Mother and I didn't talk about anything significant for a few days afterward. I understood that like me, Mother was trying to find her way through all this. Sometimes, it seemed as if tall weeds and vines had grown from the floors and ceilings in our house and we were hacking our way through to reach each other. I remembered how much importance Doctor Marlowe placed on patience and understanding. I, of all people, knew how bad it was to force someone to open the doors to dark rooms.
Mother attacked her housework and all her chores with a vengeance, searching for something to fill every waking moment so she wouldn't have to stop and think and remember.
It was hardest during our meals. When she finally had everything on the table and we had nothing left to do but sit and eat, there would be that terrible, deep silence. If I looked at her, she would start to rattle off orders, telling me about things she wanted done in the house and then quickly following that with a list of things she needed to do herself.
That was her first reference to my father since I had returned from the final group therapy session at Doctor Marlowe's. I offered to be of greater help to her and she promised she would give me more to do. She thought I could handle more responsibility.
She definitely needed more help. Every once in a while, I would notice her stop whatever she was doing, place her hand against her chest and close her eyes. She looked like she was waiting for her heart to start beating again.
"Are you all right, Mother?" I asked.
She hesitated, took a breath and nodded "I'm fine," she said. "As fine as I could be
under the circumstances."
"Maybe you're working too hard, Mother," I
said. "I'm fine," she insisted and walked away quickly. Finally, one night I came downstairs and found
her sitting in the living room, gazing out the window.
She was in the rocker and she was moving herself
back and forth gently. I could see she was so deep in
thought, she didn't even realize I had entered the
room. I sat across from her and waited. Her eyes
moved very slowly until she saw me and then they
widened and brightened.
"How long have you been there?" she asked. "Just a few seconds," I said.
"I didn't hear you come in." She sighed. "Looks
like it might rain again. I think we're getting a leak in
the roof over the pantry. I'll have someone check it
tomorrow."
"Mother, there was a question that kept coming
up in my group therapy."
"What question?" she fired at me.
"A question I have had in my own mind for a
while now. I don't want you to get angry at me for
asking it, but it's important to me."
"I hate questions," she muttered. "Ever since
what happened happened, that's all the world's been
full of for us, questions."
"People have to have answers, Mother. I need
answers just like anyone."
"Answers can make for unnecessary trouble.
Sometimes it's best not to ask questions," she said. "No, Mother," I pursued. "It's never better to
bury your head in the sand."
"Is that what that doctor taught you?" "No. I taught it to myself. If I had asked some
questions and if you had . ."
"All right," she said. "All right. Let's get this
over with. What question?"
I paused and she looked away as if to make it
easier for me.
"Why did you adopt me?"
"What?" She turned back to me. "What kind of
a silly question is that?"
"It's not a silly question, Mother. Was it
because you lost a child and didn't want to try to have
another?"
"What? Who told you I lost a child?" "Daddy."
"It was another one of his lies. He was just
trying to get you to feel sorry for him and blame me
for everything wrong in this house."
"That wasn't true?"
"I thought it was. Being a mother has never
been easy for you, and I couldn't help feeling that all
the time." "Blaming me. I knew it."
"I'm not blaming you. I'm asking you to be
honest with me. I need to know everything I'm old
enough now, Mother. I've been forced to grow up
quickly," I added.
She glanced my way, her eyes filling with pain. "Why does everything have to be explained all
the time?"
"I have a right to know about myself, Mother.
I'll never get better if you don't help me. It might even
help you," I added.
She stared at me, looked out the window and
rocked. I didn't think she would say any more. I
expected I would just go upstairs and leave her in
silence as I had done so many times before. "My mother," she said suddenly, "got pregnant
at forty-four. It was a very big surprise to my father."
She looked at me.
I was afraid to speak, afraid she might stop. "Soon after she announced she was pregnant,
your father came into our lives. He was always a sly
one, looking for some opportunity. My father was just
as sly in some ways. He drew him in like a spider,
giving him bigger and bigger investments to handle. "Howard proposed to me and my father. . . my
father came to me and practically begged me to marry
him. My mother left for a while and gave birth to you
and Howard and I adopted you," she said quickly. "I
guess it was all part of the deal. I guess you could say
my father sold you and me to Howard in a neat little
inheritance-wrapped package. And don't think your
father didn't throw that back at me when this all happened," she added with fury in her eyes. "He threatened to tell everyone about your birth, our marriage. It was pure blackmail. Otherwise, I would have seen him put in some jail cell and had the key thrown
away."
"My grandmother was really my mother?" I
asked incredulously.
She spun on me.
"You wanted to know everything. Now you
know. You see why God told Adam and Eve not to
eat of the Tree of Knowledge? Sometimes, you're
better off in ignorance."
I stared at her.
"We're . . . sisters? Is that what you're telling
me?" She took a-deep breath and looked out the
window again.
"Half-sisters. Toward the end of his days, my
father told me he was convinced he wasn't your
father."
"Who is my father?"
"I don't know," she replied quickly, almost too
quickly. She turned to me.
"So now you know all this. Are you going to be
better for it? What are you going to do with the
knowledge, Cathy?"
"I don't know. It will take time to digest it," I
said, swallowing hard.
"You want my advice? Bury it. That's what I
did." "Did you? Did you really ever bury it or did you
let it bury you?"
She studied me and then her eyes narrowed. "So, what are you going to do now? Are you
going to hate me more for keeping the truth from
you?"
"I don't hate you," I said.
"Are you still going to call me Mother?" "I don't know how I can start doing otherwise,"
I said.
She nodded. Then she turned and looked out
the window.
"I'm tired, Cathy," she said. "Let's let each other
rest," she pleaded.
"Okay," I said and left her rocking, staring into
the night, staring back through her own troubled
memories.
Her revelations didn't make me feel any better.
In fact, they made me feel even more alone, even
more like someone just drifting. What did I have to
look forward to now? I wondered.
I thought about the other girls. They were like
me that way, too. They were drifting.
Maybe we would get together someday. Maybe we
could
all be friends.
Would that be so crazy?
"No," the lost little girl inside me cried. "It
would be wonderful.
"It would be like a few wildflowers who found
their way into their own private garden."