Conundrum (9 page)

Mandy’s voice brought me out of my wayward mental
straying
.
“So, you just
have
to come out and visit
.
What do you say? I’d love to go back to California, but Nate is in school and I have my practice. Plus, I don’t think I could get Dad on a plane again. You won’t believe this, but years ago he was flying to Chicago for a medical conference and the plane had to make an emergency landing on the runway. The wheels broke off
,
and the plane caught fire. No one got hurt, but he swore he’d never fly again,
insisted
God was giving him a clear warning
—can
you believe
it
?”

Go to New York? The idea took me by surprise, but just the thought of getting off the plane in the Big Apple tantalized my imagination. Mandy talk
ed on
about all the things she would show me
. O
h
the places we
w
ould go—Rockefeller Center, Radio City Music Hall, The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Culture, food, Broadway. Sounded like the diversion I
needed
right then.
Escape the drama that was my life and go see a musical
in which
the performers sang and danced their way to
a happy ending.
I knew Jeremy would be
glad
to stay at the house and care for the animals—and sleep in his own bed, even though I hoped it would feel as empty to him as it did to me.

“Let me see what I can arrange. I have a pasture full of animals that need tending, but it sounds great. I really want to talk to your dad. Is your mom there too?” Mandy hadn’t spoken of her
,
and I was hesitant to ask
.

“Oh, Mom and Dad divorced years ago. My sister lives in London with her husband, so you won’t get to see Becka, but Mom lives just outside the city. We can take
the train
over and visit her. I’ll call my dad and tell him about our conversation. I know he’ll want to call you.
This is a trip!
”

“Please do that. I should be home
later
to
day. I’d really love to speak with him.”

After I hung up, I grew a
ware of a stirring in my soul. I was Rip Van Winkle awakening after twenty years of sleep.
The world looked similar but different.
How would that awakening alter my perception of my life, my family?

However,
I should have remembered that my mother moved faster than the speed of sound. That is,
after
my
sp
eaking
briefly to Raff
at the hospital (they limited calls to five minutes) and shar
ing
the highlights of my conversation with Mandy, m
y
mother appeared on my doorstep as if she had folded time and space to get to Petaluma.
I knew at least an hour ha
d
passed, for I
’d
managed to get both bathrooms scrubbed and
put a second load in the dryer when she walked
through
my front door. I already had my gardening truck loaded with five yards of compost. I had to run by the nursery first thing and pick up some five-g
allon
shrubs
I had on hold
.
I was eager to start my gardening day.

But the look on my mother’s face told me I wouldn’t be getting out the door that fast. I guessed her unexpected visit had everything to do with my
brief
conversation with Raff.
Why? I had no idea. Raff
had
only mumbled and grunted at my news. Didn’t seem at all interested
in New York or long
-
lost relatives
.
T
he fact
that
my mother
didn’t first call before making the hour drive, taking a chance on finding me here, implied the seriousness of her mission. Frankly, I was not in the mood to talk with her at all.

Only eight a.m. and her attire was impeccable. A smart linen pantsuit, tailored to hide her extra weight.
Gorgeous Italian leather loafers. Her hair a new shade of blonde—so unflattering to her
olive
skin tone, but she loved sporting a California look
and grew horror-stricken at the sight of a single gray hair
.
My mother loathed exercise of any kind and had a particular distaste for her flabby arms, so always wore long-sleeved blouses, regardless of the weather.
At fifty-six, her face was etched with tired lines that she masked artfully with makeup. Her breath reeked of coffee as she walked past me on her way to my freezer. She took out the loaf of rye bread
and pried off a frozen slice to pop in the toaster.

“No coffee left?” she asked, eyeing the clean coffeemaker
with suspicion
.
Jeremy always had two cups before he headed out for work in the morning, but I couldn’t drink the stuff—gave me stomach cramps and migraines
, and my mother knew that
.
I avoided catching
her
gaze as I filled the carafe with water at the sink.

“I’ll make you some. What’s with the early visit? I have to get to work, you know.”

“It can wait,” she said, her tone
bitter
enough to make me nearly drop the glass pot as I slid it in the coffeemaker. I
took
out the
French roast
beans from the freezer that I kept in a glass jar and ground up enough for a half pot. My mother buttered her toast and took it over to the dining table and sat down.

As the coffee percolated and filled the kitchen with aroma, I wiped the crumbs off the counter that my mother left in her wake. I’
d
never known anyone who could make such mess in
so
short a time. Wherever she went, disorder followed. She never thought to cl
ean up after herself. Maybe all those years of having housekeepers in our home made her that way. She could pour herself a cup of coffee
,
and that
singular event
would
result in a full kitchen cleanup.

“You upset Raff with that phone call this morning. Just what did you say to him?”

I had planned to sit at the table with her
,
but thought better of it. I kept my distance, hovering by the coffeepot. “I really need to get to work—”

“Lisa.”

She had a way of saying my name that made my heart sink in my chest. Her disappointment and chastisement was
calculated
, as always.
“What is this I hear about you calling your uncle?” Her scowl changed into a tight smile. “Whatever made you think of getting in touch with him?”

“Well
.
 
.
 
.
I ran across an article in
T
he Washington Post
—”

“
The Washington Post
?”

I ignored her accusatory tone. “And saw it was written by my cousin, Mandy.”

“Miranda.
Is that what she calls herself
—
Mandy? Rather childish name, don’t you think?” My mother pointed at the coffeepot as its gurgling stopped. I poured her a cup and added one spoonful of sugar. I set it in front of her and watched her drink and finish her toast. She sloshed the cup and spilled
some on the table, but just scooted over so she didn
’t get any on her sleeve. Toast crumbs fell on the chair and floor as she ate.
I set a napkin next to her but she ignored it.

She turned and stared at me. “Just what did you think your little phone call would accomplish? Raff said you planned to talk to Samuel, ask him questions about your father.”

I steeled my nerve. “Well, I have this idea. I thought if I could learn more about
D
ad and his life, his childhood, maybe it could help Raff.
He always see
ms so angry at our dad and—
”

“Oh, get real, Lisa. How can stories from thirty years ago make any difference? It’s all brain chemistry
—
you know that
.
Depression runs in families
,
and
nothing you learn will change that. You’re giving him false hopes, and
you’ll only dredge up facts that will make Raff more upset. Your father was a brilliant man and a good father. He loved you all very much.”

My mother began to get a little teary-eyed. Even after all these years. Was she right—was I venturing down a path that would cause more hurt than help? “Well, it’s also really nice to connect with a part of my family I don’t know. We don’t have very much family.”

“And there’s a reason we don’t talk to
your uncle.”

“And why is that? Why haven’t we stayed in touch all these years?”

My mother stood and brushed crumbs off her clothes. She pursed her lips and looked out the large dining room window at the rose garden. “They’re bad people. Your aunt and uncle did things that were shameful.
They mistreated your grandparents and spoke badly of your father. I didn’t want you to hear the hurtful things they said
, so I cut off contact with them.”

“Well, it’s been over twenty years. Maybe they’ve changed. My cousin sounds really nice.
She’s an attorney.
”

“Spoiled, both those girls were.
” She seemed to choose her words carefully. “Lisa, I don’t want you talking to them. Your uncle will only tell you things you will regret hearing.”

“Why? What will he say?” Her line of reasoning confused me. What could my uncle tell me these many years later that would cause me grief?

“Just believe me. Let dead dogs lie and leave well enough alone. Please, for Raff’s sake. If you care anything about your brother, you’ll drop this.” End of discussion. “And where’s Jeremy?”

“Mom, he always leaves early for work.” Even as I said the words, I knew my mother didn’t believe my ruse.
My voice came out unexpectedly querulous.

“He’s moved out, hasn’t he?” Just like her. She had some arcane sixth sense about everything. Well, if she wouldn’t elaborate on my uncle, I surely wasn’t going to
go down that path.

I mustered up nerve to look her in the eyes.
“Did you get the
papers Jeremy sent to your lawyer?”

She waved her hand in dismissal
and emitted an exaggerated sigh
. “Lisa, we’ve been through this so many times. Why doesn’t Jeremy understand
?
There’s nothing I can do
;
my hands are tied. My tax accountant says I have to keep the title in my name. You get to live here for free—isn’t that enough? Why, after ten years, doesn’t your husband trust me?”
Her face looked pained.

“He’s a guy, Mom. He’s built this house and put years of labor
and income
into
the property
—we both have. He just wants to know he owns something.
”

She strode over to the door and looked at her watch. “Well, he owns the feed store, doesn’t he? And that
expensive
new truck. What does a silly name on a stupid piece of paper mean, anyway?”

“I know, Mom.” I exhaled and my stomach
clench
ed
. I hated having to be the go-between and the peacemaker. Like talking to two walls. Jeremy never believed my reassurances, and my mother never budged.
“Well, then just sign the devise. That will ease his mind, convince him you have our best interests in mind.”

“Really, Lisa.” Her tone turned abrupt and snappy. “This is getting out of hand. You have the letters from the trust stating this property will go to you when I die. You get to keep your house, Raff has his, and Neal will get mine. It’s all legal
;
now
drop it
already.
I’m not going to live forever.
”

I dutifully shut my mouth
at her acrimony
. But something
knotted
in my gut and
needed voicing
.
“How come you never talked about our dad? Not a single word, the whole time growing up. It’s like you erased him from our lives, like he never existed.”

My mother’s face showed how taken aback she was by my comments.
A ripple of emotions crossed her face, but when she spoke, her voice was even, almost apologetic. “Back in those days, people didn’t
discuss
death
. We didn’t have all the pop psychology that recommended talking about pain, bringing things out in the open. Doctors and friends said the best thing I could do for you children was put the past behind me.
Move on. Don’t dwell on the hurt. What did I know? I had three small children to feed and clothe. I didn’t have time to even think about fallout from your father’s death. I worked long hours at my job
,
and if it hadn’t been for VA money, we would have lost the house. So, I didn’t have
the luxury
to weigh what to say and what to ignore.”