Conundrum (37 page)

Over the din of Ed’s hacking, the nurse spoke up. “Visit is over. You leave now, okay?”

I nodded and moved toward the doorway. Neal raised his hand.

“I’m staying.” His eyes pleaded with the nurse, who studied him for a moment.

“Long as you stay out of the way
,
”
she said.

Neal backed up a few steps and let her fuss with Ed. I met Neal’s eyes and understood. Maybe Ed would recover enough to talk with him longer. Maybe not. Neal wasn’t going to miss this chance, his perhaps last chance, to get to know his father.

I walked out with Julie, the fresh summer air smelling of damp mowed grass
hitting me the moment I opened the front door. Sprinklers on neighboring yards flung water over lawns
,
and the sun shone so bright
ly
I had to pull out my sunglasses and put them on to stop squinting.
The
brilliance
of the day contrasted in more than one way to the dimness of Ed’s den we had just left behind.

I felt as if I had been thrust into light, coming out of a long
gloomy
tunnel
, one dank and claustrophobic, only to emerge into a vast open space of clean, pure air. I’m sure my feelings had everything to do with Neal’s unexpected humility and the refreshing awareness that one door to enlightenment had opened—for him
,
at least. A door Neal hadn’t even known he’d faced, locked and tucked away in some unobtrusive corner
of a forgotten room
for twenty-five years.
A door only four people had known about—and two of them now dead—my father and Shirley Hutchinson. Julie could have kept this
knowledge locked away in her heart and none would have been the wiser.

Wiser
. I wondered at that expression.

How wise is it to be burdened with a truth like th
is
? I thought of all the thousands of adopted children, not unlike my father, who spend years searching for their birth mother, dredging up pain and anger, hurting adoptive parents in the process. Just how
wise
is such a search for truth? How many of those children actually found their mothers, and upon finding them, were glad with the results
?
I would venture to guess that most
—
if they didn’t come to a frustrating dead end, having wasted valuable time and resources in their search
—
met up with a parent who had given them away for the most obvious reason: they didn’t want a child. Maybe some
lucky few uncovered a mother
brimming with
remorse and joy at reuniting with their long-lost child. But more likely than not, their sudden appearance into the life of a woman who had spent years trying to forget the past
only stirred up bad feelings. Shame, perhaps, at the heart of many, for whatever reason. For a careless pregnancy, for an immature attitude of irresponsibility?

Who wanted to be reminded of a painful mistake, perhaps finally forgotten, only to be rudely reminded
?

So as I sat on the curb next to Julie, who stared blankly out at the street full of her own ruminations, I put myself on the inquisition stand. What right
did
I
have to go
digging
up the past, looking for a father’s story that might only cause pain? Had my mother been right all along? Would the “
bad
” column outweigh the “
good
” column? Would Neal’s painful
discovery
of
his true
father be weighty enough to offset the tremendous boulder of destruction I had laid
on
the
scales
? Not only had my family been essentially torn apart by my search for truth, but I may have made life even harder for Raff, rather than help alleviate his pain. Creating this tsunami of a disturbance in our family might be the
force that
would cause
Raff’s downfall.
Is it possible that, in some cases, truth is better off left unexplored? And did that mean you were living a lie, and not just in denial?

We seem to believe truth is paramount, and that a quest for truth is the noblest of aspirations.
But maybe
that’s
the lie. Maybe living in denial
is
often the smart and healthy thing to do.

Let sleeping dogs
lie.

I grunted. Seemed there was more than one way to take that saying.

A half hour
passed
before Neal came out the front door.
He looked exhausted and drained. I know he wanted to say something to me, but I could tell his brain was processing his newfound understanding of his place in the universe. With a slight wave to both of us, distracted and unfocused, he got into
his car
and drove slowly down the street.

A sigh sipped out of my body, almost like a ghost or entity of its own
making
.
I felt it hovering
incriminatingly
in the air, like Scrooge’s ghost of Chris
t
mas future,
silently
gesturing with
a hand to show me the
hurtful
results of my many life choices.
“
Come
,
”
it seemed to say to me.
“
See the carnage of your search for truth. See what happen
ed
when the guard step
ped
aside and open
ed
the door to enlightenment.
”

And then, as in Dickens’s tale,
I pleaded with the spirit
.
“P
lease tell me I can change these things, that they are not set in stone.
”
I wondered if T. S.
Eliot
was right when he said there was
time for
a hundred in
decisions
and
visions and
revisions
,
all
before the taking of toast and tea.
Only time would tell if my actions were foolhardy and reckless.

I felt
a sudden urgency,
as if I had no time to waste. Today was
Tuesday
August
4
.
In two days
, Raff would turn thirty-four
, a birthday he had made a vow to miss
. What was Raff thinking at this moment
? Had Neal told him anything about Ed Hutchinson?

I had to know. I had to
weasel my way in to
see my older brother and, if necessary, face the Jabberwock with him—whether he wanted me to or not.

How? I had no idea.

Chapter 24

After I pushed my way through the dogs into the kitchen, I noticed a note by the phone from Jeremy. “Dave Lerner called back. Here’s his number.” I recognized the Seattle area code. Lerner must have called before eight. I had left at seven to head out to Ed Hutchinson’s house, and Jeremy usually made it to the feed store by eight thirty.

I put down my purse and
walked to the cupboard
. My emotions had all drained out after such an intense morning
,
l
eaving me strangely empty and desensitized. I heated up a cup of water and made some mint tea, then realized I was starving. I compose
d
some
questions
in my mind
for Dave Lerner
as I fried a couple of eggs and listened to the spattering as they cooked, the sound mingling with the songbirds raising a
ruckus
outside my
open
window. Summer seemed to concentrate so many smells into one—a rich aroma of earth and growing things. The roses, now responding to the late morning’s warmth, released subtle fragrances that
permeated
the air.

This would be the prominent scent in my memory—years from now, when I thought back to our time in this house we had built. Old roses in bloom, bursting with fragrance as if they couldn’t contain their potency within their fragile petal walls.

I clamped down on my heart as it tried to lead me to sadness, to the reminder that my days here were numbered. I told myself that wherever we moved to, I would plant roses first thing, close to whatever window faced south.
Last night, someone
had
called asking to see Shayla, my lame Arab. The woman sounded kindhearted and eager to foster my mare. She even said she might take a goat or two. The thought of a good home for Shayla warmed my heart. Surely I could visit her from time to time. And maybe, one day, when Jeremy and I figured out our future, we’d get some more animals. It was inevitable.

I stuffed eggs in my mouth while I punched in Dave Lerner’s number. His secretary answered.

“Mr. Lerner wanted me to tell you he is en route to San Francisco on a consulting job. He should be
landing shortly. He very much wants to meet with you and will call to arrange a time.”

“Did he say anything else? Any other message?”

“Only that he hoped you would make the time to see him.”

Would I ever! I thanked her and hung up,
glad I would get to speak to Lerner in person and not just over the phone.
Now I would find
the key—the key that would open the door to all my answers. Lerner would know if my father had gone to San Diego. If he had participated in a dangerous experiment. He could tell me if he’d actually spoken to my mother years back
and said the things she claimed he had.

I didn’t care about catching my mother in yet another lie; I just wanted the truth. Maybe Lerner could shed invaluable light on my father’s state of mind at the time. Had Nathan Sitteroff confided all to his best friend? Did men do that in 1960? I thought how hesitant my father had sounded in his letter to my uncle, barely opening up his heart and letting his pain flow out. Would he have been more forthcoming with Dave Lerner, a man he saw and worked with daily?

Knowing I would be moving out of my house in short weeks made me hesitate as I threw open the back deck doors and picked up my clippers. I’d thought to do some weeding in the perennial beds, but why bother? Instead, I kept one ear listening for the phone while I cut stalks of roses to put in vases. By the time I was done, I had nearly
denuded
all the shrubs, leaving few buds left to bloom. But my arms overflowed with old roses, their fragrance so potent I could taste rose in my mouth. I laid the bundle next to the sink and trimmed leaves and stems
,
then arranged them in vases
.

The phone rang
,
and I was almost disappointed when I heard Jeremy’s voice. But his enthusiasm perked me up as he told me of a beautiful property he’d found for rent on the east side of Sebastopol, off the Bodega Highway.
He didn’t want to give me any details but said we could go look at it this evening, after he got off work.
I agreed and we hung up. Sebastopol was only about a half hour north, not that far for Jeremy to commute. And
it was in the opposite direction of where my family lived, so that had appeal. Already, I could feel resistance building in my heart, knowing that nothing we’d find could compare to this place. I doubted we’d ever have a home so beautiful again.
Yet we still had years ahead of us.

The thought of starting over, of a new beginning for me and Jeremy
,
softened my anxiety. That’s what we needed.
This would be good for us, I reminded myself. Everything here on this property carried a taint on it now. Tainted by my mother’s cruelty.

I placed the vases throughout the house, splashing color into every room, every corner, filling the house with the smell of beauty
, a scent strong enough to mask the permeating pain, disappointment, and outraged that seeped from the walls
as potent as
the stench of a fleabag motel room
.

As I
work
ed
on extricating my heart from my beloved home, the phone rang again.
My heart pounded as I heard an unfamiliar male voice on the line.

“This is Dave Lerner. Is this Lisa Sitteroff?” Lerner’s voice carried emotion across the line, a soft, pressing voice. Eager yet hesitant.

“I’m Lisa. I’m so glad you called. Are you in San Francisco?”

“I am.” He hesitated. “I was so startled to hear from you—and you sound so grown
-
up. I mean, of course you would be, but the last time I saw you, you were just a little kid.” He cleared his throat. “My secretary said you’d be
en
trying to reach me. That you had something important to talk about.”

All the carefully worded sentences I had composed in my head disintegrated. But Lerner’s voice was filled with kindness
and an eagerness to talk
, which encouraged me to continue
.

“Well,” I began, “I’ve been doing some research into my father’s death
.
 
.
 
.
and uncovering some not-so-pleasant things about my family
.
 
.
 
.
” That familiar feeling grew in my throat, making it hard for words to come out.