Such a Pretty Face (47 page)

In the distance I saw Helen, dressed in black, alone on a hill. I knew she was crying.

I scrunched my eyes shut tight.

My grandma left the answers I had hoped to find in her old, hand-carved hope chest that was rumored to have survived the Oregon Trail.

It was their bedroom I entered first. I opened the two windows, then lay down on the bed, which was still covered in the quilts Grandma had from her pioneering ancestors.

The letter and the photographs were in a manila envelope, as were the playbills and the newspaper articles. They were next to a stack of love letters my grandparents had exchanged starting when they were young and ending about a week before they died.

At the time of her total collapse from schizophrenia in her twenties, onstage, naked, Helen had been in love with an opera singer named Ricardo Cabrerra.

Ricardo had been called one of the greatest living opera singers on earth. He had obviously come out to the farm, because there were pictures of him with Grandma and Grandpa and Helen in front of the Schoolhouse House and the barn.

Twelve months after Helen left New York City in a straitjacket, he was found in a back alley of New York, dead of alcohol poisoning. The article mentioned Helen as his “serious lady friend,” and her schizophrenic break. “This is a terrible tragedy,” the reporter wrote. “It is impossible to overstate the blow that the stage has endured with the tragic loss of these two immensely talented singers, one to mental illness, the other to grief…. Friends say that Ricardo was devastated, unable to recover, after losing the love of his life….”

I stared at the pictures of Ricardo in the newspaper. They had included photos of him as a baby, a young boy, a teenager, an adult. I stared most closely at a picture of him as a baby. Then I picked up a picture of me as a baby, which was labeled with my name in the same envelope.

Me and my father had the same dimple in the left cheek, same hair and chin. We were twins, only separated by a generation, and he was a boy and I was a girl. I found his old records in the chest, and I put them on an old record player we had in the attic.

He was unquestionably brilliant, his voice a full orchestra, soaring and dipping, crescendoing, each note clear and breathtaking, like a teardrop and a rainbow in one.

I found Grandma’s letter. “My dearest Stevie,” she began. She told me that Helen and Ricardo had been in love for several years. They’d had a passionate romance, which produced me. It explained Helen’s break with reality, how Ricardo had wanted to take care of her, but overnight Helen didn’t want him and called him “a snake who sings who put a little snake in me…. A loud man, he changes costumes, the voices don’t like him.” Ricardo came to see me many times. In the envelope I found photos.

In one photo, Ricardo was holding me in his arms, smiling, his face inches from mine, his black hair shining. Helen was staring blankly at the camera, about a foot away from him. She was wearing one of those pink pajama outfits with the zipper and the feet, a bandana made of foil, and a piece of lace that she tied in the front of her stomach in a bow.

The other photo was me and Ricardo on the porch swing, and I choked up, my chest hurting, because even I, damaged and hurting, could so clearly see the truth: My father loved me. It was in his smile, the delight and wonderment and awe on his face.

My grandma and grandpa had told me that my father had died in an accident. I had always assumed it was a car accident. I hadn’t pressed for more details than that, simply because I’d had enough to deal with and saw Grandpa as my father. My guess is that my grandparents thought the truth would have been too hard for a young girl already dealing with a schizophrenic mother. As an adult, there was nothing to make me believe he hadn’t died in a car accident, and that was that. I did not want to venture back into my painful past.

I stared at my father again, at his expression, the love that shone right off that photo.

“Never, ever doubt that both your mother and father loved you, Stevie,” Grandma wrote. “They did. They always did.”

The newspaper reporter was right. It was a terrible tragedy.

There were newspaper articles about the mental ward Helen had been in with Barry, where she’d been insistent that people were burned up and put in cans.

Grandpa and Grandma had taken care of part of the problem.

They had Chad, their attorney friend, investigate, and then they’d sued the mental ward. The press got involved, as did the state government.

The cans were discovered.

The mental ward was under the gun for answers to explain not only the cans but also its “treatment and rehabilitation” techniques for its patients.

Those answers were sadly, sickeningly lacking, and the mental ward was shut down.

Tonya had been found in a can in a dark room next to Andrew.

Barry went to prison.

Twenty-five years.

For rape and assault against numerous female and male patients.

In prison he was raped and killed.

Too bad for him.

I never thought I would return to the bridge that me and Sunshine were thrown from and Helen dove from headfirst, wearing her best black heels.

Of all the places in my life that I wanted to avoid, that was it.

Knowing I must be clearly of half a mind, I drove The Mobster to the bridge.

I didn’t sway over the yellow lines, as Helen had done, and it was bright and sunny, not raining like the devil had opened up a bag of cannonballs and dumped it, but I could hear her voice, her chanting, in my head as if it were yesterday. I felt Sunshine clinging to me. I smelled her, the soap and the lemon shampoo, and the scent of an orange Popsicle.

The road curved before the bridge, and I parked alongside it. In my memory, it was a huge, arching, shadowy evil
thing,
an instrument of death that had helped Helen obliterate Sunshine, the river a black, frothing, rollicking killer.

I got out of the truck and headed toward the bridge, the sun warming my shoulders. I walked to the approximate place on the bridge where I had been thrown over, followed by Sunshine in her pink dress and Helen in her black cocktail dress, the black lines up her nylons perfectly straight.

Instead of the draconian bridge I remembered, it was a typical, one-lane country bridge, crossing a medium-sized river, flanked on either side by woods.

A peaceful, quiet place…a crime scene. One murder and one suicide and the attempted murder of another. I was the “another.”

I leaned my elbows on the rail and bent over to watch the water flowing underneath it. I remember fighting to stay above the river’s current, screaming for Sunshine, and then listening to that echoing silence, the silence of nothing, the silence of death, the silence of aloneness.

I had been hearing that silence my whole life.

It had deafened me.

The tears streamed out of my eyes, hard and fast, strangling me, my shoulders shaking, my elbows barely able to keep me propped up. Is there a certain amount of tears we have to shed for the horrendous times in our lives and if we don’t shed those tears we can’t move on? Why do the tears have to revisit us now and then? Why do we feel better after crying sometimes and other times more hopeless than ever? Why does life have to get so painful that we think we’re going to choke to death on our own tears?

I don’t know.

Ashville, Oregon—1980

M
y feet scraped against rocks and I struggled to shore in the pitch-black night. When the freezing water was still up to my waist, I screamed, raw and primal, into that wet, black night. I yelled for my Sunshine, again and again and again.

Silence.

I remember watching the sun come up over the river, twisting my charm bracelet, still calling out her name, but my voice was scratchy, my throat aching, my tears unceasing. I had no idea how much time had passed. I only remember that I could not close my eyes in case Sunshine floated by and waved at me.

Mrs. Zeebach found me. She hugged me close, and cried, rocking me back and forth, telling me she was so glad I was safe, that they all loved me and my grandma and grandpa would be so glad to see me. She blew a whistle and we were soon surrounded by people, and I was lifted up on a gurney and they tried to put me in an ambulance. I told them I didn’t want to leave, that I was waiting for Sunshine, and she was coming by soon, I was sure of it—someone stay and wait for her—and they promised they would wait, and kissed my forehead, and only then did I let them put me in the ambulance.

When we got to the hospital Grandma and Grandpa stumbled in and held me close, not even trying to hold back their sobs.

“Do you have Sunshine?” I asked. “Do you know where she is?”

They cried harder and moaned, and The Family came and held them up so they would not collapse, and I knew. I knew.

I knew that my Sunshine, my sister and my best friend, was dead.

Helen was dead, too.

But I didn’t care about that.

I was so angry I released an animalistic shriek. I shrieked so loud I’m sure each person in that hospital heard it, every sick person, every hurt person, every doctor and nurse and custodian, but I couldn’t stop.

I did not rest until a nurse came, Mrs. Do, Phuc’s mother, and gave me a shot.

Right before I slept I realized I did not have my charm bracelet. I tried to tell Mrs. Do, but I don’t think she understood my words because I couldn’t talk right. She brushed my hair back and told me to rest.

I dreamed.

In my dream I was in the water with Sunshine and we were holding hands. We were in a river, but this river was bluish green, the water clear, rainbow-colored fish forming a magical world of enchantment. We could breathe underwater, and we saw a smiling octopus wearing a top hat and a laughing jellyfish playing a guitar. A mermaid swam by and brought us flower leis and shell bracelets.

And then a shark came by and ate Sunshine piece by piece, and the river was filled with blood and I couldn’t see, and I tried to grab Sunshine’s hand, and soon the water was filling my lungs and I couldn’t breathe.

The shark was Helen.

My own hysterical shrieking woke me up, and Mrs. Do came in again with the shot.

There was not enough room in our church for Sunshine and Helen’s funeral, so we had it at Ashville High School, where Helen had sung onstage and brought in enough money to fund most of the sports and activities.

As I was told later, there was not a person in town who did not come. Main Street literally shut down for the day. Grandpa came in a wheelchair, pushed by Lance, because he had had another heart attack two days after Helen’s and Sunshine’s deaths.

The crying in that church was awful. I can still hear it in my nightmares. It’s a relentless, low-hummed cry of raw grief.

I sat by my aunt Janet, who sobbed uncontrollably into a white handkerchief, keening back and forth. Polly held my hand on my other side. Lance bent his big head and cried while Herbert put a heavy hand on my shoulder before the service and said, “I’m sorry about your mother and your sister.” I saw something, maybe it was a sliver of heartbreak in his eyes, before they shut down and I was being pierced by the same tightly controlled, cold snake eyes I was familiar with.

I didn’t hear what the minister said. I didn’t hear what the eulogists said. I didn’t hear what anyone said to me. I was in a miserable fog. My head was bandaged where I’d hit a rock. Both my arms were bandaged from scrapes. I had stitches on my leg in two places.

Grandma had to be wheeled out on a stretcher at the end of the service because she couldn’t stand up, was dizzy, couldn’t speak, and had a bad headache. Doctors in the service attended to her at the altar while the choir sang another two songs. She was rushed to the hospital because she’d had a stroke. Me and Grandpa stayed in the hospital with her. They brought in two more beds, and nurses watched both Grandma and Grandpa around the clock. The head of the hospital was Grandma’s second cousin.

I was so scared, so petrified at the thought of losing both my grandma and grandpa, I could hardly move.

I could go on for many thousands of words to describe the grief that me and Grandma and Grandpa went through, but it isn’t necessary. I will assume you have an understanding here.

They had lost their daughter and granddaughter. Their daughter had drowned their granddaughter, then killed herself. She had tried to kill me. I was deeply grieving and hardly speaking.

They had trouble getting out of bed in the morning and aged about ten years in ten hours. Losing Sunshine literally took the sunshine out of their lives, and losing Helen was crushing. All they saw was darkness. I know because I was in the same darkness with them. There were enough tears in that household, between the three of us and The Family and friends, to fill the town’s swimming pool.

The Family brought food and I ate. I kept eating. Eating when I was sad, eating when I was lonely, scared, anxious, depressed, grieving, crying. I ate. People kept offering me food and I shoveled it down. My shorts got tight, my pants got tight, and Grandma’s friends bought me new clothes.

I didn’t wear them, though. I wore an old pair of purple flower sweatpants, Sunshine’s favorite, and a sweatshirt of Sunshine’s. It was big on her so it fit me right. There was a picture of a white, fluffy cat on it. I also wore Sunshine’s jewelry, all the bracelets and necklaces that we’d made together, and I cried over losing the charm bracelet.

Mostly I sat in our room, though. I touched all her things, I hugged her stuffed animals for her, I played with her teacups and teapots, and her jeweled jewelry box, I tried on her hats, I stacked up her books perfectly straight after reading a few out loud to her, I and made sure her night-light was on when I went to bed in case she came back to visit. I figured God had made her an angel so she could do that.

I made sure that our room stayed clean and dusted, but I left out a couple of games we were playing. One of those games was Go Fish, with cards. She had laid her cards down flat, as I had, when we’d gone down to lunch that day she died. I didn’t touch those. I didn’t even peek at her cards.

She treasured her shell collection, and I spread all her shells out on her bedspread and stared at them. When I was done, I put them back in her jars neatly. I ran my finger over her drawings and paintings and put stars on each one because they all deserved a star.

I spent most of my time in our room with the door shut. Sometimes I’d wipe my face with my hands and I’d be surprised at how wet my cheeks were from my tears.

But if Sunshine wanted to come down from heaven and bring me back up with her, I wanted to be ready to go. So I hardly left our room.

Except to eat.

We functioned, that first year. We
functioned.
I went back to school. As for Helen’s room, I never went in there. I never, ever wanted to. In fact, if that room burned down to a crisp, I would have been happy. The door was shut, and though I saw Grandma and Grandpa going in there now and then, I never followed.

Grandpa never regained his vigor, but he went to work. Grandma did not fully recover from her stroke, but she continued on as mayor. The left side of her mouth was permanently drawn down and she limped on her left side. I know Grandma and Grandpa were asked why they didn’t retire, and Grandpa said, “Because if I don’t work my grief will come and get me and kill me. I must stay alive for Glory and Stevie. Stevie is our gift.” Cousin Nora Lee told me Grandpa said that.

Grandma said, “I have to keep moving. If I don’t, I’ll die. Albert needs me. So does Stevie. Praise the Lord for Stevie. We love that child.” Second cousin twice removed Shenandoah Michael told me Grandma said that.

So, we functioned. Neighbors and friends came by. Chad, Grandpa’s attorney, came several times with papers, and he and Grandpa and Grandma closed the door to the den as they talked.

Grandpa and Grandma and I hugged each other all the time. I saw Grandma sitting on Grandpa’s lap. I saw Grandpa link an arm around Grandma’s shoulders as they stood on the deck and stared at the stars, or danced, slow and sad, cowboy boot to cowboy boot. I saw them kiss, long, gently, their bodies close. I heard them say, “I love you, sweetie, you are my life,” and “It has been a privilege to be with you all these years,” and “I thank God for you every day,” and “I miss Sunshine so much, and I miss Helen. I miss our daughter….”

I didn’t miss Helen. Only Sunshine.

She was a stupid, stupid mother.

One Sunday night, after church, they invited me into their room and we played cards on their bed.

“Stevie, never forget we love you,” Grandma said. “You’re our gift.”

And Grandpa said, “God knew what he was doing, sugar, when we got you. You are a wonderful lady. A beautiful person. You’re smart and responsible, Stevie, but more than that, more important than that, you’re compassionate and generous and kind. You were kind to your mother and kind to Sunshine.”

And Grandma said, “You’ve been through way too much, honey, but remember that grief and despair and tears make you stronger, even though they are so hard to bear. The Lord never told us life would be easy, but he did tell us he’d be with us.”

“I’ll remember.” I remembered Sunshine, too. I tried to forget about Helen.

Grandma and Grandpa must have read my mind.

“You’re going to have to forgive your mother, Stevie,” Grandma said. “She was sick.”

“She loved you, honey. I truly believe that when she threw you off that bridge, in her mind, she was trying to save you from Punk and Command Center,” Grandpa said.

“I believe that, too. I believe she was also trying to save Sunshine,” Grandma said. “She always said she didn’t like Sunshine, but she threw you both off together, and I think she was trying to prevent Punk and Command Center from getting her, too. Had she been well, had she not had a sickness in her head, your mother would have been the best mother ever.”

“She was terrible,” I said, that anger that lived in my stomach like a rock liquefying and bubbling up. “She was the worst momma in the world. She was mean and awful.”

Grandpa sighed. “She left something to be desired,” he quipped.

“Yes,” Grandma said. “The tin foil, the antennas, all the voices—that wasn’t quite motherly, was it?”

I knew they were trying to make light of a hideous situation, but I couldn’t laugh. I didn’t know if I would laugh again in my whole life.

“Love makes the heart softer,” Grandma said, holding my hands. “Love heals. Love will get you through life, honey. It will make life worth living. Be open, all the time, to love, even when it’s hard. Even when it involves your mother.”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to talk about Helen. I hated Helen. They understood, they so got it, and we had a three-way hug.

“Stevie,” Grandma said, tipping my head up and kissing my nose. “I want you to know, sugar, that you will always have a home here. You will always have the Schoolhouse House.”

My grandpa ruffled my hair. “Yep. It’s yours forever, sugar. Our gift to you, because you’re a gift to us.”

I didn’t quite understand what they were talking about because I had stopped listening. I was too miserable.

We played Fish. Grandma won. “Praise the Lord, I’m a heckuva card player.”

Because of my graphic night terrors after Helen tried to drown me, I slept on a bed they’d brought into their room the morning after I was released from the hospital. Piled up in the corner of their room were thirty new stuffed animals that The Family had brought me. I often went to sleep holding Grandpa’s hand.

Three days later my grandpa’s heart collapsed and he died, in bed, with Grandma. She woke up with his arms still around her. I woke up, saw that Grandpa was dead, saw Grandma’s tears, and I ran. I ran and I ran. Two of my cousins saw me running down our country road and ran after me, and our neighbors ran to the house. When I could run no farther, my cousins hugged me close.

Two days later, as she was planning Grandpa’s funeral, Grandma died, too. She had a massive stroke. She was holding his old Bible in her hands and was sitting in his chair by the fire. I found her. She had a smile on her face.

So I was alone.

Horribly, rawly, grievously alone.

Alone.

That was me.