Family Inheritance (8 page)

Suddenly, Helene leaned toward the counselor, her eyes blazing. “How dare you? We
didn't come here to have you insult our son!”

“Why did you come here, Mrs. Foster?” Raymond calmly turned toward her.

“Why?” She felt baffled that he would even ask such a question. “To get counseling
so Thomas will stop drinking.”

“And why do you think he drinks?” Raymond quietly asked.

Helene squirmed in her chair, and the fingers of her right hand harshly pushed her
hair behind her ear. “He's stressed, that's all. It's not an addiction or anything.”

“Do you drink when you're stressed?” Raymond asked Helene.

“Well, of course not,” she responded indignantly.

“Then why does Thomas?” Raymond asked in a calm tone.

“I don't know.” She crossed and uncrossed her legs as her eyes wandered toward the
view outside the window.

Raymond remained quiet for a few minutes, then asked, “Did your father drink, Mrs.
Foster?”

Helene sat straight in her chair and glared at him. “He doesn't have anything to
do with this!”

“What about your mother? Did she drink?” Raymond's voice was even softer now.

“What do my parents have to do with this?” she yelled. “Leave them out of this.”
She stood up from her chair, her fists clenched at her sides, and her eyes wide with
terror. “I won't talk about them. Do you hear me?”

Clearly startled by her response, Bill reached for her hand. “Shh, honey, it's okay.
Calm down, it's okay.” Helene looked at him blankly and quietly fell back into the
chair.

“What about you, Mr. Foster, do you have a drinking problem?” Raymond asked.

“I have a drink from time to time, but I don't have a drinking problem,” Bill answered.

“What problems do you have?” Raymond sat back in his chair.

“I don't know what you mean.” Bill wiped the palms of his hands against his legs,
suddenly looking very uncomfortable.

“Don't you?” Raymond gazed quietly at Bill, then turned to Thomas. “What about you,
Thomas? Do you have a drinking problem?”

Surprise and fear covered Thomas's face as he scrutinized the therapist, seemingly
trying to understand what he was asking. Thomas glanced at Helene, then crossed his
arms over his chest and slumped into the chair.

Bill started to speak, but Raymond held up his hand for silence as it seemed Thomas
was going to speak.

“Yes, sir . . . yes, I do,” Thomas said shakily.

At Thomas's confession, Helene leaped from her chair. “We're paying money for this!”
she screamed. “You're supposed to fix Thomas. We don't need this. We don't need you
prying into our lives and into our pasts. We don't need you putting ideas into our
son's head. He doesn't have a problem. He's not an alcoholic. Stop this. Just stop
this! He can't be an alcoholic. He just can't be!” She sunk back into her chair,
overcome with despair.

Bill and Thomas both turned toward her with shock on their faces.

“Why can't he be, Mrs. Foster?” Raymond asked. “Because your father was an alcoholic,
and you can't stand the thought of failing with your child the way your father and
mother failed with you?”

Helene violently shook her head. “No! It just can't be.”

“Do you know anything about alcoholism, Mrs. Foster?” Raymond asked gently. Helene
stared blankly at him, so he continued. “There are many theories about it. Some believe
it's a disease, some an addiction, but whatever you believe, we know that it is generally
cyclic and usually goes from generation to generation. You might not have carried
down the drinking, but you've probably carried down some of the dysfunction.”

Helene weakly shook her head in denial. “It's not my fault. It's not. If Bill would
just be a better father.”

“This isn't a blame game, Mrs. Foster.” Raymond beckoned Bill into silence as he
leaped to defend himself at Helene's words. “You all have responsibility in this,
and Thomas has the most. He is responsible for his behavior, and it's time he starts
knowing that. You have a lot of work ahead of you. All of you do, and you can do
it. But it's up to you to let me know when you really want to start.” He stood up.
“That's all for today. Call me when you want another appointment.”

Chapter 8

Atlanta, Georgia

The therapist's questions rolled around in Helene's mind as panic lodged in her chest.
She couldn't find a way to admit to herself that her issues might have led to Thomas's
problems. Throughout the years, she had shared very little of her childhood or family
with Bill and Thomas. They knew she had grown up in Minnesota and had two sisters.
Beyond that, if the subject came up, she would always change it, and they never seemed
to notice, or if they did, nothing was ever said.

Heaviness settled on her like a weighted cloak, and her mind focused on the box that
was buried up in the attic. No one was aware of its existence except her, and she
hadn't thought about it in years. It was the one thing she had taken with her when
she left home, and right now, it was all she could think about.

When they got home, they all retreated to separate parts of their huge house. Helene
hesitantly walked to the stairs at the back of the house. Once on the second floor,
she went to the end of the hall opposite their master bedroom and stood in front
of the door to the attic. They seldom went up there; it was only used for storage
of Christmas decorations, memorabilia, and items they had long forgotten.

Hesitantly moving up the steps, feeling both dread and anxiety, Helene was nervous
about uncovering the past that she had kept contained inside a cardboard box for
over twenty years. At the top of the stairs, she stopped and
scanned the crowded
attic, trying to remember where she had last seen the box containing memories she
didn't want to be reminded of, yet but couldn't quite throw away.

Thanks to Lily's ability to keep every corner cleaned, the attic was surprisingly
free of the normal dust and spiderwebs that usually accumulated around boxes that
have been stored for a long time. It took Helene several moments, but back in a far
corner buried behind holiday decorations that had long ago been replaced by new ones,
Helene found what she was looking for. It was a simple cardboard box sealed with
packing tape, unopened for close to two decades. It contained reminders of her past,
ones that she thought she would never deal with again, but now the therapist's questions
were stabbing at her mind.

Her hand shook slightly as she slowly sliced through the tape using a kitchen knife
she'd brought up with her. Then, sitting back on her knees and inhaling a deep breath,
she opened the box. From beneath layers of tissue paper, Helene carefully pulled
out an old photo album that she had put together when Thomas was a baby and then
had packed away and forgotten.

Holding the book in her hands, she closed her eyes and leaned against a stack of
boxes behind her. She felt caught between the fear of stepping back into her past
and the fear of what would happen if she didn't. Opening her eyes, she slowly turned
from page to page, scanning the faces of her childhood as memories circled like ghosts.

She had forgotten what a tall, handsome man her father was in his youth. Her fingers
touched the picture as her mind went back to the vision of the angry, drunken old
man who had hurled threats at her that day she'd left so many years ago. Left, never
to return. She remembered the man who had come to her high school graduation in a
drunken stupor and who had so often hit her mother, herself, Alice, and Suzanne.

Turning the pages, Helene examined the faces of her sisters. For a brief moment,
tenderness overcame her as she remembered them as small children. Parts of her missed
them, or missed what she wished they could have together. Over the years, the three
of them had occasionally connected via phone on birthdays or holidays, but they had
never talked long because they didn't know what to say to each other, or if they
even wanted to try. It had been close to ten
years since the last phone call. When
Helene heard other women talk about their families, the void that existed inside
of her would grow. If things were different, she would enjoy a family she could be
close to, but she didn't have that kind of family or that option. There was too much
pain.

When they were still in grade school, the sisters were all close, but once Helene
entered junior high, she'd tried to separate herself from her family, including her
sisters, as much as she could. Alice became an embarrassment for Helene because she
paid no attention to her appearance and had gotten fat at a very early age. Suzanne
kept to herself, had very few friends, and ignored any attempts Helene had made toward
friendship. Being close to her sisters was just a wish—a fantasy—that she had long
ago discarded. Yet as she studied the pictures from years ago, a tear trickled down
her cheek as yearning bloomed within her, as well as contempt and disgust that she
still felt about her childhood and where she came from.

As she flipped through the pictures, Helene was surprised at how sad they all appeared
to be as children. She knew their childhood had been hard because of their father's
drinking and abuse, but she hadn't realized how deeply the sadness had apparently
penetrated. She recalled Thomas's childhood, and children she would now see in restaurants
or the supermarket. Their eyes typically glowed with excitement, life, and even mischievousness.
But the girls in the picture were forlorn little waifs with long, scraggly hair and
tattered clothes.

Was that really me?

Helene slammed the book closed. Painful sobs erupted as the scabbed-over wounds of
long ago bled afresh. Clutching the album, she continued to weep. She longed for
a sister or a mother to whom she could confide her fears and confusion over what
was happening in her life. It felt like a runaway truck that was headed for a steep
embankment over which it would tumble to its demise, and she didn't know how to stop
it. She yearned for someone who knew her and really cared.

After long moments, Helene ran her hand over the front of the book and, ever so slowly,
opened it again. In the front, there was a picture of her father and mother's wedding
day. The expression on her father's handsome
face was grim, and her mother was just
a girl. Sadness surged through her as Helene turned the page and, picture by picture,
watched the stars fade from her mother's eyes as age and life took their toll.

Toward the end of the album, her father's once tall, handsome form was dirty and
unshaven, often stretched out on a ragged old sofa, a bottle of beer or whiskey in
his hand. Even the Christmas pictures showed faces that were beleaguered, exhausted,
and tired of life. The faces of Helene and her sisters seemed to be tired of life
before it had even begun.

As she scanned the childhood pictures, Helene began to see them all in a new light
as scared, lonely little girls. In the early pictures, Alice was a slender, pretty
child. Around age twelve, her pictures showed a constant weight gain until, at her
high school graduation, she was fat. Helene glanced at Suzanne's pictures and was
drawn back again and again. She touched Suzanne's young face, grasping, trying to
understand what she saw. As if a shadow had been removed, she picked up the picture
and examined it closely; she was startled by the eyes. She had never noticed it before,
but Suzanne's eyes were haunting, as if she knew a deep, dark secret. Helene was
stabbed with heartache greater than she could handle, and she quickly placed Suzanne's
picture deep within the book.

As she turned the pages, Helene's eyes refused to look at her own pictures. The edges
of her mind saw them, but she wouldn't acknowledge them. It hurt too much. That scraggly,
sad little girl couldn't be her. She couldn't claim her, it would make her too vulnerable,
too open to what she really felt about herself. If she didn't look at the pictures
of herself, maybe they would just go away. Maybe that hurt, lonely little girl would
just cease to exist.

Hurriedly Helene closed the book.
This is not a part of me. I didn't come from that.

She placed her head in her hands as fatigue washed over her. She sat still for a
long time. Then she carefully packed the photo album back into the box, stored it
in a far corner, and left the attic.

Once inside her bedroom, she closed the door, picked up the phone, and dialed Mr.
Welsh's number. It rang once. Helene hung up and stared at the phone. Moments later
she reached for it again. Her hands shook as she picked
up the receiver. The dial
tone screamed into the silence. Slowly Helene dialed—the phone rang three times and
was answered by his secretary. Angrily, Helene slammed down the phone.

Reaching for a pillow from the bed, she hurled it across the room. The pillow hit
the wall with a thud and sank to the floor as Helene lay back on the bed. Minutes
passed as she stared blankly at the ceiling. Feeling totally depleted, Helene once
again reached for the phone and dialed.

The secretary answered after a few rings. Helene mumbled her name.

“Just a moment, Mrs. Foster.” The secretary put her on hold.

After a couple moments, Raymond said, “Mrs. Foster, what can I do for you?”

Anguish circled each word as she slowly replied. “Mr. Welsh, I'd like to come to
see you by myself.” She was quiet for a few moments, and Raymond didn't break the
silence. “There are a lot of things I need to talk to someone about.”

“Okay. When would you like to come?” His voice was gentle.

The appointment made, Helene lay down on the bed and fell into a tired sleep. She
was startled awake as Bill pulled her close to him. He cradled her in his arms, and
whispered, “I love you, Helene. I really do love you.” Tears glistened in her eyes
as sleep pulled her back into its comforting embrace.