Dreamer of Dune (37 page)

But it was excruciatingly difficult for me to write about the sufferings of my mother, and this had become a terrible weight upon my mind. I was more than a man writing in a journal. These were people I loved, my own flesh and blood. I wasn't just a reporter; I was a participant, drawn like those around me along a powerful, uncontrollable current, not knowing what lay ahead.

Another week passed, and during a telephone conversation with my father he said he was in the midst of a lot of tax work that Mom was too tired to do. She hadn't been eating well, didn't seem to have much of an appetite, and was suffering from nausea and indigestion. Some of the medicines she had been taking, particularly the systemic diuretic Lasix, seemed to disagree with her, and he was talking with the doctors to get the medications adjusted. In the meantime, she was refusing to take the Lasix.

Dad wanted to get up to his study and work on his book,
The White Plague
, but couldn't.

On October 2, 1981, while I was at work in my insurance office, my agent Clyde Taylor called from New York City to say that Berkley Books had made an offer to publish
Sidney's Comet
…including the payment of a modest advance.

I called Jan first, but she already knew, from talking with Clyde. “Great, honey!” she said. I had Mom and Dad on the phone seconds later, congratulating me. He was in his study, back at work on
The White Plague
, while she was at the phone in the greenhouse. Mom had been taking a new combination of medication, making her feel much better.

Still, whenever we got together to share a meal, Mom said she couldn't entirely enjoy it yet, as something funny had been happening with her sense of taste, something to do with her continuing recovery from the heart operation. Her breathing and cardiovascular strength were improving to the point where she could swim two and a half lengths of the swimming pool now—around thirty-five meters—before Dad had to jump in and help her. She could also climb two flights of stairs at a time, whereas before surgery she'd had to rest after each half flight. So she was improving—but she lamented times only a few years before when she could swim forty lengths nonstop. Mom looked good, but complained of bothersome itches from the surgery.

A fine toast was raised to my novel sale, and more toasts followed, to Mom's improving health, to my parents' birthdays coming up that month, and to Dad's tremendous success. After we toasted Mom's health, Dad put his arm around her and with a sweet smile said, “I don't know why I love this woman so much.”

She nuzzled against his chest.

Finally the
Dune
movie was under way. David Lynch had created a fine screenplay, in Dad's opinion, very close to the novel. Lynch and the film producers were thinking of filming the desert scenes in Mexico's Sonora Desert, a picturesque region that would have the added benefit of cost-effectiveness, from the devalued Mexican peso. They were talking with, of all people, George Lucas to do the special effects. This bit of irony was of some concern to my father, considering alleged “borrowings” in
Star Wars
from
Dune
, but he decided to stay out of the matter.

From various projects Dad was scheduled to receive an astronomical sum of money in the next ninety days—a much-needed infusion of cash to pay the contractors in Hawaii and Mom's medical expenses, which were not all covered by insurance.

Mom said he was often writing before dawn on his Irish story,
The White Plague
. He hadn't started until mid-August, and now—less than two months later—he
was already
.

Before beginning the book, extensive DNA research had been required, since Dad had in mind a story about a DNA experiment gone bad, in which a dangerous virus was released into the populace. He read as many books as he could get his hands on about recombinant DNA, spoke with scientists and doctors, and went a step beyond. To see how easy it might be for an unbalanced, dangerous person to obtain the ingredients and materials necessary for recombinant DNA research, he impersonated a doctor and telephoned medical suppliers.

“This is Dr. Herbert,” Dad said. “What does my purchasing department need to do to obtain boxes of XR-27 and enzyme applicators?”

Because of the potential for misuse of such items, Dad expected to encounter difficulty. Instead, to his amazement, he was told that he only had to send in a check for the proper amount. When the check cleared, the items would be shipped, no questions asked.

He developed what he thought could be an actual deadly plague, and considered including details of it in the book. Mom and I told him we didn't think he should do that, since the wrong people might obtain the “recipe.” After consideration, he said he would follow our advice and only specify fragments of information—too little for anyone to put together.

Several days later a friend of my father's told me, “Frank doesn't look well.” I responded that I assumed Dad was just short of sleep. I dropped a humorous card in the mail to my father, telling him I loved him.

Two days later Mom called me at work. She said Dad had been up since 3:00
A.M
. typing, and he hadn't eaten a regular meal in all that time or said much to her. I repeated the friend's comment to her, and she insisted Dad was fine, just tired.
He was
of
The White Plague
. He was trying to meet an October 31 deadline—only three days away—but it had been made nigh impossible because of the time he'd taken off for her illness.

She said G. P. Putnam's Sons had already arranged for the book's publicity, and a special boxed edition of signed copies at fifty dollars apiece had been promised, in addition to the regular printing. It was like a newspaper deadline for him, she said, a reminder of years he had spent working as a newsman while writing in his spare time. He was obsessed with meeting the deadline.

They planned to leave for Hawaii on November 27, waiting until after Thanksgiving so that we could spend the holiday together. I knew they were delaying departure for another reason as well. They wanted to meet the newest Herbert, due to emerge from a private world into a more populated one around November 13.

On Tuesday, November 3, Dad came out of his cocoon and phoned me.
He was
out of a projected 550. Some of it was first draft, he said, but most was second. I marveled at his incredible pace. He could really put it in high gear when he wanted to.

I told him I was having trouble getting going on my new novel,
The Garbage Chronicles
. I had a general plot in mind and some of the characterizations, but little more. He said not to bother too much with small details at this point, syntax and the like, that I should try to write through to the end of the story—even if it was sketchy—and then go back and fill in the details. I took his advice, and it helped speed my progress.

While he usually did not discuss particulars of his works in progress, preferring to save his energy for writing, he said
The White Plague
was about a man whose wife and children have been killed in Ireland in a terrorist bomb attack. The man, a molecular biologist, decides to avenge himself by setting loose a terrible plague. After Dad selected the title for the book, he learned it had been used previously, for a book in the 1930s about tuberculosis. It didn't matter, he said, since titles normally couldn't be copyrighted anyway.

He spoke of his schedule. Later that month, on the day before Thanksgiving, he had a date at a recording studio in Seattle to read from
God Emperor of Dune
for a phonograph album being produced by Caedmon Records. He also mentioned that around December 15 he was going to meet Bill Ransom in Hawaii to begin their sequel to
The Jesus Incident
. The collaboration was expected to take three or four months.

The following week I called him regarding our upcoming Thanksgiving dinner, saying I had made reservations at a nice restaurant. “Great,” he said, but he went on to say he was having trouble with his Kawaloa house plans. He had included a number of features to make the structure accessible to a heart patient, but the Maui Land Use and Codes Department was giving him trouble, citing nonconforming construction. They were making him jump through hoops, and he had to modify the plans to comply with their requirements. He was also obtaining a letter from a doctor concerning Mom's medical condition, which he would send to the planning department.

On Thanksgiving morning my parents and I accompanied Jan on an appointment with her doctor in Bellevue. The doctor wanted to examine her before he went away for the holiday, as she was two weeks past due and was getting rather large. While Jan was with the doctor, I sat in the waiting room with my parents. We thumbed through magazines without reading much and conversed in nervous tones, hoping the baby might, miraculously, be ready for delivery that day.

Presently a long-faced doctor came out with Jan. He told my parents he was afraid to face them, because he knew how badly they wanted to see the baby before leaving, but he had nothing encouraging to report. She was only dilated two centimeters, as she had been for a couple of weeks. It had been more than nine years since the birth of Kim, and with only a hint of a smile the doctor asked Jan if she had forgotten how to have babies.

Mom and Dad were scheduled to board a plane to Hawaii the next morning. Due to the rash of Christmas flights to the islands, it was the last flight they could get on. Otherwise, they would have had to wait until January—and they had to get there before then to supervise house construction. A number of important jobsite decisions had to be made. They planned to return to Seattle in June, and perhaps for a short while in March to see the baby.

Back at our house, we visited for a while before dinner. Mom had lost a lot of weight, and couldn't seem to stay warm in the cold weather, no matter how much she wore. She kept on a heavy, fur-lined coat indoors and sat by the wood stove in the family room. We also had the thermostat turned way up, and a curtain drawn over a large sliding glass door behind the couch, to retain heat and reduce drafts.

The next day, Dad called from Hawaii to say they had arrived safely, and that the main house was turning out better than expected. The walls and roof were up. The caretakers, a young couple, were living in the residence that had been built for them, so my parents were staying with a friend, Mary Moore, the mother of race-car driver and ABC sportscaster Sam Posey. She owned an elegant waterfront home a mile down the road toward Hana town, and was providing my parents with what she called “the stateroom,” for guests.

Mom was happy and breathing easier in the warm air, but Dad still hadn't finished
The White Plague
. He was spending long hours on it.

On Saturday, November 28, 1981, I worked on
The Garbage Chronicles
until 2:00
A.M
. At 5:45
A.M
., Jan woke me up, saying she was experiencing labor pains. Margaux Beverly Herbert was born at 10:36
A.M
., with no medication. Nine pounds, six ounces! In the past few days we had decided on the French name Margaux (pronounced “Margo”) for a girl, in honor of my maternal grandmother, Marguerite, who went by the name of Margo. With my mother in mind we selected the middle name of Beverly. Of course, Jan and I also had in mind the wonderful bottles of Margaux wine that we had shared with my parents.

O
N
N
EW
Year's Day 1982, my mother telephoned from Hawaii. After static on the line cleared, she said she loved a packet of baby pictures we had sent to her, along with a bag that had the design of a green cat on it. “It's the most elegant cat I've ever seen,” she said. “But can we give it to Mary Moore? She's been letting us stay with her for a month and a half's without charging any rent. Bill Ransom is staying here, too.”

“Sure,” I responded.

She said she didn't want to hurt our feelings.

My solution: “You give Mary the bag. Our gift to you is a month and a half's room and board in her house.”

Mom laughed. Dad came on the line. He said Bill Ransom had done a lot of the work on their sequel to
The Jesus Incident
, and that it shouldn't be too difficult to finish. They didn't have a title for it yet.

I needed my parents to sign several forms for their property and liability insurance, forms I had mailed to them some weeks before. But neither Dad nor Mom recalled seeing my request. “You have to imagine the confusion here,” Dad said. “Your mother has a little office space in Mary Moore's house…There are papers all over hell…We've lost several pieces of mail.” He asked me to send another copy of everything.

I told him that a friend from Port Townsend called and wanted to know if they had received the smoked salmon she sent.

“What salmon?” Dad asked.

Mom said the house was almost finished, the ocean was blue and it was 82 degrees. “Ain't it hell?” she quipped.

Dad planned to be in Seattle in April for a second big book tour on
God Emperor of Dune
, this time for Berkley's paperback edition. My mother probably wouldn't accompany him, as it would still be too cold in the Pacific Northwest.

The hardcover edition of
God Emperor of Dune
was still on national and international bestseller lists, where it had been firmly entrenched for most of the previous year. This was Mom's favorite story in the series, and apparently she was not alone in her feelings. Because of stronger than anticipated hardcover sales, the mass market paperback would not be issued until 1983.

Dad said they might be in England in a few months, where they were scheduled to begin filming
Dune.
The producers had decided against filming in Mexico's Sonora Desert, in favor of Tunisia in North Africa. The base of operations would be in London, with a number of sets built at Pinewood Studios near London, the same location favored by the previous
Dune
director, Ridley Scott.

At Mary Moore's house, Bill Ransom worked alone on the sequel to
The Jesus Incident
, while my father continued to struggle on
The White Plague
. Shortly after the first of the year, Dad gave the manuscript to Mom and Bill to read, since he valued both of their opinions.

After reading it, the two readers discussed the book privately, and agreed that it was too long, with excessive detail about the Irish countryside. At coffee, they worried about how to tell Dad. Finally it was decided that Mom would do it.

At the appointed time, Bill made himself scarce.

Upon hearing the bad news from my mother, Dad stormed out of the house and asked Bill if he agreed. The answer was yes. Dad's shoulders slumped in disappointment, as he realized they were right. He had been attempting to work through too many distractions, and in the process had lost the focus of his story.

He set about a major rewrite.

Later that month Mom called with questions about her insurance policies. She had an agent in Hawaii handling matters over there, while I was taking care of their insurance in Washington State. She was confused about things that she'd always understood before, and this concerned me. I wondered if she was taking on too much for her condition, trying to keep up with the demands of Dad's very busy and often complex activities.

They had moved into the new main house, where construction was still in progress. At Dad's request, Bill, a former fireman and CPR instructor, trained each of the workers in CPR, for my mother's safety. Bill also made up emergency instruction cards for each of the men to carry with them at all times.

As I spoke with my mother, I heard carpenters hammering and sawing in the background. She said she was gazing out at the aquamarine sea, with palm trees swaying in the wind on the lower portion of the property, and could hear the duet of Dad and Bill Ransom typing in the upstairs study. Already the salt air had destroyed two rental typewriters, and they'd rented two more.

Dad's study was smaller than the one in Port Townsend, Mom said, but with a similar low-slanted ceiling. It had a skylight, and built-in bookcases lined the walls, with shelves even over the doorways. One doorway led to her office and out to an upper mezzanine that looked out on the main level of the house, while the other doorway led to a private bath.

Mom said the weather had been nice, but a “bit chilly” at night.

“What's your definition of ‘chilly?'” I asked.

“Sixty-nine degrees!”

The house my father designed for my mother in Hawaii had a number of nautical features. Its floors were of rare and expensive reddish-brown koa wood, known as “Hawaiian mahogany.” A beautiful and durable acacia variety native to Hawaii, it was the wood ancient islanders utilized to construct canoes. The kitchen pantry door had a bright brass ship's porthole, with heavy glass. A pair of great split posts rose through the center of the home alongside the living room, like pilings by the seashore. A graceful spiral stairway led from the main level to the upper, and in every nook and cranny, as on a boat, storage compartments had been built. It was a graceful, serene home, and with wall louvers open all day, the air from trade winds circulated inside. This was a palace in paradise, built by an emperor for his empress.

In this exotic locale there existed ancient legends and superstitions concerning a vengeful volcano-goddess, Pele, and menehunes—little fairy creatures who played tricks on people or became “night marchers” walking over rooftops in the darkness. Legend said that pieces of volcanic rock could not be removed from the islands, at the risk of incurring terrible bad fortune brought on by Pele, commonly referred to as “Madame Pele.” It was considered bad luck to sleep with your feet toward a doorway, as spirits could force you to walk away from your body. And geckos, little lizards that crawled along the ceilings and rafters, could not be killed except by accident.

My mother learned about malevolent spirits, and how best to remain in their good graces. In this and other ways Kawaloa became a spiritual place for her where she could touch her inner being, as she had not done since she was a little girl and fantasy creatures roamed through her mind.

The sea calmed her, and she remembered the tranquilizing effect of water upon her when she was a child living in the Pacific Northwest. Whenever little Beverly became rambunctious, her mother frequently sent her into the bathroom to stand in front of a sink of water and splash in it, or to sit in a tub of water and let warm moisture soak into her pores.

The new home was right for her and comfortingly warm, so that she could breathe easily. She felt secure here and unafraid, within the protective envelope her husband had designed and built for her. Beverly and Frank became
“kama'aina”
here, accepted as natives by the local people.

Back home, February 4, 1982, was an off day. It was a Thursday, and at work I commented to people how I felt “out of sync,” but didn't know why. I was not able to write over the noon hour, even though
The Garbage Chronicles
had been going fairly well. I didn't feel like eating my bag lunch, either, and worked on insurance straight through the hour. Gradually I felt worse and worse as the day progressed. At low points, I considered packing everything up and moving my family to Hawaii. Mom had not sounded well the last time I talked with her. Maybe Jan and I could do some of the work that was burdening her.

At 6:00
P.M
., I was showering after jogging when Julie ran upstairs to tell me, “Grandpa's on the phone—from Hawaii!”

I threw on a jogging suit and ran downstairs. Over a static-filled telephone line, Dad related bad news: Mom was in the hospital again, this time Kaiser Foundation Hospital in Honolulu. He was calling me from the nearby Alamoana Hotel, room 1919.

Mom had been feeling very tired lately. Following surgery the prior August, she had developed a number of symptoms, including distention of her jugular vein, increased abdominal girth and liver congestion. A series of medical tests had been run, and her case had been discussed at a special cardiology session involving surgeons from Kaiser Hospital and the University of Hawaii. She had, among other conditions, paroxysmal nocturnal dyspnea, which was an inability to sleep well at night caused by shortness of breath when lying down.

Doctors were working to remove fluid from her liver, and she would have to go on a strict low-salt diet that also involved water management and the use of diuretics to remove excess fluid from her system. He mentioned what I already knew, that she had heart muscle damage, but added a new and disturbing twist. Her diminished heart condition was not holding. She was suffering from degenerative heart disease, and if her life was to be saved this condition had to be stabilized. They wanted to keep her weight down in order to take a load off her heart, so it wouldn't have to work so hard.

She would have to follow a new routine. In addition to a low-salt and fluid-management diet, for every two or three hours of activity for the rest of her life she would need to rest an hour. She would weigh herself several times each day, and if she gained two pounds one day she would have to lose it within twenty-four hours.

I asked how long she could be expected to live, and Dad said the doctors were not giving estimates. “She could live five or ten years,” Dad said, “or she could go tomorrow.”

My father was exhausted, and asked me to call Bruce and Penny, but to tell them not to call and not to rush over to Hawaii for a “big deathbed scene.” He said Mom was strictly against that, and so was he. Everything was under control, he assured me. He expected to be back at Kawaloa with her by Tuesday.

I told him my thoughts about Hawaii, that perhaps we should come now and help Mom with her work. He said we should wait a year, that Hana was not a metropolis and not a good place for kids. He liked the idea of us helping—but Mom didn't like to delegate it. He felt her work sustained her, gave her a reason for going on.

Dad said it was difficult living in such a remote location for more than a month or two a year. In recent weeks he had been considering replacing the Port Townsend base with one in San Diego or Santa Barbara, California, where the weather was warmer and Mom wouldn't feel such a pressing need for the warmth of Hawaii.

Whatever she wanted, whatever she needed, he would be her superman, obtaining it for her, comforting her. He would set his writing aside entirely if necessary, sacrificing his hard-earned career—just as she had set aside her own creative writing efforts in the 1950s and 1960s and took jobs in retail advertising while he wrote. In effect she had put him through writing school, loaning him the better part of her life. Now he was repaying the debt.

“Please don't tell your mother I called,” he said. “I don't want her to think I'm worried.” And he concocted a subterfuge, asking me to say I had phoned Bill Ransom in Hana and learned about Dad being at the Alamoana, and about Mom being in the hospital.

As we closed our conversation, my father asked me to fly to Hawaii in April while he was away on a book tour. I mentioned the possibility of Jan going instead, since Jan had become like a daughter to Mom.

“That or get some psychological help for your fear of flying,” he said.

I knew he hated leaving Mom, and I wondered if he would even make the book tour. I was nervous after the call. Despite being a couple of pounds heavy, I went in the kitchen and gorged myself on oatmeal-raisin cookies until I felt an odd swooning sensation from excessive sugar.

In my youth I had felt certain extrasensory powers of my own. Little occurrences, nowhere near those experienced by my mother. Frequently I sensed things about people, almost read their thoughts and concerns—and they were accurate readings, from indefinable sources. After meeting and talking with a person for only a short while, I picked up things about their nature, took readings on them, and understood their motivations. My ability came and went, but at times its accuracy astounded me.

I used to think my intermittent ESP was inherited from my mother, but after I was married it seemed to lapse and I thought anything I had perceived in the past might have been coincidence. But now as I considered the events of the day a chill coursed my spine, and I shivered. Could my feelings of depression all day have been a sympathetic reaction? Did I sense my mother's anguish from thousands of miles away, across the Pacific Ocean? I so hoped she would live to be at least seventy. She was fifty-five, and deserved time to enjoy Hawaii.

When my parents returned to the Hana house, there were huge changes. Dad went into a tirade in the kitchen and ransacked the cupboards, throwing out every can and package of food that wasn't low in salt. “This is the enemy!” Dad said angrily. “We've brought the enemy into our house!”

It saddened Bill Ransom, almost to tears, that my father felt betrayed by food, something he and my mother loved so much. Bill thought back to happier times in Port Townsend only a short while before, when they picked fresh vegetables and combined them with clams and oysters from nearby beaches to make elegant, simple meals.

During this period I made a number of calls to Hawaii, checking on Mom. Under the new regimen her condition improved. She was a survivor, a fighter, and bounced back yet another time. And my father, ever her protector, continued to guard her so closely that he didn't allow her to ascend or descend stairs alone, not even when she was feeling better.