Conundrum (15 page)

My uncle also told me what happened to Judith and Aaron—their older brother and sister who had been privileged to remain at home
—
although that
phrase
could only be used
sardonically
. Aaron became profoundly schizophrenic and spent most of his adult li
f
e in an institution. My uncle was contacted many years later, after he had finished medical school, by a governmental agency that had tracked Samuel down. How they found him was a mystery. But
my uncle told me stories of the years of visits he had made upstate to visit Aaron and how mentally and emotionally incapacitated his older brother was. Somehow he
had
learned that Judith had moved to Europe and eventually committed suicide.
Surely
mental illness
did run
rampant
in
my
family.

My mind and heart filled to overflowing with stories until I couldn’t process anymore. Man
d
y and I spent one day visiting my aunt Nina, whose no-nonsense, austere demeanor also triggered an avalanche of memories. We had a lovely visit and, before I knew it, the day of my departure arrived. With gratitude, I hugged
my family good-bye as they saw me off at JFK.

As I stood on the curb watching them drive off, I was struck by the stark realization that I felt more
simple
affection for my uncle and cousin than I did for my own mother and brothers.

Chapter
9

When I arrived home, exhausted and jet-lagged, Jeremy was at the house, throwing the ball for Angel on the driveway, with Buster barking up his usual storm in protest. As much as his Lab genes pressed him after the tennis ball, Buster kept his distance from Angel’s snapping jaws. No one came between Angel and her fetching target—be it ball, sock, or rope. But both dogs rushed over to
the Super Shuttle
, yipping and prancing when they
saw me emerge from the van
—Angel with the ball tight between her jaws, her welcoming barks muffled but enthusiastic.

Jeremy
stood on the flagstone walkway and gave me a lackluster hug when I approached.
“Kendra called a little while ago. Your brother’s home from the hospital. I thought, if you weren’t too tired, we could go over and visit.”

I assessed Jeremy’s demeanor. He seemed relaxed, happy to see me. I pondered his words. Did this mean Raff was better? Or did it only indicate Raff couldn’t take those ugly green walls a day longer? I luxuriated in the cool evening clime, absent of the
clinging
humidity so oppressive in New York. The scent of honeysuckles and roses filled the air like a mist, adding to the more pungent smell of mowed grass—the
heady
aroma
I always associated with the start of summer. Across the pasture, the pond glistened in the dusky light and a few frogs chortled, loud enough for me to hear from this distance. My heart grew melancholy at the pristine surroundings—this Eden Jeremy and I had created.
Despite all
outward
appearances, there was trouble in paradise.

When we had first set up camp in our small trailer, nature engulfed us with its tall grasses and brambles. Trees dropped ungainly limbs on our roof at the wind’s meager rustlings. We cut a swath with the ride-along mower from our door to the gravel drive, slowly taming the wild beauty into submission. With help from a contractor friend, the piles of lumber, brick, rock, flagstone, and concrete sand all morphed into a simple but stunning ranch home, where the wildness was now kept at bay behind the
half circle
of Bigleaf maples. Deer often strolled across our back lawn, and migrating
Canada
geese lighted on the pond in season. Occasionally
,
a snowy egret or blue heron perched on the pond’s edge, searching for fish. Bears, raccoons, skunks,
and
even
the
rare
mountain lion roamed over those oak-studded hills, making us forget that urban plight and traffic jams were just a few miles away.

Jeremy came alongside me. His quietness bespoke a drinking in of the life proliferating around us. The property was more than ground, more than a compilation of hours spent in physical exertion. We had sunk more than love and roots into this place; our very souls were enmeshed and pulsed with the seasons that ebbed and flowed here. I worried that the
threads
that tied us together were inevitably sewn up with this land, that if either of us walked away from it, it would tear the fiber of our relationship apart, with no hope of repair.

After a while, I broke the spell. “How is Raff? Better?”

Jeremy only shrugged, the man of few words. Often he said more in his silences than in his speech, a language at times fluent with nuances words failed to address. Either he didn’t know Raff’s status or he wasn’t telling.
My
trepidation gr
e
w as I walked into the house. Would Jeremy’s things be back in place, or would he be returning to his rented couch down the way? With my mind so preoccupied with the discoveries from my trip, I hadn’t given much thought to my life with Jeremy. Now I realized I had shuffled it into that drawer in the back of my head labeled “denial.”

A quick glance told me things were as I left them. I guessed one week’s separation was not enough to make Jeremy realize he needed me as much as I needed him. A throb started in at my temples
,
and I squinted in the bright kitchen lighting. I poured myself a glass of water at the sink. “Do you want to go see him?” I asked.

A pause.
“If you want me along.”

His was a face I read easily, from years of careful study. That crooked smile belied his reticence. I didn’t blame him for wanting to avoid the melodrama of my family. His parents couldn’t pose a greater contrast—quiet, reserved, polite. Visiting Jeremy’s folks in Montana was like stepping into an episode of
Little House on the Prairie
. Conversations were simple, topics nonvolatile. Life in their home felt uncomplicated. Problems needed only practical
,
timeworn solutions. If the well pump stopped working, you went out a bought a new part and fixed it. That was the approach the Boltons took to all problems, great and small, external or internal. I tried to imagine how they would react to the kind of flamboyant emotionalism that characterized any gathering of my family. No doubt, they would look on in disbelief and confusion. The way I often reacted, as well
—needing subtitles for the ponderous subtext
.

“Maybe I should go alone,” I said, offering him reprieve. A flicker of relief flashed in his eyes. “If Raff isn’t doing well, things could get ugly.”

Jeremy nodded. “I fed the gang.” He gestured to the barn. “The kids are getting big and are a kick to watch. Shayla injured her leg somehow
,
and I’ve been treating the wound. It’s not deep.”

Shayla was a small, lame white Arab
ian horse
I acquired last year. Her owner
had
moved away and left her to fend for herself in a rundown corral. Fortunately, a PG&E repairman spotted her languishing and called the rescue organization. Shayla had a sweet but fiery disposition. No one would ever ride her again, but she enjoyed her status in my pasture as the top dog. Sometimes she got ornery and chased the sheep and goats, kicking up her legs and snorting the way Arabs do. But as much as she tried to appear aloof, invariably I’d find her sleeping at night flanked by the goats, who’d sidle up against her legs and rest their heads on her hooves.

“Well, I think I’ll take a quick shower and then head over.” The kitchen started closing in on me just a little. Jeremy must have sensed my discomfort. He walked over and gave me a quick kiss, pulling away before I could react.

“I’ll bring by a load of hay after work tomorrow.” He added with a look that I read as apologetic, “Glad you’re home. I hope your visit with your relatives went well.”

“It did, thanks. Why don’t you stay for dinner when you bring the hay? I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Okay.”

In that brief moment I knew he had more to tell me, unpleasant things that I dreaded to hear. I was struck by the tone of sadness in his manner. I noticed it not just in his voice; a blanket of unhappiness draped his whole being.

I felt suddenly guilty for his condition, as if I had wrapped him up in this
net
of misery and trapped him there. That had never been my intention in this relationship of ours. The morass we were floundering in seemed to have arrived like a sudden storm, catching us unaware. Before we had time to shore up the doors and windows of our love, something dark and brooding had battered us. Maybe
the squall
had been coming for a long time and I just
hadn’t
see
n
it. Maybe I
had
ignored all the warning signs that Jeremy kept pointing out to me.

I thought about Anne’s words, her stating so confidently that my mother was the cause of our meltdown. Sure, Jeremy was often at odds with
my mother
, but a lot of people didn’t get along with their in-laws. My mother could be rude and demanding, but for most of the last ten years Jeremy put up with her demands without complaint. Yet, she also complimented him, and showed her appreciation when he fixed things at her house or worked
in
her
yard
. Jeremy had enough self-esteem to take her occasional bashing and never had a problem telling my mother to back down when she pushed too hard. So why had things escalated to this level of tension? Had something happened between my mother and Jeremy? Something I didn’t know about, some conversation or confrontation I was not privy to?

I realized Jeremy was still there, waiting by the door, studying me. He caught my eyes
,
and every great fear within me became confirmed in that look of his. His face held untold pain.

Something
had
transpired while I was away.

I wanted to tell him I loved him, but the words refused to form in my mouth. I knew, in my heart
,
they would sound feeble, an attempt to ameliorate the weightiness of our predicament. Even the air around us changed and grew heavy, almost tactile. I sighed as Jeremy gave a little wave with his hand and walked away. I was left standing there, on some dividing line, with my past behind me and my future clouded.

An obscure lyric of Joni Mitchell’s drifted into my head.
“
Out on some borderline, some mark of in-between, I lay down golden in time, and woke up vanishing
.
”
She sung of a bird, mocking us as we grasped for ideals and power and beauty—things that faded in everyone’s hand.
“
Behind our eyes, calendars of our lives, circled with compromise. Sweet bird of time and change you must be laughing
.
”
I could almost hear that bird laughing at me.

I felt like climbing under my covers and going to bed, but it was only seven o’clock. Instead, I called Kendra and told her I was on my way. Knowing they would have already eaten dinner with the kids hours ago, I threw together a tuna sandwich and ate it while the shower got hot.

I was surprised when Neal answered the door. I hadn’t seen my younger brother in about a month. He’d just gotten a haircut
,
and his dirt brown hair barely tickled his ears. And he sported a mustache, which was a new look for him.
I constrained a giggle.
He scraped about six feet tall, a little shorter than Raff but a lot heftier, although every bit of poundage was muscle. When he wasn’t bartending—at least I thought that was his latest occupation—he was at his health club working out, lifting weights, playing pickup basketball.

“Hey, good to see you,” I said, giving him the once-over. His eyes, a stunning emerald shade, always captivated me. I touched his mustache and he pulled back. “What’s with the new look?”

“I hear women love facial hair.” He gestured me into the house. I recognized one of the Brandenburg
c
oncertos playing
through the speakers
in the living room. The kids were probably all in bed, or Kendra was tending to them.

I turned back to Neal. “Where’d you hear that?”

“A poll in
Cosmo
. Hey, don’t laugh!”

I couldn’t help myself. Neal
—
always looking for the secret to finding the perfect woman
—
just didn’t get it. Commitment scared him so much that one whiff sent him running. He talked about settling down, raising a family, but I’d never seen him last more than a month with one woman. There was always something wrong
with his latest acquisition
—physically, emotionally, behaviorally. At some point the perfect date revealed a fatal flaw, at which moment Neal dropped them like the proverbial hot potato. He didn’t break many hearts because he never allowed those women to get close enough, but he sure pissed off quite a few. He wasn’t the type to stay friends with the women he ditched. I chalked it up to shame. I’d long ago given up chastising him on the way he treated them; it never accomplished anything and fomented an argument every time.

I strolled into the ornate living room that oozed wealth from the simple antique furnishings and Oriental rugs. Gorgeous oil paintings adorned the cherrywood paneled walls—local artists’ work that Kendra purchased. Sweeping landscapes of Sonoma and the
b
ay. Supporting and touting upcoming talent was a hobby of hers. She had many hobbies but no real job. Why bother
?
Raff made a fortune and kept her in a lifestyle I would find awkward. In response to my mother’s growing wealth during my teenage years, I resisted
indulging in a lifestyle of affluence
on the basis of principle. The sixties, barely behind us, had left its mark on me. I had embraced hippiedom with fervor and only bought my clothes from thrift shops and the Salvation Army store. My recycling habits drove my mother nuts
,
as did my strict vegetarian diet. I think I even accused her of letting children in India starve while buying expensive clothes and cars
—
money that should have been donated to orphanages.

I let my eyes wander over the tops of the glass cabinets, which displayed an array of family photos, mostly of Kevin and the twins with their bright blue eyes and soft skin, taken at beaches, Disneyland, the Grand Canyon. All three kids favored Kendra, but Kevin had the dark thick eyebrows characteristic of the Sitteroffs. Gorgeous children.

Neal followed me in and sat on the camel
-
colored divan. He picked up a nearly full bottle of beer and drank. Raff came in from the kitchen, looking little better than I had last seen him. I gave him a hug and felt his arms shake slightly in my embrace.

“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice light. “I’m so glad you’re home and can eat real food again. I bet you had your fill of Jell-O.” That brightened his eyes a little. “The kids must be glad to have you here.”

He nodded
,
but it seemed an automatic gesture. Pain still flared behind his eyes. I didn’t want to ask him about meds or treatments or progress. If he wanted to broach those topics, then I’d listen. “So, anyone want to hear about my trip to New York?” I plopped down in a burgundy upholstered armchair beside the grand piano.

Kendra wandered into the room about halfway through my tale, giving me a friendly wave and taking a seat close to Raff, but I sensed a chasm between them. Kendra looked tired, but only trained eyes would pick that up. Her bronze straightened hair caressed her cheeks, and her makeup was subtle but right out of a magazine. I wondered how long it took her each morning to put on her face. And, with the tight schedule she ran with the three kids, plus grocery shopping, preparing dinner, carpooling to lessons and sports practice, how did she manage to look so unruffled at the end of a day?

Neal fidgeted as I spoke, no doubt working up to a speech. I didn’t dare mention my secret theory, my hope that uncovering the truth of Nathan Sitteroff’s death would save Raff—or at least open a door to healing. I also held back the information that might lead me to doctors and colleagues with answers to our father’s mysterious onset of leukemia. Instead of garnering a positive response to my dazzling and enthusiastic tale of our father’s upbringing, the heretofore unknown siblings, and the portrait of childhood I painted against the backdrop of 1930s New York, Raff grew more morose with the telling. True to form, Neal put his hand out and stopped me midsentence.

“Enough, Lis. Can’t you see how this is upsetting Raff? You just blab on, totally unaware of anyone else in the room.”

Kendra shifted in her seat. This would be her cue to go make tea or claim she heard the twins wake up. After my initial shock dissipated, I looked hard at Neal.
Kendra left the room without a word.

“Just what is your problem? Is it my rambling, or the fact that I’m trying to keep things light and cheerful? Like Raff really needs a heavy serious discussion right now.” I noticed my fists clenched against my legs and consciously tried to relax them. “At least I’m trying to help Raff, by learning more about our family and our father’s past.”

“Didn’t Mom already tell you to lay off?”

“Excuse me, but last time I checked, I was all grown up and able to make my own decisions. Whereas you .
 
.
 
.” I said too much, and it was too late.

Neal jumped to his feet. “You never think
;
you just act. And you only think about yourself. Maybe Raff doesn’t care about our father’s miserable childhood. Maybe he—”

Raff nearly screeched, trying to
shove
a sentence in between our verbal volleying. “Why are you two talking about me like I’m not in the room!”

Neal and I both looked over at Raff. His face was flushed and his forehead dotted with perspiration. I waited and didn’t move, and then he spoke again, this time a hoarse whisper.

“I really appreciate the sentiment, Lis. I do. But we all know that Dad suffered from depression. It doesn’t matter if he ate bugs or caviar when he was a child. It’s genetic, a chemical deficiency. You can’t blame circumstances or upbringing or—”

“I know that,” I said as gently as I could. Neal stood with his arms wrapped around his chest, scowling. “But I thought if you learned more about what he was like, you might stop hating him. You might
.
 
.
 
.
”

I wanted to say
“
forgive him
,
”
but I couldn’t get the words out. What if Raff interpreted my intention wrongly, thinking I was judging him harshly?

Raff hung his head. He looked utterly exhausted. “I hate him for abandoning me. Even if he hadn’t meant to do it, tried everything he could to face his demons and keep living, I still resent it. In the end, he quit on me. That’s just damned unacceptable!” A sour chuckle escaped his lips. “Do you know about the curse he put on me?”

“What? What curse?”
Come on, Raff, get real
. The only curse I knew about was the one my mother
had
cast on me from time to time throughout my childhood. It went like this: “Someday I hope you have a daughter just like you. Then you’ll understand the heartache you’ve put me through.” I shook my head. If only her curse had come to pass. How grateful I would be
.
 
.
 
.

Kendra came back in with a cup of tea in her hands. The room grew still. She looked at Raff while he spoke.

“The last words Dad said to me, the last time I saw him in the hospital before he died. He told me, ‘Son, you’re the man
of
the house now.” Raff’s voice took on a harsh
,
authoritarian tone. “You have to be grown
-
up, take care of your mother and sister and Neal. Stop crying and be a man.’ He robbed me of my childhood, then and there. I never got to just be a kid, get in trouble, act reckless. Always that curse of responsibility hung over me like the sword of Damocles, chastising me whenever I slipped. It wasn’t fair for him to say that to me. I was only eight
.
 
.
 
.
”

“Maybe you took him too seriously. Surely, he didn’t want you to feel burdened. To miss out on the fun of being a child.” It struck me how quickly I always jumped in, making excuses, pitting logic against irrationality. I kept forgetting that Raff now played by different rules, ones that spurned logic and embraced emotionalism. The contest
no longer
revolved around which argument made the most sense
or
who could rally the strongest facts but which explanation felt the most painfully true. I couldn’t play by rules I didn’t understand.

Even though I’d only been there about an hour, Kendra stood and placed a motherly hand on Raff’s shoulder. His eyes glazed over
,
and he stared out in space, at nothing. Her voice hid the exasperation I knew lurked under the surface.