. The force of her hand on my knee told me her fuse had been lit. Her angry green eyes peered into mine as she said, “I’m not gonna make it, Carine. I’m not gonna make it!” She stood up, went over to my mom, and bent down until their faces were nearly nose to nose. “You started your affair with my dad when my mom was pregnant with me,” she said loudly, disregarding the close proximity of neighboring tables. “You have insisted on telling lie upon lie, and at some point it’s got to stop!” Dad looked on calmly, as if nothing that was going on had anything to do with him.

  Shelly went out to her car. We thought maybe she was just having a cigarette, but when our dinner came—served with a side of uncomfortable silence—Shelly still wasn’t back. Shawna had now had one glass of wine too many and was considering one more. She and I looked at one another, wondering, Should we go, too? Mom finally got up and walked outside, returning a few minutes later with a seething Shelly.

  Dinner resumed, but it was clear our mission had failed. We finished eating as quickly as possible, insisted on paying for our own meals, and got the hell out.

  As soon as my sisters and I got into the car, we started talking all at once. “Can you believe she said that?” “Can you believe he did that?” “Unbelievable!” After a moment of dumbfounded silence, we all looked at one another. Then we burst out laughing.

  “Who the fuck is Hannah?” Shelly asked.

  I started imitating Shelly. “I’m not gonna make it, Carine. I’m not gonna make it!”

  “Look at me!” Shawna slurred from the backseat, imitating the way Mom had approached the table. “I’m Suzie Homemaker and I made you bread!”

  “Shit, the bread!” I cried. I had the loaves of freshly baked bread sitting in my lap. “What the hell are we going to do with all this bread? Why did I even take it off the table?” We certainly didn’t want it. We laughed as the car sped away from the restaurant, away from The Show and into a saner world.

  CHAPTER 14

  I CAN’T REMEMBER the first time Heather called me “Mommy,” instead of “Mommy Carine.” Not because it wasn’t momentous in my mind. It was just something that happened progressively, and naturally.

  For a long time, following my mantra of what was best for Heather, I’d tried to include Amber in everything we did with her. So, I invited Amber over for tea and dinners and to work on school projects together, and occasionally she would accept. Together we planned Heather’s birthday parties and attended school assemblies and dance recitals. Robert understood that it was important for Heather to feel surrounded by love and support and not dysfunction, but the arrangement made him uncomfortable. As a result, oftentimes it was just Amber and me together with Heather at community events, looking like we were a couple, which made me uncomfortable instead.

  I worried that Robert and I were allowing Amber’s parenting efforts to be sporadic at best. It was almost as if Heather had come with a troubled big sister. I didn’t want to enable Amber; I wanted to encourage her to clean herself up and move in a positive direction. I found her job opportunities that she didn’t pursue. When she lost her lease, I found her a new place to live. I tried to help her with her budget and with saving for the future. I hoped she would become someone that Heather could look up to, and there were promising moments when I believed she would. But by the time Heather was
in elementary school, Amber had taken a bad turn and was spending less and less time with Heather.

  Eventually she signed over full custody to Robert and me. We all knew that this was best for Heather, and while a part of me was relieved by her decision, I feared it was a sign that Amber would disappear from Heather’s life completely. She promised that she wouldn’t, but soon her phone was disconnected and she had moved with no forwarding address.

  A few months later, Heather and I were standing in the refrigerated section of the grocery store, discussing what we might want to cook for dinner.

  Suddenly she reached one of her hands over to mine. “Mommy,” she said, her eyes enlarged to the size of the plates our dinner would soon be on.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” I asked.

  Heather’s stance became rigid, and without moving her head, she answered, “I think I see Mommy Amber over there.”

  I turned my head in the direction of Heather’s frozen gaze, and there was Amber, smiling as she strolled through the aisles, her blond hair piled high on her head, tanned, wearing a white tank top under a man’s flannel shirt. She looked over to us but then away again and continued pushing her shopping cart at a slow pace.