Secrets in the Shadows Page 4

  "It was selfish," he finally said.

  "Selfish? How?"

  "I had found a way to control her, to keep her under my power. She needed me, depended on me. The short time we had up here before it all fell apart was ironically the happiest time I had with her. We pretended we were married and in our own home.

  Actually, pretending anything made her comfortable.

  "It was very wrong and later, it was very painful I had betrayed the people who loved, trusted and believed in me the most. For that reason alone, nobody wanted Karen to be telling the truth about what had been going on in her home more than I did. It wouldn't completely excuse what I had done, but it would help explain it and in some ways rationalize it. No one was more disappointed than I was the night your aunt and I discovered that the story your mother was spinning was a total fabrication."

  "Total?"

  "It was just too fantastic, bizarre. She had depicted her stepfather to be some Norman Bates character from Psycho. She told both Zipporah and me some things going on at her house that we found not to be true. All the stories about a separate apartment for Harry Pearson's mother proved false, for example, and therefore all the things she claimed had gone on in there were obviously just as false."

  "But why would she do something so terrible to her stepfather then?"

  "As I said, she was a very complicated person. Something just cracked inside her, I suppose. That's something people trained and educated in psychology will have to answer or maybe have already."

  "You don't know?"

  He shook his head, a look of shame washing over his face.

  "No, I didn't keep up with her situation."

  "Did you ever tell her that you knew what she had told you and Aunt Zipporah was all untrue?"

  "Yes, of course. Right in this attic," he said, looking around. "Matter of fact, she stood by that window when we told her."

  "What did she say?"

  "She said her mother was lying, the police were lying, everyone was lying but her."

  "Then what did she do?"

  "She just walked out and went home, or tried to. Your aunt and I called your grandfather, and he called the police. They picked her up strolling down the street as if nothing was wrong, nothing had happened. I suppose she was in some state of shock. From there, she went to a mental clinic where they diagnosed her as delusional and, well, you know the rest of it."

  "No, I don't. Talking about my mother is practically forbidden in this house. Grandma gets so upset at the mention of her name, she practically faints. Didn't you ever go to see her? Ever?"

  He stared at me, and then I saw him glance at the attic door.

  "You did, didn't you?" I pounced.

  "No one knows," he said almost in a whisper. "Not even your grandfather." He thought for a moment and then said, "Maybe keeping it secret doesn't matter anymore."

  "Tell me about her. Please," I begged and inched closer to him. "What was she like when you visited her?"

  "She was Karen again," he began. "Doing what she does so well to cope with the reality she hated."

  "What do you mean?"

  "She had created a whole new scenario to explain where she was and why she was there. She didn't act at all like a patient in a clinic. It was as if the whole thing, everyone working there, was at her beck and call, there solely for her.

  "First, she looked absolutely beautiful--radiant, in fact. I had been expecting to find a defeated, mousy young woman, wrapped up in her own madness, impenetrable, shut up tightly. I feared that not only would she ignore me, but she might turn on me, be enraged."

  "And?"

  "She was the complete opposite, buoyant, cheerful, back to the way she had been when Zipporah first had met her. She came rushing out of her room into the hallway to greet me. Her hair was longer and she had done something clever with her bangs. She extended her hand and, NI never forget, said, 'Jesse, how sweet of you to make the trip to see me. How are your parents and your sister? You must fill me in on everything you've been doing. Don't leave out a single thing.'

  "I glanced at the nurse who had escorted me down the corridor and saw she was smiling. Later, I found out everyone there enjoyed your mother. Contrary to what I had expected, she was not only not depressing, but she cheered up other patients and made the staff comfortable as well. It was remarkable. I felt as if a coat made of iron guilt had been lifted off me. I couldn't help but laugh myself."

  "When was this? I mean, had I been born?" "Yes. It was nearly a year later."

  I hesitated to ask and then blurted, "Did she remember giving birth to me?"

  "She never mentioned it and I was afraid to say a word until she did."

  "Then she never asked about me?"

  "No," he said. "I'm sorry, Alice. I'm sure it had to do with her mental condition."

  I nodded. My grandmother had told me the truth, but that didn't make me feel any better. If anything, I felt even more alone now, even more lost.

  I sat on the settee.

  "That seems so incredible," I muttered in disappointment.

  "Psychiatrists attribute it to the brain's defense mechanisms. It was too difficult for her to face it, admit to it, whatever. Selective amnesia, I once heard it called. We all do some of that."

  "Well, what did she remember then?"

  "Seemingly most everything else, but nothing specific about the events relating to Harry Pearson. She went around ugly things, babbled about the village, the people, laughed about things she had done with Zipporah. After a while I realized she was talking incessantly partly to keep me from talking, from asking anything, I think."

  "How did she explain being where she was?"

  "That was what I was referring to. She told me she was being studied by some of the world's most renowned psychotherapists, and had agreed to it to do something worthwhile in her life. She told me as a result she was treated like some sort of princess and everything I saw, all these people, were at her disposal. She could order anything she wanted to eat. She had her own television set, clothes, magazines, books, anything. 'I merely ask and it is done,' she told me. She assured me I would be reading about her someday in magazines and books.

  "She acted as if the clinic were a palace, her palace. She showed me about the place and introduced me to everyone, telling them I was her first high school crush. The way some of the staff members reacted to her made me think that they thought she was telling the truth. She was there because she had volunteered to be there. She did appear to have the run of the place without any restrictions.

  "Toward the end of my visit, she asked me if I didn't think she had been so lucky to get out of our sleepy village and do something interesting with her life. Of course, I said yes and she told me not to worry. I'd surely find my way out as well and do something worthwhile.

  "I asked her if there was anything she needed, anything she wanted. She smiled and countered with, 'But Jesse, what could I possibly want that I don't have?'

  "I kissed her on the cheek and started out. Before I reached the door, she was talking and laughing with some of the staff as if my visit were nothing more than a slight interruption, as if what she had said was true, I was a young girl's infatuation, some memory pasted in an old album and basically forgotten.

  "It did me a lot of good to make that visit, however. As I said, it relieved me of guilt. Maybe she knew what she was doing. Maybe that was her gift to me. I never went back, never wrote to her or called. That's why I don't know anything about her condition now. I'm sorry," he added, seeing how silent I was, "sorry that I don't have anything to tell you that would help you understand more."

  "Jesse!" we heard Rachel calling

  He looked at me.

  I had to get it out quickly, get out what gnawed at my heart, my very soul.

  "If the only explanation for what she did is madness," I said, "then I'm afraid whatever that madness was will someday awaken in me, too."

  I didn't think he had ever thought I had that fear. He look
ed a bit shocked for a moment.

  "Jesse!" Rachel called again.

  "Coming!"

  He stood up. "The wonder of the genetic pool is that we're all different, Alice," he said gently. "You look like her, but you're not her, and besides, you're growing up under different circumstances, different conditions. That plays a role in things as well."

  He looked at the door.

  "We'll talk about it some more when we can, but what you're feeling and thinking is what's worrying Grandma and Grandpa, Alice. You've got to break out of this. Get into the stream of things so you can develop all your potential."

  "I know," I said. "Join clubs, make friends." "There's nothing wrong with being happy," he said, starting away.

  "Unless it's all pretend," I tossed at him. He paused at the doorway.

  "It won't be for you," he said. "Give yourself a chance." He nodded toward the painting I had done of the tree. "That is a remarkable piece of work for someone as young and as untrained as you are. Grandpa is right: you're going to do something with your art."

  He left the door open and descended. I looked at the window again. Using my memory from the pictures, I imagined my mother standing there and listening to my father and my aunt reveal that they had determined she had fabricated the whole story and therefore had done a terrible, terrible thing The two people she had trusted and depended upon were casting her out to sea in a small boat. She would soon be at the mercy of whatever winds occurred, tossed and thrown every which way, and no one would be there to rescue her, not even her own mother. No wonder she had wandered off in a daze.

  I had never met my mother, but I could cry for her, because in my mind and heart, I was crying for myself.

  I rose and walked out of the attic, closing the door softly behind me. I could hear the twins below. They had wakened and were running through the house, playing some sort of hide-and-seek game with my grandfather. I quickly realized my father and Rachel were in their bedroom with the door closed. Was he already paying the price for being my father for fifteen minutes?

  When he came out, I saw that the tips of his ears were crimson. Whatever had been said in privacy had stung him. It was easy to envision Rachel as a bee or a hornet. There was a sharpness to her every move and gesture, a biting precision to her words. I went right to work to help my grandmother with the evening meal and avoided Rachel for as long as I could.

  It wasn't the most pleasant dinner we had with all of us. Nothing the twins did at the table pleased Rachel, and soon it felt as if we were all on edge. My father's eyes were full of apologies. I saw how unhappy my grandfather was becoming, too. I was glad when we were finished with our dessert and I could help my grandmother in the kitchen and get away for a while. While I was helping her, I realized just how well planned the conspiracy was. She surprised me with her new offer.

  "How would you like to do a little shopping with Rachel, Zipporah and me tomorrow? Zipporah should be here by late morning. We thought we'd all go to lunch and hit some of the department stores."

  "What sort of shopping?"

  "You need some new clothes, Alice."

  "Rachel wants to go, too?"

  "Yes. You see how fashionable Rachel is. She keeps up on it all better than either Zipporah or I do. Your grandfather and Jesse are taking the twins to the fun park. Okay?"

  I shrugged.

  "I don't care," I said.

  "You'll feel better about yourself when you have new things, Alice. I know I do. Sometimes, nice clothing gives us more self-confidence."

  "Changing clothes isn't going to win me new friends, Grandma," I said.

  She slapped the kitchen counter so hard, I was sure she hurt her hand.

  "Do you have to always be so negative, Alice? Do you have to bite every hand that tries to feed you?"

  I didn't respond, but I felt the tears burning under my eyelids.

  She turned to me.

  "We're all going to enjoy ourselves," she said firmly, "whether we like it or not."

  I nearly smiled

  "Okay, Grandma," I said. "I'm sorry."

  "Good. I'll finish here. Go spend some time with the twins," she told me.

  They were lying against and over Grandpa Michael in the den and watching television as if he was a big human pillow. The moment they saw me, however, they practically leaped up to play the mechanical bowling game my grandfather had in his den.

  "Thank God! Reinforcements," my grandfather cried.

  I didn't mind spending time with the twins. Despite Rachel's continually complaining about their behavior, I found them to be very intelligent and very perceptive. Of course, I wondered what, if anything, we shared because we shared a father. Their outgoing, buoyant-personalities were so different from mine. Someday, I thought, they would learn I was not their aunt; I was their half sister. How would they react, feel? Would that make them think of me as weird? Would they then not want to have much to do with me? The lines that tied me to family were so fragile that I was sure it wouldn't take much to shatter them.

  That night I went to sleep thinking about all the things my father had finally told me. I wondered if this meant that other doors would open, that Aunt Zipporah would be more forthcoming as well. Of everyone, she had been the least reluctant to talk about my mother, but I always felt she held back things nevertheless. Maybe, just maybe, they had all discussed me and had decided I was now old enough to know whatever they knew. Once again, I felt this wasn't just another family gathering. This was the beginning of some new day, and I couldn't wait to see what exactly it would bring and what it would change inside me.

  Fortunately, Aunt Zipporah arrived even before the day had begun, so I didn't have to contend with the heaviness from the night before. By the time I descended to have breakfast, she was in the kitchen with my grandmother, stringing one story after another, summarizing everything that had happened at the cafe. I couldn't help but be jealous of their relationship. Even with my small experience concerning other mothers and daughters, I could see and understand that Aunt Zipporah and my grandmother had a special connection. In fact, they seemed more like sisters at times, laughing and talking, sharing their experiences as if they were contemporaries. Sometimes, I enjoyed just sitting on the sidelines and listening to them talk, imagining what it would have been like for me if I had been brought up by my mother. Would my relationship with her have been this special?

  "Alice!" Aunt Zipporah cried as soon as she saw me. She rushed to hug and kiss me. No one greeted me with as much warmth and happiness. There was nothing insincere about that greeting, either. I often wondered if that was because she saw so much of my mother in me and had been so fond of her.

  She took me by the hand and pulled me to sit beside her at the kitchen table.

  "Tell me everything that's going on in your life. I don't care how small it seems to you."

  "Nothing's going on, Aunt Zipporah. Nothing's different," I said, and she turned her face into an exaggerated mask of disappointment.

  "Can't be. Not at your age."

  I shrugged.

  "I'm boring," I said.

  "That you can never be," she suggested. I saw my grandmother smirking and shaking her head as she prepared our breakfast. "Really, honey? There's no one on the horizon?" she asked, her eyes turning. I couldn't help but laugh. "C'mon."

  "No one. I've been too busy," I offered as an excuse.

  "With what?"

  "My art," I said.

  She looked at my grandmother.

  "She's not lying about that. She's up in that attic more than sle is anywhere else."

  "Oh, Alice. You have to--"

  "What?" I asked, waiting. Her face softened. "Take a chance," she said.

  "That's what we're all trying to tell her," my grandmother echoed.

  "We're all afraid of being hurt, rejected, but even if that happens, you survive it, Alice. It happened a lot to me, believe me," she said.

  "I'm not afraid of being rejected," I told her. "In fact, I'm use
d to it."

  "Oh, Alice."

  She stared at me a moment. Aunt Zipporah didn't resemble her mother as much as I apparently resembled mine She had my grandfather's face, with his narrower cheeks and sharper jaw, but her features were small and I always thought she had perfectly shaped ears. She kept her dark-brown hair very long now, a good two inches below her wing bone. Grandfather Michael called her his personal hippie because she always wore a tie-dyed headband and Indian jewelry, the turquoise necklaces and earrings, bracelets and rings, lots of rings. Usually, she didn't have a bare finger.

  From what I understood of her life after my mother, what was sometimes referred to as AK, After Karen, Aunt Zipporah went into a deep depression and then gradually emerged with a different attitude about herself and the world. She was more cynical and for a while was a great worry for my

  grandparents. Eventually, she found herself, but that discovery was one that led her to lean more toward the rebels--the oddballs, as Grandfather Michael liked to call them. It was as if she had to carry on my mother's legacy and be as outrageous as she could be. I was told that she almost flunked out of college at one point, but then got hold of herself and ended up doing well.

  I knew that her not going on to become a teacher was a great disappointment to my

  grandparents, but they had come to like Tyler, a hardworking young businessman who ironically proved to be a stabling influence on Aunt Zipporah. The only mystery I had yet to solve was why they never had any children of their own, or hadn't yet. She was still young enough. Her stock answer to me was, "I'm not ready yet." If she and Tyler had arguments about it, they were well hidden. Never during the times I spent with them did I ever see them have any sort of serious fight. Tyler, if he disagreed with her, would just shake his head and smile as if he knew she would eventually come around to his way of thinking. Most of the time, that was just what she did.

  What amused me more was the way she treated-- or, I should say, handled--Rachel. Although it was difficult for most people to read Aunt Zipporah, I had no problem. Just as she had a special