Conundrum (17 page)

After picking her up, w
e made small talk in the car
,
and I tried to relax, but the tension between us was electric. I needed to broach the topic about the legal papers and find out what had transpired between her and Jeremy while I was in New York. Yet, all I wanted to discuss was this secret experiment and
learn
if she had known about it.

The restaurant sat up against the bay, in Sausalito. We were
led
to a window table with a stunning view of the sailboats and ferries plying the water. Dozens of seagulls squawked and dove for fish in the blustery wind, but we were sheltered by thick glass, which muted the bird cries. Soft piano music played in the background
, which
I realized came from a pianist in the far corner. I rarely ate at such a posh restaurant, and certainly not for lunch. I felt conspicuous in my jeans and tank top,
with
everyone around me sport
ing
business suits and expensive attire. The place was filled with young upwardly mobiles, many with their briefcases opened and
scribbling on
notepads. A vase of beautifully cut flowers—roses, carnations, and bearded irises—sat on our starched white tablecloth, and the silverware was so shiny the reflected sunlight hitting my eye made me squint.

I let my mother order for me, and once that business was finished, my mother assessed me—and found me wanting, no doubt.

“So, Lisa. What’s on your mind?” A gorgeous, slender waitress brought my mother a cup of coffee. Looking around, I gathered that only thin, attractive people
were hired
to work here. I stirred my iced tea, wondering where to start.

“And please,” my mother said as I opened my mouth to talk, “don’t start in about the past and your father’s childhood. I think we’ve spoken enough on that topic.”

Despite my mother’s pleasant smile, her tone of finality was enough to embolden me. “What can you tell me about a secret experiment Dad participated in? In San Diego, before he died?”

My mother nearly dropped her teaspoon into her coffee. “Who told—” She snorted. I’m sure she assumed it was my uncle who
had
provided that information, but I had no intention of telling her about my conversation with Ed Hutchinson. She would go ballistic if she knew I was pursuing this further. And I surely was not going to mention my planned visit to Mountain View. What struck me was the flicker of emotion that crossed her face in that short second. I knew without a doubt that my father had been involved in that project. And my mother knew I knew.

“Well, I don’t see why it matters at all. I never told you kids about it. Why should I have? It only would have driven home your father’s wish for self-destruction and cast him in a bad light. I didn’t want you to think badly of him.”

“So, it’s true, then? That he volunteered for some experiment, something dangerous.”

My mother sipped her coffee and splashed some on her crepe tan blouse. She deftly dipped her napkin in her water glass and attacked the stain before it had a chance to set. I wondered why she didn’t just bring a bib with her whenever she went out to eat.

For some bizarre reason my mind leapt to Macbeth’s wife, sleepwalking and muttering about the blood on her hands.
“
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
”
There was something about the brusqueness with which she rubbed, and with a mindlessness
,
that reminded me of Lady Macbeth—unaware, disturbed, confused.
“
Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!
.
 
.
 
.
What’s done cannot be undone.
”

I reined in my imagination, but thoughts of conspiracy and concealment
marshaled forces
against my attempt to postpone judgment. Yet, the word pounded at me:
cover-up
.

“Lisa, I know this fact is shocking and unacceptable, but your father wanted to die. Like many bipolar people, he yearned to end his life but was too afraid to kill himself. They had none of the antidepressants we have today. When he heard about the program in San Diego, heard it was dangerous, well, there was his opportunity. His ticket out. I begged him not to go.”

My mother exhaled with finality. She reached for a warm roll in the basket positioned between us and sliced it open with her knife. I watched her slather
whipped
butter on it and bring it to her mouth, mesmerized by the butter dripping unnoticed onto her lap. At least her linen napkin had been returned to its place there and would catch the drips.

“How long was he gone, to San Diego?” I asked, careful not to emote.

“
Something like t
hree months.” She polished off the roll and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “He came home shortly before Neal was born,
but it took a couple
of
months to
show signs of the poisoning.”
What’s done cannot be undone.

“Why didn’t you protest about this? Wasn’t it illegal, exposing people to high levels of radiation. Even if they did volunteer?”

The napkin dropped like a stone in
to
her lap.
“Heavens, Lisa. What kind of stupid person do you take me for? Once I learned your father had contracted leukemia, I went on a rampage. I investigated every angle—spoke to authorities, the heads of Penwell, even called the newspaper to see if they could uncover something, anything, that would expose this heinous project. Sure, they admitted they’d
advertised
a volunteer assignment in San Diego, but it had nothing to do with radiation. Nothing at all. Or so they said. I had no proof.”

My face flushed from my mother’s elevated voice, as nearby patrons cast us curious stare
s
. Our food arrived. Sautéed sea bass with capers, rice pilaf, steamed asparagus. My mouth watered at the aroma and sight of such artfully prepared food on my plate. We ate in silence for a while, and then my mother continued in a measured and dulcet tone. “At the time, I couldn’t get the names of anyone else who had participated in the program, or even learn what it was called. But my hunches were all confirmed many years later when I ran into your father’s best friend.”

“Who?” I asked nonchalantly, between bites of fish that nearly melted on my tongue.

“Dave Lerner. He and your father had offices next door to each other. They often worked on projects together. Dave was an engineer, and your dad would get called in to help with the math. They designed machines for aircraft; I remember a riveting machine in particular, for airplane wings. He also worked on fuel components for the upcoming Gemini spacecraft.”

“So, what did he say? When you ran into him?”

My mother seemed to pull her attention back and dug into her rice. “He told me there were others that had contracted the disease and died shortly after Nathan had. I never did get any names, but it had been so many years
ago
, water under the bridge. Things clearly hushed up, records purged, whatever. It didn’t make any sense to sniff after cold leads. You children were growing up, I had my career, life went on.” End of story.

I chewed and let my mind wander. My mother finished everything on her plate and ordered dessert for both of us, despite my protest. I’d already eaten way too much and knew I’d be fighting lethargy all afternoon as I dug holes and planted shrubs. I replayed
in my head
the scene with Lady Macbeth. The doctor and the lady
-
in
-
waiting, watching Macbeth’s evil wife as she sleepwalked—with her eyes open but her senses shut, as Shakespeare so nicely put it. Listening to her mumble about her bloodied hands, and then, off she went to bed.

The doctor’s ominous words that followed struck a chord within me.
“
Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds to their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
”
What an unnatural deed my father
had
engaged in
—that deed without a name—
submitting himself to danger, despite having three small children who depended upon him—not to mention his wife. But what secrets did my father carry to his pillow? A secret my mother had known about, that his letter hinted at? Did he despise my mother so much that he grabbed any chance to get away from her? Had she learned of an affair and sent him away?

Maybe my uncle was right. Maybe my father had no idea the project was dangerous. Maybe he saw the temporary reassignment as an opportunity to get away from my mother and their suffocating marriage, even if for just a few months.

I stole a glance at my mother as she signaled the waitress for more coffee. How much was my mother hiding from me? I could understand her wanting her children to believe theirs had been a happy, trouble-free marriage. Parents needn’t unnecessarily burden their kids with details of unrest and disharmony in an adult relationship. My mother’s claim that my father went headlong into danger to satisfy his death wish rested on the assumption that he knew the experiment was risky, hence the call for volunteers. Maybe he had embraced the danger, not wishing to die but merely wishing to escape his marriage. Either way, it looked as if he cared less for his physical safety
than
for his emotional relief. He needed distance and he took it.

I felt suddenly sad for my father, so pressed to escape, unable to stay with us kids and revel in his role as father and husband.
 
I pictured Raff, at home with his three children, unable to delight in their company, unable to feel the simplest joy, to muster a genuine smile. How frustrating for Kendra, wondering why Raff couldn’t be happy with all he had. Such was the nature of manic depression—it was a heartless thief, stealing every wonder, every beauty found in this world, and leaving an empty, lifeless tomb.
“
Out, out brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.
”

This stark contemplation of my father’s wasted, too-short life brought on a hollow feeling inside me. My parents had been married about ten years at that point—the length of time Jeremy and I had now been married. Was Jeremy secretly as miserable with me, but
,
like my father, unable to confess his feelings? Would I someday learn of a letter he had written his brother, telling how unhappy he was, how—to put it in my father’s words—
for over ten years it’s been an ever increasingly difficult married life, exceedingly difficult to endure. There is no point in trying to fix blame.

The horror of that thought came out in an audible sound, causing my mother to turn to me.

“What is it?” she asked.

I gulped some water
and avoided my mother’s scrutiny
. Was Anne right? Was my mother trying to sabotage my marriage, driving a wedge between me and Jeremy? Maybe Anne saw the obvious while I buried my head in the sand.

Snippets of conversation came to my mind. My mother berating Kendra to Raff, harping on her failings, her lack of intelligence and compassion, her sternness with their children. My mother, so congenial and appreciative toward Kendra when she was in the room, but tearing her apart behind her back. Casting aspersions—is that what it was called?—like drops of acid that slowly ate their way through the fabric of their relationship. Were her actions calculated or perhaps unconscious? Maybe she meant well; did that absolve her, though?

I thought of her countless rants about Jeremy over the years
:
he was insensitive, treated my brothers with contempt, whined about money, was never satisfied—and so much more. But her words were always sweetened with honey; her loving attempt to point out his faults was for my own good, the good of our family. We Sitteroffs needed to band together and protect the inner circle from attack and invasion. I saw how she had done this with my aunt and uncle, shutting them out. Protecting us—she said. Yet, after meeting my uncle and hearing his side, Sam Sitteroff hardly seemed a bad person who mistreated others. But I
hadn’t been
privy to their conversations twenty-five years ago. Maybe my uncle had exchanged harsh words with my mother. Maybe, back then, he had been a different man, one guilty of the attitudes and manner my mother claimed defined my uncle.

Well, I needed to protect my inner circle from attack too. I loved Jeremy too much to let my marriage become a spoil of war, even if my mother hadn’t intended to engage me as the enemy.

“What’s going on between you and Jeremy?” I
steeled my nerve and
looked my mother in the eyes. “Did you have a fight while I was gone?”

As if by divine revelation, in confirmation of my fears, my mother began
her automated litany
. I listened, still as stone, as she listed Jeremy’s faults
—
not so much in scathing but with a sprinkling of pity and condescension. When oh when was I ever going to see that Jeremy was a loser? That he had emotional problems, that he was so ungrateful for all
she
had done for us. Yes, she and Jeremy had exchanged “words” while I was gone, but my mother preferred spouting generalizations rather than elaborate on specifics.