Between Darkness and Dawn

by Margaret Duarte

  “He practices entertainment law. According to what he told me, he’s one of America’s top 100 power attorneys. Quite an exclusive group.”

  “He must be brilliant,” I said grudgingly, amending my previous judgment of him as a spoiled drifter.

  Anne pursed her lips. “He must understand how Hollywood works, that’s for sure.”

  I picked up a mini Snicker and tore open its wrapper. My mother used to make a dessert called Snickers Candy Bars, with milk chocolate chips, butterscotch chips, peanut butter, marshmallow cream, caramels, whipping cream, and salted peanuts. It was amazing I had any teeth left. “What did Adam do for a living?”

  “He was CEO and managing director of one of the fifteen talent agencies that run Hollywood. In other words, he was one of the most powerful people in the entertainment industry. From what Cecil told me, being an agent is a dirty, cutthroat business. The pressure is incredible, Hollywood being such an uncertain place.”

  “A spiritual desert,” I said, biting into the Snicker.

  “And we’re taking Adam back to it a changed man,” Anne said.

  “Are you okay with all this?”

  “Marjorie, in most cases AD leads to death in seven to ten years. Adam has already surpassed five. Soon he’ll become unaware of his condition. No desires, no aversions, no hatred, no tenderness. From that point on, the one who’ll suffer most is Cecil. Watching his father deteriorate will be horrifying. My job will be to provide Adam with as much security and predictability in his otherwise uncontrollable and meaningless physical surroundings. but just as importantly, if not more so, I’ll try to provide Cecil with an understanding ear and heart. Pray for them both.”

  It took a moment for me to get words past the tightened muscles in my throat. “I really, really hate Alzheimer’ disease.”

  “It most definitely tests the spirit,” Annie said. “Be grateful that you’ll be spared witnessing Adam’s final days.”

  She was right. I’d had the good fortune of getting to know, learn from, and love Adam when I did. “Annie, I’ll miss you both.”

  “Bet you’ll never forget us.”

  “You’ve definitely opened my eyes to a thing or two.”

  “And you, mine.”

  An assortment of tea bags lay strewn on a tray. I was about to select an orange-cranberry, when Anne shooed away my hand. “It’s got to be green tea for that shot of theanine I promised. Relaxation without sedation.” She sprang into action. “Hot water coming up.”

  After pouring steaming water into a mug and dropping in a bag of “the best green tea on the market, besides the loose variety, of course,” Anne asked, “Have you talked to Veronica about your mother’s request?”

  “No chance. She looked dispirited, so I put her to bed.”

  “Don’t discount Veronica’s current disheartened mood to simple lethargy or fatigue. It may be more than that. In fact, I’m sure of it. She’s going through some kind of spiritual surrender, allowing her imagination and emotions to take reign for a while. Which I’m sure is not her natural state.”

  Darn right it’s not. Not my strong, powerful sister.

  “Odd,” Anne said, “for your mother to make the request she did.”

  “From the dead, of all things,” I said. “I can’t believe this. After everything our father has done to her, she still loves him and wants us to contact him.”

  “Apparently, he holds a secret,” Anne said, motioning for me to sit in one of her shabby boho camp chairs.

  I sat. Accepted her curative mug of tea. Took a sip. Not bad. “I wonder if it has anything to do with completing the circle that Antonia talked about.” I paused, groping for the missing piece of the puzzle. “Something’s wrong, Anne. Veronica doesn’t want to take me to our father. He must be a monster.”

  “Is that the impression you get from her?”

  The mug in my hand was shaking, so I set it next to the metal campfire ring. “She’s sending out some pretty negative vibes.”

  “Which means another delay,” Anne said.

  “Or lesson. Maybe there’s more for me to learn before taking that step. Speaking of which... Anne, according to what Cecil said, you can see and hear things. Can you—”

  “What I see and hear is my personal cross to bear. Trust your own inner voice. It’ll lead you where you need to go.”

  The sound of running water and wind swooshing through the lower branches of the trees added credence to her words. “I hope you’re right.”

  “You’ve learned a lot during your stay here,” Anne said. “I can tell even in the short time we’ve spent together. For one thing, you’ve learned to stop asking why. And you sense the deeper good in seemingly senseless situations You’ve also learned compassion and trust and to love more deeply. Take these lessons with you and apply them when you go to Pacific Grove to meet your father.”

  Cold numbed the tip of my nose and my leg was falling asleep. I uncrossed my legs and twisted in my chair to improve my circulation, then picked up my mug and took a reinforcing sip of what was left of Anne’s synergistic shot of theanine. “I’ve learned a lot from you, Adam, and Cecil, and my brief acquaintance with Holly, Claudia, and the participants in the workshop at the Esalen Institute, but I’m not sure I’m through asking why. Do you think seekers ever become finders?”

  Anne’s gaze seemed to penetrate to where I hurt. “Life is not about pursuing certainty, but greater understanding.”

  “As far as the deeper good...”

  She chuckled. “You think too much. Unhappiness and disappointments are just surface ripples. Let them pass over you. Inside, you’ll be undisturbed.”

  “Anne, is that what Adam has done? Has he entered the place of peace within himself where his environment no longer determines his happiness? I’d like to believe that. I mean, I’d like to believe he can go on without wants and fears, without his sculptures, his grotto, and without us.”

  “You go, girl,” Anne said. “Adam has been introduced to the presence of something that transcends our current understanding of things. He’s remembering where he’s from and where he’s going again. Now, how about applying what he has taught you to your own situation. Enter that place of peace within yourself.”

  “Where my environment no longer determines my happiness?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll give it my best shot,” I said. “If for no other reason than to help Veronica. Our mother’s request to contact our father has really shaken her up. I get the feeling she needs me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  ON ENTERING VERONICA’S room the next morning using the spare keycard she’d given me, I found her sitting on the floor next to her bed, knees pulled up to her chest, forehead resting on her knees, still wearing her pink sweats. It looked like a tornado had touched down on her bed and ripped through the rest of the room, hurling clothes, shoes, and decorative pillows in all directions. Her sheets and blankets formed a twisted heap on the center of the mattress. Her suitcase lay open in the middle of the floor. Messy, sloppy. This girl needed a personal maid. Or an intervention.

  I picked up two pillows and put them on one of the armchairs facing the unlit fireplace. Her knee-to-chest pose was one of low spirits rather than one taught in a basic yoga class. “Hey, Sis.” Our roles had apparently reversed. The mention of contacting our father had drained Veronica of her strength and activated mine.

  “He’s in Pacific Grove,” she said.

  “Pacific Grove,” I echoed, caught off guard by her comment. Who is?”

  She lifted her head with the slightly disoriented look of someone who just woke up. Her gaze tracked my face as though she expected me to read her mind.

  “Who’s in Pacific Grove?” I asked.

  “Our father.”

  My knees began to buckle. I sat on the bed. Was he tall? Was he short? Was he handsome? “So, does that mean I finally get to meet him?”

  “If you want to,�
�� she said, her voice throaty, raw.

  “Want to? Of course, I want to.” He’s part of who I am.

  “I knew you’d react that way.”

  “Jeez, Veronica, I’ve been looking forward to this day... No, dreaming of this day, since...since—”

  Veronica held up her hand. “Hold it.”

  Why was she acting this way? There was obviously bad news ahead. And since it concerned Veronica, and my father, it concerned me.

  “He’s an alcoholic,” she said.

  She might as well have doused me with ice water, the way my body went into chill mode. “How bad?”

  “It’s affecting his health.”

  “Cirrhosis?”

  “Not that I know of, although I wouldn’t be surprised. He looks a lot older than he is. He’s thin and his skin...”

  I stood, walked over to the door leading to the exterior deck, and opened it. A refreshing, pine-scented breeze rushed in, along with the singing of songbirds, the hammering of woodpeckers, and the harsh cackling of crows in a spirited forest symphony. However, the light was dim, due to the cloud of vapor that drifted and swirled through the neighboring redwood forest as though pumped in by a portable fog machine. I turned my attention back to Veronica and the cheerless room. “We need to help him.”

  Veronica picked up a pillow and punched it with her fist. “Don’t you think my step-mother and I have tried? You have no idea what we’ve been through. And are still going through. He’s a disaster.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  After a brooding silence, Veronica said, “I think it all goes back to feelings of guilt. Of what he did to Antonia, to you, and to my stepmother.”

  “And to you,” I said.

  Veronica hesitated, then seemed to decide on something. “I’ve tried to detach myself from him, you know, keep an emotional distance. But he keeps pushing my buttons and hanging on. I can’t make him go away. He follows me, Marjorie. At least when he’s sober enough. It’s amazing how much he can accomplish while under the influence.”

  “Why?”

  “Beats me. Maybe he still thinks I’m his little girl, kind of like with you and your adoptive mother, Truus.” She dropped her face into her hands. “It’s as if he perceives me as his personal property and that his every wish is my command. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

  Her words echoed my words to Morgan and Anne less than two weeks ago—a lifetime ago. I’d felt then as Veronica did now, as if I were in a spiritual black hole in which everything solid was vaporizing. She was in darkness, and seeing her this way broke my heart. It also pointed me toward a new purpose as I neared the end of my journey along the second path of the Native American Medicine Wheel. No more wasting my life energy on judgment and blame. No more idling in neutral, distant and emotionally uninvolved. No more wallowing in the anesthetizing fog of disconnection and a closed heart. In Big Sur, the land of my mother’s people, I had retrieved a part of myself that I’d forgotten, and now I would use that part of myself not only to fulfill her strange request to meet with my father, but to support Veronica in her search for the light. “Does he know where you are?”

  “He knows that I’m applying with the DEA.”

  I drew up the blinds covering the windows facing the deck. No brilliant burst of sun light, but light just the same. Softened by fog. “How?”

  Veronica’s laugh sounded hollow. “He’s quite the detective when he puts his fuzzy mind to it. Plus, he doesn’t have anything better to do.”

  My chest ached at the sight of my sister, my hero, sitting there, back bowed, sinking into the feelings she’d been trying to outrun, searching for a way out of what our mother had asked us to do. But our mother must’ve had a reason. And we’d promised.

  “Do you still want to meet him?” Veronica asked.

  “Yes,” I said. I couldn’t keep waiting for more knowledge and more skills. I couldn’t wait for more support from the world. “It’s what our mother wants.”

  When Veronica didn’t reply, I added, “We’ll share the burden.”

  ~~~

  The morning fog had lifted, but the sky over Anne’s campsite looked unsettled. Long, flat-topped clouds with the appearance of blacksmith’s anvils were forming overhead.

  Anne followed my gaze and stated the obvious, “Thunderclouds.”

  “Bring them on,” Veronica said before plopping down next to Anne on her yoga mat. Then in a voice without the slightest inflection, my sister began telling her about our father.

  Anne listened, sighed, and nodded, but said little, as though the best thing to do at this point was to sit with the information, hurt, and anger Veronica was sharing and allow for the mud to settle.

  How strange. At times, while Veronica was describing herself—her rigid self-sufficiency and perfectionism, her avoidance of close relationships, her intolerance of uncertainty and change, and her inability to express emotion—she could’ve been describing me. Yet, the father who had raised me had been kind, supportive, and addicted only to love. What was it that shaped us as individuals? Events? People? Circumstances? Heredity? Or did our “shaping” have more to do with how we reacted to our yesterdays and used them as a foundation for our tomorrows? Could the clay of our past still respond to the molding of our hands and minds, as long as we kept it wet and fluid and didn’t expose it to the fiery temperatures of judgment and guilt? Could we use our history to our advantage, instead of allowing it to get in the way?

  When Veronica finished, Anne said, “You’ve just taken the most difficult step in the healing process of what you’ve been through. Openly identifying the problem and talking about your sadness and anger. Well done.”

  “You can thank my shoulder angel for that,” Veronica said with a quick tilt of her head in my direction. “She drove me to it.”

  “Yeah, Marjorie has that effect on people,” Anne said with a grimace. “So, how about we take a look at the flip side of what you’ve just shared? From what your sister told me and the little I’ve observed since meeting you, you’re not afraid of other people and authority. You don’t depend on others to tell you who you are. You stand up for yourself. And you’ve just done a darn good job of unburying your feelings and expressing your emotions. In other words, you’ve been through a lot and prevailed. That’s what I call progress.”

  “Thanks, counselor,” Veronica said. “Are you implying that my father made me who I am.”

  “Strong and powerful,” I said.

  Veronica chuckled. “Love you, too, Sis. I’m addicted to danger and excitement, which gives me the feeling of control. Maybe that’s what you see when you think of me as strong and powerful. I’m the daughter of an alcoholic, who has let me down so many times, I’ve lost count. Forgive me if I don’t look forward to seeing him again, let alone introduce him to someone precious to me, who I don’t want to share. Discovering that I had a sister was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I won’t stand by and watch my father destroy her, too.”

  Precious? Best thing that ever happened to her? I was so shocked by what Veronica was saying that I couldn’t speak.

  Anne smiled, her eyes reassuring. “Marjorie’s stronger than you give her credit for.”

  “Yeah,” Veronica said. She demonstrated that when we were stuck in that cave in the Los Padres National Forest. Wow. You should see her in action.”

  I felt like a fly on the wall listening to a conversation that was making my head spin. Don’t stop now, Veronica.

  “The situation you’re labeling as bad might hold a deeper good,” Anne said. “Challenges often become opportunities.”

  Veronica shot her a look that matched the stormy clouds above.

  “Anne may be right,” I said, finally finding my voice. I felt antsy, as I had in Veronica’s room, wanting to wash windows, scrub floors, run a mile. Instead, I took a seat on one of Anne’s wobbly camp stools, which had about as much stability as one of those ani
mal spring riders you find on park playgrounds and, therefore, did little to offset my fidgety mood. “She’s given me some sage advice a time or two.”

  My sister looked unconvinced. “Elizabeth and I have lived with Bob’s illness for years. We’ve tried everything and, as far as I’m concerned, exhausted all possibilities. He’s a walking time bomb. If he doesn’t kill himself, he’ll kill someone else. In the meantime, he goes along his merry way, oblivious to the path of destruction he leaves behind.”

  “Do you hate him?” I asked.

  Veronica looked at me as if part of her were dying. “Yes. Sometimes I do.”

  ~~~

  This would be my last hike before leaving Big Sur and heading for Pacific Grove to meet my father. I planned to make it a memorable one. I would stop often to look and listen. I would allow the silence to blanket me. I would pay attention to the space between the drip of the fog, the squawk of the crow, and the peck of the woodpecker. I would lean against trees, smell the perfume of their leaves, needles, and bark. I would put my toes in creeks and ponds. I would be there as fully as I could.

  While I climbed the Mount Manuel Trail toward Vista Point, beyond, underneath, and above the shady oak woodlands and exposed chaparral, came the sight and smell of decaying leaves and decomposing matter. Death and life, hand-in-hand, one feeding the other.

  I thought about how life kept rearranging itself, how it went on, and how we were dissolving at every moment. Leaving Adam and Anne behind would be a small death for me. There would be an empty space left inside. Maybe, with the right attitude, I could find peace in that space. Maybe I could make room there for my father and his secret.

  Apparently, he had wasted twenty-eight years punishing himself for the mistake of falling in love with two women. So much pain and suffering over something that couldn’t be fixed. It had settled in his mind and caused him to decay from the inside out. And with him, he had dragged his wife and his daughter.

  In many ways, I had been spared.