By Blood (10 page)

As I said, we were in the den, the patient went on.

Dark had fallen. The wind was blowing. The patient knew her father and sister might come back at any moment. Beyond the kitchen, the rooms of the big house were in full night, still unlit. Mother and daughter sat across from each other, the glass coffee table between them, each in a separate pool of light from two small lamps.

Her mother put down her drink and seemed to stare at something far off behind the dark leaves. Then she lit a cigarette, dropped her used match into the ashtray, and said: Sweetheart, you’ll empty this, please.

By the time the patient returned, the martini was half gone.

Her mother sighed. Oh, sweetheart, this was all so long ago. I don’t even recognize the person I was then.

She kept staring out the window. And the patient knew, while her mother still looked at whatever was holding her gaze, there was still a chance. She could stop all this, say forget it, never mind. But it was already too late: Her mother was exhaling her smoke, clearing her throat, touching her beads, firming her mouth.

The first thing you need to know is that your father was born a Catholic.

I thought I’d heard wrong, the patient told Dr. Schussler. She’d said it so quickly, blurted it out. All I could say was, He was born
what
?

He was born a Catholic, she repeated. His father—

Grandfather Avery?

Grandfather Avery was a devout Catholic—

What? Why didn’t Father say so?

Because he and his father became completely estranged.

Her mother stopped to sip her drink, then said: Over me.

I never knew Father’s father, the patient said to the doctor. He died before I was born, my parents always told me. And no one ever talked about him. A few pictures once fell out of an old album, a thin, bearded man, that’s all I thought of him, and otherwise he didn’t exist for me. So I couldn’t bring this nonperson back to life, I mean in my mind, and didn’t stop to notice Mother’s face, and didn’t realize how long she’d paused. But now I think something like thirty seconds must have gone by before she went on to say:

Your father converted when he married me. And because of this, his father cut him off. Completely. You see, your grandfather was not just a Catholic, but a traditionalist Catholic. Mass twice a day, confessions, rosary beads, murmuring Latin in the dark in a haze of incense. Bleeding Jesus crucifixes everywhere, even over the bed. Horrid to have the image of a man—even if he is the son of God, he’s a man—horrid to have a man nailed at the hands and feet bleeding over your headboard. That was their house, and it was what your grandfather expected of Father. Not only that, but the whole family was part of a group preparing to move to some big piece of property in southern Illinois. Five families were going, and your father—with a proper wife, not someone like me—was expected to join them. Your grandfather was a single man then—your father’s mother died long before all this happened—and he was going to be the patriarch, the wise layman leading the flock under the guidance of their guru priest. You see, it was a cult, a religious cult, although people didn’t call it that in those days. They just said they were “forming a religious community.”

I couldn’t speak, said the patient to her therapist. I didn’t know what to think. I couldn’t imagine Father in a situation like that. He’s so sophisticated, looking more like David Niven every day, with his pencil mustache and cashmere sweaters, his virgin wool slacks breaking just so over his soft Italian loafers. Mr. Architect with plans rolled up under his arm. Mr. Perfect WASP. All I could manage to say was:

I can’t imagine it—
Father
?

Yes, said Mother. Father grew up like that. And he hated it. Hated them. They were evil to me, and to him, when he brought me home. All they could think of was the money they’d spent sending your father to architecture school in the expectation that he would build them their compound in the wilds of southern Illinois. People think “the Midwest” when they think Illinois, they think Chicago, but southern Illinois is the Bible Belt, right above Kentucky; it’s the South. They were going to a place called Mount—something with a
C
; I can’t remember; I suppose I’ve blotted it out—to their mount, there to be surrounded by Baptists and Lutherans, practically one church for every ten people, and teach them all the way back to the One Holy Apostolic Catholic Church.

Mother laughed, bitterly, said the patient. Then she took three long pulls on her martini and tipped the last drop into her mouth.

Mother! I said to her. You promised you’d go slow on that stuff.

She lit a cigarette. Do you want to know all this or not? she asked.

Yes, I said.

So let me do this my way.

Then she sat quietly for a while, smoking, just looking out the window. And I could see the bad memories coming back to her, crawling between her eyebrows and cracking her lips like ice. She went on to tell me about all the humiliations Grandfather’s family put her through, how they took her into a chapel and made her kneel for two hours as they prayed over her and nearly suffocated her with incense, how they tried to make her promise she’d become a Catholic and when she refused, they locked her in a basement—

Locked her in a basement? Dr. Schussler interrupted.

Yes, in a basement, as the whole group, twenty adults or more, argued above her—she could hear them stamping and shouting, and at one point she actually feared for her life!

Mein Gott!
said the doctor.

And finally Father decided he was the one who was going to convert, to become a Presbyterian and marry Mother. And both of them were banished. That’s the word Mother used: “banished.”

Mother said: They told your father, You are dead to us.

Then her mother paused, smoked, sighed.

Well, she went on, luckily my family was kinder and helped us get started. They helped your father set up his practice, helped us buy our first house, and, well, begin the life you know.

She looked out into the dark.

And that’s the story, she said at last.

The TV had been on the whole time, the patient told her therapist. Muted, just the picture flashing over us, as if we couldn’t stand to be alone with ourselves. I looked out to see whatever Mother was looking at, and all I could see was our reflection, a mother and a daughter projected out beyond the glass, flickering in the light of the TV. They looked happier than we were, nice and normal, mother and child on a Sunday night in front of the TV. And all at once it came to me that I’d been so startled to learn about Father that I’d forgotten I still hadn’t learned anything more about my adoption.

But Mother, I said, what does all this have to do with me?

Again she looked at me as if out of a deep sleep.

You? she asked. Her brow wrinkled instantly. Her lips turned into staccato lines. Then—it was so clear; amazing; I could see the WASP de-emotion machine come to life—her brow smoothed out, her lips turned up in a big smile, and she said:

But darling! Don’t you see? It shows you that Father’s hatred of Catholics has nothing to do with you! Aren’t you happy you know this?

Happy, I repeated.

But something was wrong. I’d seen that lie sweep across her face. Maybe a minute went by, and finally I said to her:

But Mother, if Father converted when you two got married, how is it I came to you through a Catholic agency? Because by then Father was no longer a Catholic.

I had hit it exactly, the patient said to Dr. Schussler. I could tell because her bright-lie face collapsed. She looked suddenly … I suppose “haunted” is the word.

Are you sure you want to know all this, honey? she said. I mean, some things are best left alone. Sometimes it’s good not to discuss everything the way young people do these days.

Mother! There’s more to tell. I can see it in your face.

Yes. There’s more.

She sighed.

Yes. More. All right. But, you know, first you’ll make me another one of those swell martinis. And you’ll make one for yourself, sweetheart—dry and very cold, just like the last?

I went into the kitchen and didn’t know what to do, she said. I hated her drinking. I hated that she made me a party to it—made me her bartender. But I knew she wouldn’t go on without another drink, and so I went through the whole martini routine again, the mixing and the shaking, and the carrying in on a tray.

Oh, thank you, darling, Mother said. I love when you serve me with a tray. It’s so very dear of you to do these little things that please me. Come and let me give you a kiss.

I knelt down beside her, so I could give her the glass without spilling any, and offered up my cheek, which she air-kissed, saying
Mwa!
like Dinah Shore.

The agency, Mother, I said, sitting down again. The Catholic adoption agency.

Yes. The agency, Mother said, meanwhile holding up her glass for inspection, looking for the required thin floes of ice.

You always make them just right, she said.

Mother! The agency! I said again.

She took her first sip—she even said “Ah!” like a thirsty person—then she said:

Well, I told you that there were these Catholic babies in Europe that had come under the care of the Church during the war—

You didn’t say Europe. I thought the babies were here. You didn’t say Europe.

Didn’t I? Well, they were in Europe. The war ended, and the children had come under the Church’s care under various circumstances—

Orphans and bastards.

Won’t you please stop with that! If you want to know the story, just let me tell it.

Yes, Mother.

Don’t go jumping in and running ahead the way you always do.

Yes, Mother.

All right, then. So.

She took a sip of her drink, then another.

So. Somehow the whole group around your grandfather, Grandfather Avery, was in touch with someone from the Catholic Church, a high muckety-muck, someone “highly placed in the Church hierarchy,” he was told. And this functionary was arranging for the children to be placed in Catholic homes, both in Europe and here. It was all very
hush-hush
because …

She paused, looked out the window, then took a pull on her martini.

Because, well, I don’t know why, come to think of it.

It was a lie, said the patient to Dr. Schussler. It was clearly a lie. She knew why. But if I interrupted her again, I knew she’d walk off—she does that rather than get angry. So I let it go, and she mumbled on a bit, covering up. You know people are lying when they say too much about a simple thing. Finally she said:

In any case, the adoptions had to be done quickly, for the sake of the children, obviously, so that they would have parents instead of living in a church orphanage or a monastery. You may not have realized it, honey, but Europe was in ruins after the war, really devastated, people hungry, getting over losses of loved ones, businesses wrecked. So it wasn’t a situation where people were lining up to take in babies. On the contrary. That’s why so many were sent over here.

Shipped over like cargo, I said.

Will you stop that!

So I was one of them, I said to Mother, sent over here from the ruins of Europe.

Don’t talk like that, darling. People cared about you, and all the little children without families.

But how did I get from Grandfather Avery’s crazy group to you—to you and Father? You said you were estranged from Grandfather. And that Father wasn’t even a Catholic anymore.

Her mother gave her a stern look.

Really. I think it’s best not to go into all these details from the past. You know, sleeping dogs and all that. She patted her hair, fingered the silk of her collar.

You can’t stop here, Mother.

Think about it, dear. We can talk some other time, perhaps, if you decide you want me to go on.

Don’t be ridiculous. I’m orphaned somehow in the madness of the war. I’m in a monastery or an orphanage. The Catholic Church then ferries me to America, to this Catholic cult, as you called it, and then—what?

What, her mother echoed.

She smoked, then said:

Well. I’ll just say it: There was some problem with the first adoption.

First
adoption?

Her mother took a deep breath.

All right. You wanted to know.

She paused.

You were adopted first by your father’s father.

What? Grandfather Avery?

I was reeling, the patient said to Dr. Schussler. That thin, bearded man I’d never given a thought to, a fading picture, a dead man no one mentioned: Suddenly he’s my father.

Yes, dear. He adopted you. But only briefly. A few months. There was … a problem with the adoption.

What problem?

Mother picked up her martini and took three long pulls from it, until only the olive remained at the bottom.

I never actually knew at the time, she finally said. All that was between your father and his father. Father kept many things from me in those days. Back then I assumed it was because of Grandfather’s age—he was forty-seven, and that was considered very old for a father in those days. And because he wasn’t married. And maybe because they found out that the guru priest the group followed had been defrocked—I forgot to tell you that, about the defrocked priest. All I knew was there was a phone call out of the blue from a member of your grandfather’s group asking Father to get in touch with them. After that, your father met with his father for the first time in a year, and when he came home he asked if we would take the child.

The child. Me.

Yes, dear. You.

And you said yes, the patient said.

Well … not immediately. Your father and I weren’t ready for a child then. We were … having problems.

What sort of problems?

I shouldn’t say any more, sweetheart. Your father wouldn’t … There are some things that are private, dear, between a husband and wife. Remember that when you get married.

Come on. You know I’ll never get married. Unless someday I can marry—

You will not say that in this house! I told you that. You will not mention it again!

What choice did I have? the patient said to the doctor. I had to exchange one silence for another.

All right, I said.

Now—Mother adjusted her collar, retying the bow—do you want to know the story or not?

Go on, I said.

She looked right at me, her eyes a little blurry—from tears or martinis, I couldn’t tell.

You see, she said. I wasn’t really ready to have a child.

You didn’t want me?

Please don’t interrupt! I didn’t know it was you yet! It wasn’t you, as you are. It was just the idea of having a baby—I wanted Father and me to enjoy some time together, since the beginning of our marriage had been so difficult. You can understand that, can’t you?

I thought about it, and said I did.

But then, I went on, what changed your mind?

Well then, her mother said. Father came home and put you in my arms. I looked into your big eyes. You were so beautiful. Your skin was so soft. You wanted to get down and crawl—you were so ready for life, so hungry for it! And, what can I say? It only took a minute. I fell in love with you.

Her mother looked squarely at her. I really did, you know. Fall in love with you.

I knew I should go over and hug her, the patient told Dr. Schussler. This really should have been a breakthrough moment. The whole thing: Violins. Tears. Hugs. But I could not take it in: this sudden expression of love, out of nowhere.

How old was I? the patient asked her mother.

Let’s see, you were crawling already. So maybe five, six months.

And was I big?

Not too big, not too small. Her mother smiled. Just right.

What color was my hair then?

The smile faded. Like now, she said, brownish—dirty blond.

Mother and daughter sat in silence as the house suddenly shuddered in a gust of wind.

Is there a picture? the patient asked.

Her mother looked up. A picture?

Of the day I came home.

I don’t know why there should be a picture.

It’s the day you “fell in love with me,” remember? You have all these pictures of Lizabeth the day you brought her home from the hospital.

Her mother looked out beyond the leaves again.

No, there wasn’t a picture, she said.

And why didn’t you and Father ever talk about all this? Why was it such a big secret?

Mother kept gazing off into the darkness. It was a long time before she answered. Then she said:

I guess I wanted to believe that you started with me.

She had spoken in a soft voice, very tender, full of longing. But something was wrong, the patient thought. Her mother’s eyes were strangely clouded. She kept looking out the window, into the dark, and her mouth slowly contracted.

Lip lines, Mother, the patient said.

Lip lines! Ugly! Thank you, dear, her mother said, spreading out the skin above her lip with her fingers. And then she fell silent.

So there’s more, said the patient.

Yes, there’s more.

Go on, the patient said.

Are you sure, darling? There are some things it’s best not to know.

But you’ve started—

Yes, I’ve started. What was I thinking? Now that I have begun—

You have to finish.

I have to finish.

You can’t stop now.

No, I don’t suppose I can. Not even for another martini, she said with a smile, much as I would dearly love to. All right. Yes. I have to go on.

I was very happy for the next two months, her mother said. You were a joy, Father was busy with his work, just starting his practice, and I could stay home all day and care for you, play with you, watch you grow.

I don’t remember the exact circumstances, but one day I was looking for something on your father’s desk. One of the drawers was always kept locked. I don’t know why I suddenly felt I had to open it. At our last house I knew your father always kept the desk key taped under the center drawer. And sure enough, I looked, and there was the key.

Among the papers in the drawer was a file with a cover embossed with a curious logo: letters that spelled out C-O-R-P-U-S—CORPUS—below that Jesus on the cross in the center of a globe, and below that the Virgin Mary and child. All of which I thought was odd, having both the crucifix and the Virgin, and also CORPUS. Body, body of Christ. I opened the file and saw a letter from a Bishop M.—no last name, just the initial—to someone named Bill Ryan, whose title was given as President, Catholic Overseas Rescue U.S. I don’t remember the exact wording, but the gist of the letter was that Bill should understand the need for utter secrecy in the matter—what the “matter” was wasn’t made clear in the letter. So naturally I had to turn the page.

Her mother reached for her glass. Oh, right. Empty, she said.

Go on, her daughter said.

So I turned the page. It was a photostat of a document in German. There was a date, sometime in 1946. And then another date. My hands started shaking. I could barely keep from tearing the paper, they shook so hard. Because the second date was one I knew as well as the beating of my own heart. December 26th—

My birth date!

Yes, your birth date. It was a birth record of some kind. My hands were trembling, as I said, shaking uncontrollably. Until that moment, you see, I had known nothing about you except a birth date, and that you were German—

German? You didn’t say German. Only from Europe.

Didn’t I? Well, yes. Germany. Father had told me you were brought over from Germany. So I knew that you were German, Catholic, and needed a home. And of course, after being your mother for two months, that you were darling, energetic, bright, and adorable. Here suddenly was the fact—maybe it wasn’t a fact; I made myself hold certainty away for a minute—that you weren’t just someone else’s child before I knew you, but the child of one woman, a specific woman, a woman in particular.

You saw her name?

No, dear. Not her full name. Just a first name and initial. Maria G. That was it. That was all. And now: Did I want to turn the page? As I said, I wanted to believe you started with me. Ah, denial. The great glory of denial. But denial must be whole, entire, untouched. It was already touched.

My mother’s name was Maria! said the patient.

See? said her mother. See how quickly denial evaporates? Already she’s your mother, not me.

Oh, God. I didn’t mean—

Oh, don’t worry, dear. Of course. What else can you call her? Your womb? Your egg incubator? Your—

Birth mother, supplied the patient.

Yes, birth mother. Her mother clicked her tongue. That’s what all those adoption groups call it. But what an awkward nomenclature, darling. Don’t you think it’s rather brutal—this concentration on the bloody act of birth? Why don’t we simply call her Madame G.

The patient laughed. I’ve studied a little German, Mother. I believe that should be
Frau
G.

Said her mother: I told you not to smile like that. It’s disgusting. Your gums are so low. You shouldn’t show those disgusting gums when you smile.