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Authors: Cathy Lamb

The First Day of the Rest of My Life (15 page)

BOOK: The First Day of the Rest of My Life
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I would have to tell her. She would rip out her chain saw and demolish a thick log. She might scream a bit as the wood chips went flying, her roar slashing through the day like hate on supersonic speed.
I would have to tell Granddad.
He would curl up and wilt, at least on the inside. On the outside, he’d put his chin up, stand up straight, stuff his ever-present grief for his daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughters back into his spine, and bear it. Next he would throw a considerable amount of money into doing whatever it took to hunt down and locate the blackmailer and punish him, all the while comforting us, reassuring us.
My granddad was a
man
, in every sense of the word.
But it wouldn’t put an end to all this, I knew that.
I picked up my violin with shaking hands. I practiced Schubert’s Sonatina in D Major, then, rebel violinist that I am, I played “The Irish Washerwoman” and “Drowsy Maggie,” two of my dad’s favorite Irish fiddle tunes.
They brought little comfort.
 
That night, after I lifted my head once again from the porcelain goddess, I turned off the lights in my modern house that I don’t like, lit candles, watched the city lights flicker, and listened to an orchestra playing a Beethoven symphony in my head.
The first time I heard violin music was on my third birthday. I remember hearing a full orchestra when I blew out my candles. I clapped for the music, because I loved it, and everyone thought it was “darling” that I clapped after blowing out my own candles.
I realized I was the only one hearing the music when I was about four and on the teeter-totter our dad had built for Annie and me in our backyard. She was three. We went up and down, and each time we were up, the sea stretched way out in front of us. We called it the Sea Saw.
I said to Annie, “Do you like that song?”
She looked at me, puzzled, and said, “What song?”
“That song!”
“There no song!”
“I mean, the music! The violins!”
“There no violins.”
“Yes, there is, Annie, listen.”
She listened. “I not hear anything.”
“Listen, Annie, listen!”
She shook her head. “I like piano.” Annie was already playing the piano. She loved it. Our dad taught her.
“Stop being mean, Annie.”
“No music, Madeline, only wind. I hear wind, you hear wind?”
I couldn’t hear the wind over the violins.
Sometimes it was one violin. It would start and stop, begin again, as if someone was practicing, trying to get every note right. Sometimes I would feel the utter sadness of the musician, the piercing grief, or a freeing happiness. Oftentimes, there were two violins, three violins, more maybe, playing off each other, playing together, sometimes a full orchestra with flutes, clarinets, French horns, oboes, basses, trumpets. There was silence between the pieces, as if the violinist was thinking, or mourning, gathering himself.
As I got older, and continued to practice for long hours, I would often recognize the music, both old and contemporary, but sometimes I knew that the violinist had composed his own work.
I do not hear the music constantly. In fact, I usually don’t hear it for more than an hour or two in a twenty-four hour time frame; often I don’t hear it for days and days. I can shut it off, too; I’ll get distracted, and it will go. Sometimes it’s loud, sometimes muted. I’ll hear it for a few minutes here and there, maybe in the morning and late evening, or at stressful or joyful times.
It does not interfere with my life in any way. I don’t feel that it’s an intruder. Rather, I believe it is a comfort to me, a companion, a friend, if that does not make me sound too insane. It is there, and I am there with it. But where is it from? My ancestors ? Is it a hereditary thing? A gift? A mini mental illness played out via music? My own mind constantly playing a violin? Is it savant-like? It’s extraordinary, there’s no doubt about that. Is it from God? A gift from Him? I prefer the latter.
I don’t know why there are so many secrets around my scratched and dented violin. I don’t know why it feels like I am practicing with another violinist, as if we are together, though he or she is invisible.
Why me?
It is. That’s it. It is as it is.
I continued practicing my violin that night, sometimes hearing a lone violinist with me. I played until two in the morning. I went to sleep in my living room, on the floor, thoughts of dank shacks, pepperoni pizza, and sticky hands trolling through my nightmares. In the corners of my dark dreams, the violins soared, dipped, and crashed.
 
“Although you two both already know about my and your grandma’s will, we are here to finalize a few things for when I die in twenty years,” Granddad said, then winked at us.
Annie and I smiled, but it was strained. Granddad had needed assistance getting in and out of the car, his body trembling, and walking clearly exhausted him. We had helped him into the law offices of Hernandez and Associates in downtown Portland, a firm of forty-five attorneys, about five minutes from my own office.
Max Hernandez himself, the owner of the law firm, had been waiting eagerly on the sidewalk to help us in. He had offered repeatedly to drive out to The Lavender Farm to make it easier for Granddad, but Granddad had insisted on coming downtown. “I want to see Max’s offices again. I’m so proud of that man.”
When Max saw Granddad, he enveloped him in a huge hug, Max’s face crumpling with emotion that he did not bother to hide. Max’s parents had worked for Grandma and Granddad for decades.
“Your grandma and granddad told me,” Max confided in me years ago, his voice breaking, “that if I got good grades in high school, they’d put me through any college I could get into. I got straight As. They kept their word. They said it was a gift to my parents. Man, Madeline, my parents cried when I graduated from high school, something they never did. When I graduated from Cornell, they didn’t stop crying for days. I was interested in the law, and your grandparents told me to apply to law school. They told me they’d pay for whatever a scholarship wouldn’t. They kept their word. When I graduated from law school, my parents didn’t stop crying for a week.” Max started crying, wiping his eyes. “I love your granddad and your grandma.
Love them.
I’d do anything for them. You know my parents are retired, but he lets them live in that house on your farm for free. Remodeled their kitchen five years ago.”
My granddad tapped the shiny, wood table in Max’s expansive corner office with the tips of his fingers. “You two know the land is yours, and we have left you both a sum of money that will be paid to you monthly for the rest of your lives.”
“We told you not to do that, it’s not necessary,” I said. “Give it away, Granddad.”
“We don’t need it,” Annie echoed. “My trips to Fiji are at a bargain rate.” She winked at me.
When parents die, especially when the children are young, and the parents have life insurance and two successful businesses, the kids become rich overnight. In money, only. In life, in the heart, they become the poorest people.
“My dears, we have been through this before. You know that, for my own mental peace, and for your grandma’s mental peace, the peace she would have if she were still fully with us, we must know that for the rest of your lives, no matter what happens, you’ll be provided for.”
I caught my tears with my fingers. It wasn’t the money that made me cry, it was what was behind the money, which was, simply, love.
“Now, we have been lucky in business and with your grandma’s books,” he said, his face so pale. “Very lucky. We are here today, with our good friend, Max, because you two are the coexecutors, and after I die I want the money to continue to be donated to the people and organizations that we give to now.” He nodded at Max. “Go ahead.”
Max went ahead with a review of our grandparents’ money invested in the grocery store chain, land, cash, stock, investments, Grandma’s royalties, and so on.
It was quite a list. It was an impressive sum of money. About enough to buy a country.
Then Max discussed the donations that Granddad had outlined we make, when, and in what amount for years into the future. The beneficiaries included, but weren’t limited to, a children’s cancer association, scholarship money for needy students, an Alzheimer’s group, money for libraries and for young students to be exposed to the arts, a sum so generous to Youth Avenues they would be thriving for decades, and a food bank. He had also left money tied up in his businesses for his employees and their children, including full college scholarships.
“Girls,” Granddad said, reaching for both of our hands, his eyes suddenly desperate, plaintive, beseeching. “You must continue our legacy of giving, you must promise me that.”
“We will,” I said.
“You must pay attention to the guidelines, along with Max.” His hands shook like fragile birds, scared, out of the nest, unprotected.
“We’ll do it, don’t worry at all. . . .”
“Not a dollar must be wasted. I must help as many people as I can, even after my death.”
The birds intertwined between his fingers, in and out. “We’ll carry on your legacy. . . .”
He abruptly got up. Annie, Max, and I immediately stood to help him, but he waved us away, the birds dismissive, and hobbled toward the windows.
“Granddad,” Annie said. “We’re your grandchildren, we’re
you
. We’ll do as you ask. Please, Granddad, it makes me upset when I see you upset.”
“Every detail, Mr. Laurent,” Max said, honesty ringing every note in his voice. “Every detail. I will handle it personally with Annie and Madeline. You know I owe you everything, sir.”
The shaky, fragile birds came to rest on the windows, still, for a moment, as Granddad said, almost to himself, “I must atone. Even after I die. I must atone.”
Annie, Max, and I stopped, as if a wall of ice had suddenly appeared between us and him, unrelenting.
He must atone?
“You must atone?” Annie said. “For what? For what must you atone?”
Granddad’s eyes were fixed on the skyscrapers and beyond, not seeing anything, and I knew he was somewhere we couldn’t go, couldn’t join him. It reminded me of the place my momma used to go when she played her violin outside and spoke to someone in French.
“For what, Granddad?” Annie persevered. “What do you need to atone for?”
“But nothing I can do will atone for what I did,” he whispered. “Nothing.” The fragile birds went to his head, pressing against his temples. “I hope God grants me forgiveness, because I do not deserve it.”
“Granddad!” Annie said.
“Sir!” Max begged, distraught.
“Granddad, God will forgive you anything, you’re wonderful.”
What was going on?
At that he whipped around, so quick for a very old man. “No, I am not wonderful.” His face twisted, flushed. “No, I am not wonderful. I am an awful man. A terrible man. I am not a man by any definition. I am unworthy, I am a betrayer, I am a traitor—” He stopped, his lips slamming together, his eyes not with us any longer, focused once again somewhere else, a land of pain.
“No, sir!” Max argued.
I opened my mouth but could not respond. Annie made a choking sound.
“Granddad, please, what are you talking about? What?” Annie said. “You’ve never hurt anyone in your entire life, ever—”
He held up a hand. Stop. “Yes.” His voice gentled, defeated. “Yes, I have. I don’t want to speak of it, but my whole life . . .
my whole life . . .”
We were stunned to see tears streaming from his tired, despairing eyes. “My whole life I have tried to atone for my unforgiveable act, a desperate act in desperate times. It has followed me, like a curse, as it should. I have not had one moment’s peace, not one moment’s rest, and I don’t deserve it. I am ashamed, so ashamed. It is your job, Annie, Madeline, Max, to make sure that my atonement is complete. You will do that, yes?”
We all nodded, exchanging horrified glances, as a tiny iceberg melted down my spine. For the life of me, I had no idea what he needed to atone for, but I knew Annie and I would go to our own graves knowing we had done what our grandparents had wanted us to do with their fortune.
He slumped into a chair, the birds clasped together tightly in front of him, quiet, not fluttering, dead now.
He would say nothing more, not a word, as the three of us rushed to him, kneeled, anguished, the wall of ice between us.
One thing was clear, though: Our granddad was tortured. Absolutely tortured.
 
I know what it’s like to be tortured by guilt. In fact, guilt stalks me, like some black leopard intent on its prey, and I am the prey.
Why the guilt? Because I didn’t protect Annie.
I was twelve years old. Rationally, I know I can’t blame myself, I know that.
But, you see, what the head knows and what the heart accepts are two different things.
BOOK: The First Day of the Rest of My Life
5.19Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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