Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (87 page)

“This is Doctor
Underdahl, from Highland Park ER. I’m sorry for calling at this hour, but your
mother has been admitted to the hospital.”

“What?”
Grant
says sharply as he bolts upright in bed.

“I’m afraid she’s
taken an overdose—it appears to have been intentional. She’s out of danger, but
had lost consciousness by the time the ambulance picked her up at her home. When
you come in, will you please bring her insurance details?”

“People often
claim to hunger for truth, but seldom like the taste when it's served up.”

―
George R.R. Martin

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

“It’s not your
fault,” Renata says.

“I know,” I
agree. “As you’ve told me already, denial doesn’t last a lifetime. My mother
was going to figure it out someday. I can’t help it if the truth hurts.
Besides, it’s better for her to find out before the trial. How will she cope if
it becomes front page news?”

“Good point.”

It’s after three
in the morning and no cars on the road. I can feel Renata’s weighted gaze from
where she sits in the passenger seat. She’s worried about me, but she needn’t
be. I’m more concerned about my mother right now.

“So, you’re
really
doing OK?” she asks.

I slant her a
glance as I turn into the entrance to my mother’s property. “I’m good. We all
have shit to deal with, our own guilt and regrets—things we wish we’d done
differently. I can’t take responsibility for my mother any more than she can be
fully accountable for my crap. People make their own choices. Then they figure
out how to live with the consequences of those choices.”

“Wow,” she says.
“Deep.”

I laugh and
shake my head. Renata cracks me up. The sheer fact she can make me smile and
laugh after the last twenty four hours of hell is a real accomplishment. I've
always been too serious, but not anymore. Not with
her.

“When Betty Jo
told us what her childhood had been like...” I pause, “it humbled me. The
reason she was always so unhappy was right there in front of my nose. It was damned
obvious. Socrates said the only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing. If
that’s the case, I’m beginning to become a very wise man.”

“Ah,” she says.
“Very good, sensei.”

I give a low
chuckle. “Yes, I finally figured out I know nothing,” I tell her. “Guess I’ll
start with that.”

“Nothing at all?”
Her expression is skeptical.

I park the car
in the circular driveway under the portico, turn to smile at her and take her
hand. “The only thing I’m absolutely certain of is you. My life is definitely
much better since I found you.”

“Awww. You’re
getting pretty damned smooth,” she teases.

She teases, but I
can tell my words affect her when she puts a hand to her chest. I’ve tugged on
those heart strings of hers, all right. Did I mean to? Am I as manipulative as
my father? Was I born with it?

Fuck.
My
mind is all screwed up, following senseless lines of thought. I’m not a
monster. I’m a good person, my intentions are honorable. I don’t have to
supervise my every word or action.

My mother’s home
is a huge, three-story manor, facing Lakeside Park. It has what appear to be
Lincoln
Memorial
size pillars and a rooftop outdoor area with waist height column
railings. Built in the early 1900s, it’s been extensively renovated. With 8,000
square feet, four bedrooms, five baths, a four car garage and separate
apartments for her two live in staff.

It’s three
thirty in the morning, so we’re careful to be quiet. I assume her maid has gone
back to bed, although I suspect she may have gone to the hospital with my
mother. Either way, her cook will be asleep.

I study Renata’s
expression as she takes her first steps inside. Her eyes widen and she blinks
rapidly, blinded by the white marble flooring with black highlights, a huge
staircase, complete with an enormous crystal chandelier. White painted walls,
and white wallpaper, my mother loves the French provincial style, with liberal
lacings of gold.

A smile lights
her face as she walks through the house. There are magnificent oil paintings on
the walls, all in gilt frames. Slate fireplace, a huge granite kitchen, fully
appointed game room, you name it—it’s there. It’s over-the-top, just like my
mother acts with her so called friends. Still, as ostentatious as it is, it
looks fabulous.

After my father
passed, my mother redecorated. After so many years of being forbidden to do so,
did she finally enter his sacred, evil den? Are all of those dead animals still
hanging on the walls?

A feeling of
dread weighs down the pit of my stomach as I remember. If they’re still there
and I get a chance, I’ll give all those animals a decent burial.

Renata follows
me upstairs, looking around wide-eyed at everything. Just off of the master
bedroom is where I find a white-painted wooden filing cabinet. It looks more
like a dresser, but is obviously where my mother would most likely keep her
documents.

“I’ll look
through her papers here. Would you please look around to see if you can find
her purse, if you don’t mind?” I ask Renata. “They couldn't find it when the
paramedics were here, but it can’t be too hard to locate. She never went too
far without it.”

“Sure,” she says
and meanders off.

From the top
drawer, I pull out a large manila folder labeled, ‘Valuable Documents,’ and set
it on a nearby table. In it, I find family passports, birth certificates and…
ah, jackpot, her medical insurance information and cards.

“Found it,” I
call out, forgetting for a moment to be quiet.

Renata returns.
“I found her handbag too, so we’re all set.”

While still
glancing through the drawer, the sight of an old file catches my eye.
What
the hell is this?
I pull out the file to find out more. It's yellowed by
age—obviously very old stuff.

I read,
'You
must submit your fingerprints to the Texas Department of Public Safety and the
FBI. This is part of a criminal background check that must be performed before
you can apply.'

I quickly
ascertain these are certified adoption papers, signed and dated over forty
years ago. They look as though they haven’t been touched since then.

What the
Hell? Who was adopted?

Curious, Renata
peeks over my shoulder to see what's drawn my attention. “What is it?”

My hands are
shaking. “Adoption papers.”

“For whom?”

My mother? It
can’t be!

Just a second,”
I say breathlessly, frantically combing the page for more information,
‘If
the child is 10 years of age or older, his or hers written consent is
required.’
The next section has fields requesting the following
information,
‘The child’s current legal name, place of residence, date and
place of birth, date of adoption request and reason for adoption.’

Elegant cursive
handwriting answers every question distinctly. The responses that gain most of
my attention while blowing my mind are, ‘
The child’s name is Georgia
Patricia Brennan. Her father is in jail serving a life sentence for the murder
of the child’s mother. In the best interest of the child and with her written
permission, we wish to adopt her, legally changing her surname from Brennan to
Schoefield, the surname of her late mother’s sister (the child’s maternal
aunt). Mrs.
Savanna Mable
Schoefield is married to the child’s
uncle, Martin John
Schoefield.’

What?

This document
shows that my mother was adopted and raised from a tender young age by her
maternal aunt and uncle, people whom my siblings and I only knew as our
grandparents. This is news to me.

Anxious to
understand, I scan a newspaper article I find in the same file, clipped out
from back then. When I read it I feel the blood drain from my face. It seems
when my mother was no older than ten years old, her father
shot and killed
her
mother! What the fuck? How could this be true?
My grandfather
murdered
my grandmother!

I never knew.

Did my mother
witness the murder? How did she find out?
Shit,
my grandfather may still
be alive, rotting in jail somewhere. Maybe he’s sharing a cell with Renata’s
father. No, we have capital punishment here in Texas. My grandfather must’ve
been put to death by now.

Sure enough, it
takes only a moment to find a death certificate for the man, issued by a doctor
employed by the Department of Corrections.

My mind reels.

Truth and
lies. Lies and truth.

Hidden, shameful
secrets gain strength, growing ever more toxic as years go by. Events
never
discussed in order to ‘protect’ loved ones from harsh realities. Except when
those who’ve been deceived discover what really happened, they can’t help but
feel utterly betrayed.

Just as I do
right now.

Renata was
right—my mother
has
been traumatized. Does she even remember? Or has she
forgotten, has she suppressed these painful memories? Either way, no one told
me.

Where is my
real
grandmother buried? What was she like?

I think I deserve
to know.

Deception, lies
and long standing secrets—my family is full of them. The truth can be painful
and yet, it’s still the truth.

Should
any
adult
be sheltered from reality? If so,
why?
It seems both patronizing and
demeaning for people to think they have the right to determine what’s
"best" for someone else. What an arrogant role for somebody to claim
for themselves and others.

Would most
people prefer to hear an ugly truth or a pretty lie? And shouldn’t that be
their
own
choice?

Did she see her
father shoot her mom? Is that why she’s so cold, why she could never get close
to anyone physically or emotionally? Is that part of the reason behind her
inability to give affection, to touch or be touched? Is that how she became so
seemingly proud and distant?
Maybe she isn’t distant at all, she’s
actually
disconnected.

I’ve been
there. I know what that’s like.

‘All people,’
André says,
‘whatever they are doing, no matter how crazy or irrational
it seems to you, it is how they need to act—from their perspective. I do not
justify or rationalize an individual’s behavior—no. I simply tell you there is
always a reason.’

My mother’s hard-earned
denial
seems
a sensible choice considering the circumstances. Her denial
level? 100 out of 100. Her skill level for ability to ignore reality?
Advanced.
Except no one can run from their past forever. No one can run away from themselves.

Shit.
Is
this
why she tried to kill herself? Did the truths I forced on her tonight about
her husband and kids trigger memories of her own childhood trauma?

They say
patterns tend to repeat themselves over generations. It's also said women marry
men who are like their fathers.
Did
my mother marry someone like her own
father? Was my biological grandfather like my dad? Was he also a charming,
manipulative pedophile—a sociopath as well as a murderer? Did he molest my
mother? Did he beat her? What kind of a monster was he?

Men tend to seek
out and marry women like their mothers.
Fucking hell.
Renata and my
mother have much more in common than I thought. Coincidence, surely.

Renata reads the
documents with wide eyes. “Jesus Christ, Grant,” she breaths.

“Tell me about
it. I had no clue about any of this.”

“I resented your
mother for not protecting you,” she adds, biting her almost non-existent thumbnail.
“Yet my mother didn’t do any better. I also disliked your sister for being such
a miserable bitch. I still think the things they did were mean and stupid. Both
of them made choices… and yet, I find I can’t hate them. I’d probably be just
as bad if I never met André.”

“I doubt that,
but I understand what you’re saying.” I suck in a deep breath, pause and blow
it out again. “Did my mom watch her own mother die? Was my mother like me, did
she blindly love her abusive father as much as I did? Think about it, Renata.
Her entire life changed, just like yours did. She lost both parents in one fell
swoop. She had to move and switch schools. She couldn't possibly fully
understand what was going on at that age. Also, what led up to the murder? Was
her father always violent? Was
he
a pedophile? Did she blame herself?
What kind of hell did she go through?”

Renata puts the
papers down, gingerly closing the file. Standing up, she wipes her palms on her
jeans. “Wow. I don’t know what to say.”

“My mother was
always so disconnected from the family,” I inform her. “She was there but not
there
,
you know? Mentally, physically… I think she stayed away on purpose. Even when
she
was
home, she remained in the periphery, always focused on some
project or another, anything
outside
of the family. The part she played
in our little family tragedy is unforgivable, and yet…”

“And yet what?”

I draw in
another deep breath. “I’m not making excuses. People have to be responsible for
their actions. I hated my mother, Renata. I hated my sister, too.” I let my
breath out with a sigh. “Yet, somehow I find it’s impossible to hate someone
once you begin to understand them.”

“Those who
cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

— George
Santayana

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

Three
months later

“Let me get this
straight. You want to schedule an appointment for family counseling for myself
and my mother…
together
?” I ask, raking a hand through my hair.

“Yes, exactly.
At this point, I think it would be best for the next step in your mother's
treatment to have sessions where she, you and I meet. This could be quite
important for her progress. I also believe these sessions might benefit you, in
light of your past relationship with your mother.”

Dr. Eva Elliot,
my mother’s therapist, clarifies her plans in an understanding, yet no nonsense
tone. I don’t want to go, but my mother’s therapist can be really pushy.

“Would tomorrow
night work for you, say at 7:30 p.m. at my office?”

“Fine,” I answer
reluctantly.

“Thank you. I'll
see you then, Mr. Wilkinson,” she concludes and hangs up.

I sigh and run
my palm over my taut facial scars.
Shit.
Will they want to hear details
of my father’s sexual abuse? Or does my mother need to tell me about
her
traumatic
childhood? Neither option appeals to me.

I have
absolutely zero experience actually
conversing
with my mother. Our typical
interactions involve her talking
at
me, rather than
to
me.
Loosely translated, she nags, makes demands and negative judgements (either in
the form of thinly veiled, back-handed or direct insults) of my various
shortcomings.

Well, that might
not be
totally
accurate. She also insists on checking up on me
regularly. Although she has definite issues involving listening, she
seems
to
want to know what's going on in my life, well, without much detail.

My happiness
never seemed relevant. However, in all fairness, until I met Renata, my
happiness wasn’t even relevant to me.

It was
non-existent.

Of course, I rarely
told my mother anything of substance.
‘I'm fine,’
or
‘
Yes, she
is pretty,"
for the most recent debutante, or excuses to get out of
various commitments.

Painfully aware
of the consequences, I hated telling her anything. Invariably, anything shared
with her was quickly dismissed or would bring me back to square one—nagging
demands and negative judgments.

My mother talks
at length about her innumerable charity functions and projects. These updates always
lead to petty gossip. They also seem to give her opportunities to attempt
(always fruitlessly, yet relentlessly) to manipulate me into dating women with
pedigrees, in hopes of marrying me off.

She wants me
married to the
right kind
of woman—one from a
good,
well to do
family with an exemplary social standing in the community. A family like
our own. The idea is so outrageous it makes me laugh.

Our family only
had
to be seen
as perfect.

It did not have
to
be
perfect.

In fact, the
more perfect a family
has to
appear to be—in my opinion, that’s usually
the kind of family with the most to hide.

My mother has a
talent for keeping busy. Like a shark, she seemingly has to keep moving to
live. If she took a second off, she might actually think about something of
substance about herself or her life.

For the most
part, my contribution to our interactions has always been me grinning and
bearing it—without me actually grinning. I bob and weave, tolerating and muddling
through the crap she sent my way, always itching to escape.

Fuck, fuck,
fuck, fuck!

Have a therapy
session with my mother? I’d rather shave my genitals with a dull razor, then
coat the raw, nicked flesh of my dick and balls with wasabi.

Seriously.

Our mother was
admitted to a psychiatric hospital after attempting suicide and suffering a
complete nervous breakdown. I found out from discussions with her doctors that my
mother managed to totally block all memories of her early childhood, including
her original last name, as well as her real mother and father.

I sincerely feel
sorry for her. This does not mean I can forgive her actions or inactions, nor do
I like her as a person. However, from what I've discovered about her past, I
now know how damaged and fragile she's always been.

The poor woman
must've suffered to have repressed so much, so thoroughly, and for such a long
time.

Spurred on from
the adoption papers discovered the night of my mother's suicide attempt, I
hired a private investigator to research her past. Through school and medical
records, old newspaper articles and various legal documents, as well as limited
discussions with living relatives, neighbors and family friends, a sketchy view
has been drawn of the timeline and events of my mother's childhood.

More recently,
we began to add
her
input and insights into the mix, as the latest drips
and drabs of information gleaned from her memories of her past have arisen.
It's all still rather vague, but has been growing slowly and steadily.

Apparently, once
Mother moved in with her aunt and uncle, after the murder that resulted in her
losing her parents, she became mute. After not speaking for a year and
repeating the fifth grade, she began calling her aunt and uncle ‘mother’ and
‘father’ and appeared to be ‘fine.’

No one dared
remind her of her past.

My mother's
immense repression of her past trauma was not solely on her. It took a
determined group effort to maintain. After more than four decades, this pattern
of secrets and lies has been broken.

Alex, Betty Jo
and I remain very curious about the details of our mother and our family's
history. We're shocked but fully appreciate that our mother wants to share the
details of her past with us. It seems so out of character for her. But with
everything that's going on, maybe she’s trying to discover who she is.

Her doctor explained
that fully occluding memories is classic PTSD behavior, where traumatic
memories can remain dormant for decades.

Repression is a
way for the mind to
‘cure’
itself of trauma, maybe like a computer reset.
However, there’s no wiping of the mental hard drive. Instead all the bad stuff
is filed away in some sort of backup—a backup which one day can arrive like a
virus to totally crash the system.

Renata feels
it’s probable my mother was sexually abused as a child. Why? Because she
married a pedophile!

Those with an
abusive childhood who do not confront their issues, often find the past
repeating itself.

Humans’ have a
curious and dangerous tendency. Without awareness or conscious choice, they are
drawn to the very things that once compromised their lives, safety and sanity.

I remember my
unwanted attraction to dicks. Is it possible I repeated that pattern in an
attempt to master what I found most difficult to face, the fact I had sex with
my father?

Perhaps this was
why images of dicks were unconsciously present in my thoughts,
all of the
time.
In my concerted struggle to avoid cocks, all I ended up being aware
of was male genitals. I guess in my mind, I was still fighting and trying to
win a battle I had already fought long ago.

After all, Jung
said,
‘What you resist, persists.’

Regardless of
why, the initial step in resolving any problem is to first admit you have one.
If you deny, ignore or pretend by refusing to grasp events you can’t face, then
you’re doomed to get caught in the cycle.

Name any
unsolvable problem; PTSD, alcoholism, chronic victims of domestic violence,
drug addiction, or those of us who have been sexually abused—until we address
our difficulties, we’re all trapped repeating endless patterns that will never
go away.

When I told my
mother I’d been molested, she refused to believe me. It appears finding out about
my abuse was a huge trigger for her. Later that same night, her suppressed
memories flooded back, with a vengeance.

Result?
Immediate system crash and drug overdose suicide attempt. Her death was
prevented by her maid who happened to find her unconscious.

My brother under
arrest, my sister off the radar, and my mother in hospital. I feel as though a
plague has attacked the Wilkinson family and I’m the last one standing. It’s
like some sort of macabre version of the Highlander movie,
‘There can be
only one!’

Yet, now perhaps
our entire family will have a chance to heal.