Crystal Lies (4 page)

“I’ll be okay, Mom. I’ll call you once I get settled.” And he got in his car and drove away.

As I followed the faded blue blur of the Subaru down our street and
disappearing over the crest of the hill, I thought about what Jacob had said—“just like Grandma…”

Although she’d been gone a few years, I knew he meant Jeannette, Geoffrey’s mother. She’d had what Geoffrey had loosely termed “mental problems.” But never properly diagnosed, the poor woman had been shifted from one treatment center to the next until she’d finally ended up in a nursing home where she was sedated around the clock in the years before her death. Jeannette had never taken the role of a real mother in Geoffrey’s life. It was her parents, the Madisons, who had raised Geoffrey after his father, whom they claimed was an alcoholic, had abandoned his crazy wife and infant son. Naturally, Geoffrey had nothing but praise for his maternal grandparents. Wealthy and educated, they’d made certain that Geoffrey had only the best of the best. Meanwhile, his poor mother was either locked up in her bedroom or in whatever institution they felt was most suitable at the time.

We’d only spoken of Jeannette a few times. But both of our children knew that their grandmother had never been “well.” I think Sarah had been the first to mention the possible connection between her brother and grandmother.

She’d come home from college during last Christmas break. And, as usual, Jacob and Geoffrey had gotten into it when Jacob announced he was going to go “hang with friends” one evening.

“Maybe Jacob’s like Dad’s mom,” she had teased as Jacob was pulling on his coat and Geoffrey was fuming. “What was wrong with her anyway, Dad?”

“She was unbalanced,” Geoffrey had stated as if that explained everything.

“Yeah, maybe I
am
like her,” Jacob had said flippantly. “Maybe I’m crazy too.” Then he had stomped out the door.

But Sarah’s less-than-thoughtful comment had started me thinking, and after the holidays, I questioned Geoffrey a bit more about his mother. Naturally, he was reluctant to talk.

“I don’t
know
what was wrong with her,” he finally said in irritation. “She was moody, okay? And she did bizarre things. And she’d take off in the middle of the night without telling anyone.”

“But she was never diagnosed?”

“No. My grandmother always just said she was eccentric.” “Another word for
crazy?”

“Maybe. I don’t really know, Glennis. I was just a kid. And then she was institutionalized. That’s all I remember. End of story.”

Well, I wished it was the end of the story, but unfortunately the story just kept on going. And Jacob seemed destined to become the next chapter.

It felt as if a giant pair of hands reached down and tore my life in half on the day that Jacob left home. It’s not that I blame God exactly. Maybe it was my own undoing or just something inevitable. And I’m sure I was somewhat sleep deprived at the time—a little fuzzy from my previous evening of extracting bail money from the ATM and then waiting for Jacob to be released “into my custody” in the wee hours of the morning—but as I walked through my large, quiet home the following day, I began to wonder what my life was all about. I began to doubt everything about myself and to question everything about life in general. Even God.

In something of a daze, I went from perfect room to perfect room as if searching for clues. Something that would put it all back into perspective and cause my life to make sense again. I looked at the selection of family photos in their shining silver frames, gracefully arranged across the grand piano that Sarah used to play so beautifully. I picked up Sarah’s graduation photo and studied the self-satisfied smile that played across her sweetly curved lips—as if she knew she had it all together. Her hair had still been long back then, gently floating around her shoulders as if she hadn’t spent hours trying to get that tight natural curl to relax a bit. But there was a look in her eyes that didn’t quite fit with the rest of the picture, or maybe it was my imagination, but she looked worried. Maybe she had still been fretting about her grades when the photo was taken. For a short time she’d been concerned that Amanda Frazier would beat her out for top honors at graduation. But that hadn’t happened. Or maybe she’d
been worried about something else. Something I had missed because I’d been focused on Jacob. A small stab of guilt punctured my mothers heart, and I set the photo down and reminded myself that Sarah’s life was on track. She was excelling in college, making new friends, and seemed to be in complete charge of everything.

Not that I didn’t regret how her visits quickly diminished as Jacob’s troubles began to increase. But sometimes I thought that Jacob’s problems were simply Sarah’s excuses for doing something else—something that would further reinforce her independence.

“You seem to have your hands full with your son,” she’d told me shortly before her last spring break. “I think I’ll just go down to Grandma’s or maybe hang with my friends.” Naturally, I’d expressed my disappointment, but I didn’t encourage her to change her mind since it seemed our family life only grew more stressful when she did come home. Sarah wasn’t unlike her father, with her lectures about how Jacob needed to shape up and how I was a hopeless enabler. And her platitudes only seemed to make matters worse. As much as I loved my daughter, I knew she could be a royal pain at times. As it turned out, more and more Sarah had opted to visit her grandmother in Arizona during holidays.

My mother had moved down there less than a year after Sarah had started college and Jacob had started to become a handful. It was a double whammy for me—losing the support of the two females I’d been closest to—and I felt it contributed to Jacob’s problems as well. I felt he missed the attention of his only living grandparent, but then my mother had never been much of an expert at timing. Like when she’d divorced my dad shortly before he died. Of course, we all knew he’d been having an affair, but we didn’t know he was about to have a fatal heart attack. The ink on the divorce papers was barely dry before he keeled over in the arms of the “other woman.” Fortunately for my mother and us, their life insurance policies hadn’t been changed yet. That was a bit of luck that we all
still shake our heads over. Even so, we kids were devastated to lose our dad. But it was maddening, too, because even in our grief we were all still angry at him for cheating on Mom. As a result, it was a very strange funeral, and I sometimes wonder if I’ve ever really completed the grieving process for him.

I peered at the old-fashioned black-and-white picture of my parents, taken on their wedding day just after World War II had ended. My dad had on his army uniform, and my mom wore a white satin gown she had sewn herself. They looked so incredibly young and naive and happy, with absolutely no idea their lives would take such a sad twist in the end. Who ever knows how things will end up?

Then I picked up the silver-framed photo of our family. We’d had it taken shortly before Sarah graduated from high school, when Jacob was just a sophomore and doing okay. Oh, life had been relatively easy and full of promise back then. I’m just not sure we ever knew or quite appreciated it. It’s like they say: you don’t miss something until it’s gone. Back then, Geoffrey constantly pressured the kids to do and be their best. Not that I didn’t agree with this, mind you. Everyone should be the best he can be. I’d just never been sure that anyone could determine exactly what that meant for someone else.

I studied Jacob’s chocolate brown eyes, his straight nose, sweet smile, and sandy-blond curls. I looked and I looked at his face, trying to determine if something had been hidden in there that I’d missed. Storm clouds gathering that I’d never noticed. But all I could see was a happy family.

I picked up Sarah’s senior prom photo and, despite myself, smiled. She had looked so beautiful that night. Her auburn hair, the same shade that mine had once been, had been piled high on her head, and her green eyes had sparkled with youth and excitement. It was as if she’d finally come into her own around then. Like me, she’d been a late bloomer. Always the academic and model child, she’d been on the sidelines socially.

But something had happened in her senior year, and she’d just blossomed. The next thing we knew we were packing her off to college, where she’d continued to blossom. Even now she was off touring Europe for the entire summer with several college friends. I had balked at the idea at first, worried that it was too expensive or that something could go wrong or that Sarah might get hurt. But Geoffrey took Sarah’s side, saying that she of all people deserved this kind of treat. Meaning that compared to her younger brother, Sarah was a dream child. Of course, she was also Daddy’s little princess. Always had been, and unless she did something terribly regrettable—something that would shame her father—she probably always would remain on his pedestal.

But as Sarah’s life got better and better, her younger brother’s life went steadily downhill. It felt as if the scales had suddenly been tipped—Sarah was up and Jacob was down. But was that how it really worked? Was that how life balanced out the blessings and the curses?“Why, God?” I asked for the umpteenth time. Why was this happening to us? But God loomed as silent as my big empty house. And stifled by the heavy stillness that made it difficult to breathe or even think, I finally went outside in search of relief.

I’d always loved to garden, but that last summer was different. Oh, I’d planted as usual in the spring. Slightly bolstered by the possibility that Jacob might even make it through to graduation, I’d planted starts of tomatoes, peas, zucchini—all kinds of things. Then distracted and possibly depressed during the following summer months, mostly by Jacob’s unexplained absences from home and my growing suspicions that drugs were still involved, I had neglected, among other things, my garden. Oh, I’d left the automatic sprinkler system on, and I’d figured our landscaping people would maintain it, but I hadn’t actually gone out there myself during the past several weeks.

But on this day I decided to go see it, hoping that my faithful flowers
would boost my spirits when I needed it most. As usual, I first walked out into the manicured backyard, which the lawn guys kept to Geoffrey’s high standards of perfection, and then past the pool, which, thanks to the pool man, shone like a polished piece of turquoise. Another one of Geoffrey’s indulgences, since it seemed he was the only one to use the pool much anymore. I continued on around, back to the concealed area I’d been allowed to keep. This “out of sight” area was one of the few spots in our home that Geoffrey didn’t really care about. It was my personal little paradise.

My sagging spirits began to lift as I heard the birds chirping in the tall trees, and I think I actually began to relax a bit as I followed the curving flagstone path that Jacob had helped me to put down when he was about thirteen and eager to show off his muscles. I breathed in the fresh air, looking forward to the peaceful comfort I would find in the happy faces of my colorful flowers and hearty vegetables and lush green foliage. But when I came around the tall boxwood hedge that sheltered my garden, I was greeted with only weeds and grief.

Something had obviously gone wrong in my automatic watering system this year, most likely the battery in the timer, I figured, as I surveyed the devastation. As a result, everything—I mean everything—in my sweet little garden was dead. I walked around and around in a daze, just staring at my perennials and annuals, all the vegetables. Even my everbearing strawberries were brown and dry and shriveled almost beyond recognition. It seemed that every single plant had been a victim of the summer heat. All had withered and wilted in the high August temperatures.

It reminded me of when I was a little girl. We’d had an elderly neighbor named Mrs. Peabody. The tiny, wrinkled woman had always kept a beautiful garden tucked neatly behind her white picket fence. But then she had died suddenly in early June, and with no one to tend or water her yard, it wasn’t long before her garden succumbed as well. I can still
remember the feeling of sadness that washed over me as I stood and peered over her fence. The garden of a dead woman.

And that was what I was looking at once again. Falling to my knees as if shot through the heart, I coiled into an almost fetal position, scooped up the hot dry soil, and clutched it in tight but shaking fists. “This is my life,” I thought. “This is what I deserve.” Dust and death and utter hopelessness.

I don’t know how long I remained there, sobbing and crying over deceased columbine, daylilies, sweet william… Why, even the hardy lavender and sunflowers had perished. It was all gone. I stayed out there and wept for all that was lost and dead in my life, for all that was still dying. Then I stood and went back into my house, packed a couple of bags, and without even pausing to pet the dog or check on the cat, I left.

I don’t even remember driving through Stafford that day, but I finally stopped when I saw a tattered sign that said Apartment for Rent. It was located in a run-down area on the other side of town. A weedy grass strip ran alongside the stark stucco apartment complex, but, like my garden, it was brown and dry. By four o’clock I had signed a six-month lease on a two-bedroom apartment and “moved” inside. I didn’t have a bed or a chair or even a glass to get a drink of water. But I didn’t care. Why should a dead woman care? I lay down on the matted, rust-colored carpet and, resting my throbbing head on my overnight bag, slept.

When I awoke, it was dark, and I felt disoriented but not frightened exactly. Perhaps I was too numb. But I did wonder where I was and why I was there. I fumbled around until I found a light switch, then felt stunned to remember what I had done. My surprise was quickly followed by dismay as I scrutinized my new habitat in the unforgiving light of a flickering fluorescent strip above the stained kitchen sink. There on the chipped Formica-topped counter was the lease I had signed. I looked at my watch to discover that it was nearly nine thirty. I knew Geoffrey would be worried, would probably suspect me of going out after Jacob again.

I paced back and forth in the limited space of the apartment. I guessed it was about an eighth the size of my previous home. And yet this did not disturb me. In fact, I think I found some comfort in the confinement. Maybe I imagined I had thrown myself into some sort of self-imposed prison. A place where bad mothers went to pay for their crimes. But what was my crime? Caring too much?

Even so, I did not look forward to the prospect of sleeping on that floor all night. Even prison inmates were offered the amenity of a bed. Besides, my back was already stiff and sore from my exhaustion-induced nap. So, knowing that the local Wal-Mart stayed open until all hours, I decided to set off in search of something to sleep on.

I felt a bit self-conscious and out of place as I parked my slightly conspicuous Range Rover in the nearly empty parking lot. I knew I must look frightening with my uncombed hair and rumpled clothes, but I felt the chances of running into anyone I knew at this place and at this time of night were quite unlikely. Even so, I remember how I held my head down and quickly passed through the entrance. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I remembered that the camping area was in the back of the store. I recalled taking Jacob there once, a long time ago, to get some items for his first year at summer camp.

To my surprise, I found everything I needed in that section. A dark blue sleeping bag, a foam mattress pad that rolled up neatly, a folding camp chair, and even a mess kit complete with a collapsible cup for water. I heaped these items into a nearby cart, then made my way back to the checkout.

“Going camping?” asked a freckle-faced young man behind the counter. He looked to be about the age of my son, and I wondered if perhaps I should know him.