Family Inheritance (32 page)

Her hand was on Bill's back and Helene felt the breath go out of him like he had
been kicked in the stomach. His words came slow. “Do you only remember the bad things?
Don't you remember anything good?”

Helene was ready to jump in to the conversation to try to make it right.
Stay out
of it. They have to create their own relationship with each other. It's not up to
you to make it right.

Thomas stared at the floor. “I'm working on it, Dad, but I need to get the bad memories
out of the way. And you won't ever talk to me about them. Sure, I work with Mr. Welsh,”
he glanced up at Bill, “but I want to talk with you. I need to know why I don't measure
up. I need to know what I can do so you'll love me.”

Helene gently rubbed Bill's back to let him know she was there.

“I've thought about it a lot,” Thomas said, “but I don't know why you don't love
me. I have a lot of friends, the teachers at school like me. Mom loves me, but I
can never get through to you. I don't know what I'm doing wrong.”

Helene was about to say something when Thomas said, “Aren't you going to answer me?
Even now when I'm making a fool of myself, you just sit there staring, and I feel
dumb for even opening my mouth.” He turned toward Helene. “Mom, won't you say something?”

Before Helene could utter a word, Bill said, “You've grown into a man.”

“Dad,” Thomas replied, “have you heard anything I just said?”

Bill sighed. “I've been dealing with you like you're still a child. It's always been
my responsibility to make the decisions for your future. My choices always affected
you, and that was frightening. I was responsible for this tiny human being who couldn't
take care of himself or make his own choices. Somehow
my mind was still caught on
little Thomas. How could I not see that you have grown into a man?”

“I don't feel like a man.”

“Why not?”

Helene relaxed against the sofa, fascinated with the conversation and the way her
husband and son were beginning to actually talk and connect with each other.
Now
this is some Christmas gift.
She inwardly glowed.

“Because I feel so scared of the choices I have to make.” Thomas stood and walked
to the window. “Even though I want to make them for myself, I'm scared of going out
on my own, yet I need to so I can survive and not be a shadow of you. I'm scared
of everything, Dad.” He turned to Bill. “You were right. I am a sissy, and I hate
it that you were right.”

Thomas leaned against the windowpane. “That's one of the reasons I drank, you know.
When I drank, I felt strong enough to be whatever I wanted and say whatever I felt.
Yet, when I was drunk, I didn't know what I really felt because I was drunk. I feel
so screwed up.”

“You're not a sissy, Thomas. I feel scared a lot too. I don't show it, and I don't
talk about it because I was taught that a real man handles his own problems. Well,
some ‘real man' I've been.” Bill glanced toward Helene. “I've cheated on my wife,
and I've let my son down. The two most important people in my life have experienced
irreparable damage because of me.”

Bill reached for a tissue to wipe his eyes. “I've been really proud of you, but I
pushed you so you'd succeed. That's the way my father has always been with me. He
never talked soft to me, and I always thought I turned out fine. Except now. Now
I'm beginning to know how much I've hurt you and your mother. But I can't go back.
I can't take it away.” He drew in a deep breath. “What can I do to mend this gap
between us?”

“Telling me you're sorry would help.”

Bill quickly got up, walked over to Thomas, and wrapped his arms around him. “I'm
sorry, Thomas. God knows I'm sorry. Can we start again? Can I have another chance?”

Helene was crying. As if remembering that she was in the room, Bill and Thomas slid
down on either side of her and surrounded her with their arms.
As Helene snuggled
between the men she loved, she heard her son reply, “We can try, Dad. We can certainly
try.”

With a newfound hope, Helene went to the kitchen to make more hot cocoa. As she waited
for the water to boil, her mind bounced back to the day she had received the phone
call about her mother. Helene's life had been a mess. Her marriage had been a sham,
and her son had been close to failing school and slipping into an alcohol addiction.
That was in the beginning of July. Now it was mid-December, a short five months later,
and her life was totally different. She was falling back in love with her husband—more
each day—and he was doing the same with her. Their lovemaking was tender and often,
and they were discovering a level of intimacy they hadn't previously known. Helene
was happier than she ever thought she could be.

The whistle on the tea kettle brought her back to the present. She fixed three fresh
mugs of hot cocoa, placed them on the tray, and left the kitchen.

The flames in the fireplace gently danced among the logs, and Christmas music softly
floated through the air. Thomas was stretched out on the floor lying on his stomach,
his chin resting on his folded arms. Bill was relaxed in his chair. Helene handed
them each a mug of cocoa and curled up on the sofa. “We are really lucky,” she murmured.

Bill grinned at Thomas. “Is this where she'll tell us about all the little kids who
don't get much for Christmas?”

Thomas smiled. “Probably, it's about that time.”

Helene tossed a pillow at her son. “You two are spoiled rotten.” Then she became
serious. “Actually, I was thinking about Christmas when I was a child.”

“What was it like, Mom? You've never talked about it.”

“It really wasn't very special. Mom tried hard, but she hardly ever had money. And
Dad was usually drunk.”

Helene sighed as memories continued to flow into her mind. “In spite of it all, though,
my sisters and I managed to have some good memories. One year, Alice and I made Suzanne
a doll out of Dad's white socks that we stuffed with rags. Then we took yarn and
made the hair, and thread to create the eyes, nose, and mouth.”

Helene chuckled at the memory. “It was such a gangly doll. One sock was
the body,
two socks formed the arms, two for the legs, and half a sock for the head. We sewed
it together with these long, crude stitches. As I think about it, it was the ugliest
doll I've ever seen,” she burst out laughing, “but Suzanne loved it. She played with
it for a long time. But she always kept it hidden from Dad because if he found out
that we had taken his socks, he would have beaten us.”

“Did he hit you a lot?” Thomas's
face was serious and his eyes were dark with concern.

“When I was young, yes.” Helene pulled her knees up close to her chest and wrapped
her arms around them. “As I grew older, he seemed to become afraid of me.” She remembered
that Alice had mentioned that, and as Helene thought about it, she knew it was true.
She wasn't sure why, but as she got older, her father stayed away from her.

“Do you hate him?” Thomas asked.

“Hate?” She thought for a moment and gently laid her hand on her son's arm. “No,
I don't think so.”
Was it hate?
Over the last months, Helene had been trying to figure
out exactly what she had felt for her father. She still didn't know. The word that
came to her mind when she thought about him was “indifference.”

“Did you love him?” Thomas asked.

“No. There's some feeling I don't know how to explain. He's part of me. I'm not sure
I like that, but he is.”

“Well, one thing I know for sure,” Thomas responded, “is that I'm very glad you both
are a part of me.”

Those words from her son were like a symphony of beautiful music exploding in Helene's
world. She turned toward her husband who was grinning from ear to ear.

Chapter 38

Anoka, Minnesota

Suzanne was nervous as she sat down across from Pastor Andrews. They both knew she
was there for her fifth step. It sounded so easy on paper to admit her wrongs to
God and another human being.

It wasn't easy to talk about all the things she had done, but AA believed it was
necessary.
As long as we hold blackness in our hearts, it will keep our lives black.
Bringing our secrets to light takes away their power.

“Suzanne, you know God forgives our sins if we ask Him.” Pastor Andrew's eyes were
kind as he sat back in his chair with his hands folded on his desk.

Suzanne was quiet.

“Do you believe in God, Suzanne?” he asked.

Suzanne peered into his soft eyes for several seconds as the palms of her hands pressed
against her lap. “I believe in a higher power, or God as I understand Him.” She paused
for a moment. “But that doesn't mean it's going to fit your understanding of Him.”

He smiled. “I don't think it's important to fit my understanding. Do you?”

“Well, no.” Her hands rubbed the top of her legs as she squirmed in her chair.

“Are you nervous?”

“Of course I am,” she answered. “I don't know if this is a good idea. I know
I have
to go through this. It's part of my treatment's release requirements, but maybe it's
not a good idea to talk to a minister about all my sins.”

“Why not?” His hands stayed folded on the desk.

“I can't take your judgment.” Suzanne paused. “I've given myself too much already.”

“Why would I judge you?” The pastor sat back in his chair in a relaxed manner.

“Because you're a pastor and have never done the things I've done.”

He smiled again and replied, “The things that trouble our souls are probably dissimilar,
but I am human just like you.” Pastor Andrews placed his elbows on the desk. “That
humanness keeps me humble, believe me. I can't judge you, Suzanne, because I haven't
walked in your shoes. I am simply here to listen. That's it. I am someone with whom
you can talk and hopefully unburden some of the shame and guilt you've been carrying
around for years.”

Suzanne watched the man as he talked. She guessed he was in his late fifties, and
from the pictures on his desk, he had a wife, children, and grandchildren.

“My father raped me when I was very young,” she blurted out. “Does that shock you?”

“It saddens me, but it doesn't shock me. Unfortunately, many women have experienced
such a traumatic thing.”

“And God allows it,” Suzanne fumed. “Why?”

“Do you think God allows it?”

“If He has power over everything, He had to allow it. In other words, He deserted
me. We talk about God the Father; I've had my fill of fathers. They use their power
to hurt, harm, and abandon. I don't see God as a father, I can't.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? You're not going to try to convert me or convince me that I'm wrong?” She
was prepared for him to tell her that her thoughts or ideas about God were wrong.
And she was ready to stand up for herself and her beliefs. They were hers. She got
to choose.

“No.”

Quietness settled in the room.
No? You're not going to try to tell me I'm wrong?

Pastor Andrews interrupted her thoughts with a question. “Who is God as you understand
Him?”

Suzanne stared at the pastor for a few moments as if she wasn't seeing him. “A friend.
One who helps me take one day at a time. One who gently encourages me. Someone who
is always there. Someone I can talk to at any time.”

Pastor Andrews sat in silence, listening intently.

Taking a deep breath, she continued, “I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of.
Some things I'd rather not talk about, and other things I don't ever want repeated.”
She feebly smiled. “That's why I chose to talk to a pastor. You're used to keeping
confidences.”

She inhaled deeply. “Because of what my father did, when I see men, even when I'm
sober, I have sexual thoughts. My mind is so dirty, so sexual. I've done things that
are so bad I can't bear to think about them. And now I'm told that in order to get
healthy, I have to not only think about them, but I have to tell somebody else.”

Suzanne's voice became matter-of-fact as she started to recite a checklist of her
sins. “I've slept with so many men I can't remember. I've had sex in hotel rooms
and cars. I've been drunk out of my mind every time I did it, but that doesn't make
it right. In college, I stole from the dress shop I was working at. It makes me sick
to my stomach when I reflect on what I've done. I had sex with my father when I was
so young I didn't know what it was and that other kids didn't do it. And sometimes
it felt good—that's what's so awful about it all. Even when I look back at all the
sex I had when I was drunk, it wasn't always bad, and that's what makes me so bad.”

Suzanne continued to pull memories from behind the closed door of her past. Then
something changed, and a switch was thrown. She was no longer distanced from the
words she was speaking. Now she was soiled, seared, and marred by them. Her countenance
changed, her shoulders sagged, her head bowed, and great wrenching sobs tumbled out
of her. She covered her face, trying to hide her humiliation and shame. She tried
to shove her self-disgust back inside of her the way she had done all her life, but
this time she couldn't. This time, a large volume of feelings had gathered into a
fierce strength that demanded release.

Suzanne's struggle resembled the process of having a baby. The action
of getting
the child through the birth canal could be long and arduous as the mother strained
under immense pains and pressure. But she couldn't quit, because there was no way
to go back, no way to ignore the pressure of the child inside of her. Nor could Suzanne
ignore the pressure of the pain, torment, fear, and distrust that had built up through
the years. They couldn't go back and dissolve into nothingness. They had too much
substance to them.