If You Could See What I See (45 page)

I could tell he was deeply moved. “Aaron was mentally ill. Don’t let him hurt you anymore, Meggie.” He gently suggested a counselor. It had been suggested to me many times. I’d always said no. This time I said yes.

 

On the airplane to Los Angeles I was sitting by a two-year-old and her flustered mother, who was holding a crying baby. I put my arms out for the baby, and turned it toward the window, where the sun was streaming in. The baby went to sleep. The mother thanked me profusely, then proceeded to down two small bottles of scotch. She told her daughter it was “adult water.”

Aaron’s grave was in the back of a graveyard under a jacaranda tree, the purple and blue blossoms lush and scented, hanging right over his gravestone.

I sat down and talked to him, the sun warming my shoulders. I talked about how much I’d loved him, how the romance had swept me up. I told him what I admired about him, his intellect, his ability to make films that touched people’s hearts, his compelling personality, how romantic he could be, and how I admired his fight against his bipolar. He could have given up years ago, but he didn’t. He tried.

I told him I forgave him.

I told him I was still angry and would never forget what he’d done.

I told him I wasn’t as angry as I was before.

I told him he didn’t have the right to do what he did to me.

I told him I was sorry that he had so many mental health issues but I was more sorry that he refused to deal with them.

I told him I was sorry that I shut down on him and on his problems, that I had been overwhelmed, sucked dry, almost paralyzed in my inability to address him and his issues anymore.

I told him I was moving on with my life.

I told him I hoped he was at peace.

I told him I didn’t think I would ever have total peace.

I told him I forgave him for cheating.

I told him I had cheated, too, and I forgave myself.

I told him the DVD had followed me around the world before landing in my closet behind detergent, sponges, and Baggies, that it was excruciating to watch.

I told him the DVD had helped me to internalize that it wasn’t me who had caused his problems, nor was it my responsibility at all that he had killed himself. I thanked him for it.

I laid down beside him. I stared at the branches of the jacaranda tree, the delicateness of the purple-blue flowers. I stared at the white, puffy clouds that morphed into one animal or another if I let my mind go blank. I cried.

I was there for two hours.

Before I left I broke the DVD into four pieces and stuck them into the earth. I couldn’t have it haunting me anymore.

When I was done, my cell phone rang. For the first time in a long time, I answered her call. “Hello, Rochelle.”

“Finally, you answer your damn phone!” She went off on a raving tangent, and I knew she was drunk. “I’m having you arrested, Meggie. The police are coming with the FBI and drug enforcement, and I’ve talked to my attorneys and they’re going to file criminal and bad charges against you and make you pay me for what you did to Aaron. I blame you. You were a stupid wife, always leaving Aaron to work, leaving him when he needed you. This was your fault, all your fault, what he did—”

“Rochelle, I am very sorry that you lost your son.” I would not be mean to this woman—she had lost too much—but she had been a pathetic, bottom-rung mother, one who refused to protect her own child from a pedophile, despite Aaron’s pleas for help. “He had an extremely difficult childhood.”

“Difficult childhood? I loved him.” She went off on another tangent, nonsensical but threatening. “I was a good mother!” she repeated, with a moan. “A very good mother!”

I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle her. I wanted to shake her. I wanted to stomp on her. I thought of Aaron when he was an innocent eight-year-old and that hideous thing that had happened to him, how he’d told his mother, and how she’d chosen a pedophile over her own son. My hands shook with fury as I stared at his gravestone. “Don’t call me again, ever, Rochelle. Don’t contact me.”

“I can call you whenever I want, or telephone you or cell phone call you! I’m going to make your life hell, you Meggie bitch, like you’ve made my life hell in a bowl with the devil. I don’t have my son anymore because of you. He’s lost somewhere—”

I hung up.

For long moments I couldn’t move. I felt a violent rage toward Rochelle. What a hideous mother she had been. Her behavior had been criminal. I hadn’t stopped her calls in the past because part of me thought I deserved it. No more. Never again.

I traced Aaron’s name on his gravestone underneath the jacaranda tree one more time. I blew him a kiss. “Good-bye, Aaron. I am truly sorry for what happened to you. I am sorry.”

Rochelle called again.

I blocked her number.

If she called again, I would tell Blake and get a restraining order against her.

I was done.

 

I love my tree house. I love how small it is, how cozy, how safe. It represents what I’ve wanted for years.

I love the psychedelic rainbow swirling kitchen tiles. I love being wrapped in a hug by the maple trees with their ever-changing leaves, being near to the clouds and the sunshine, the snowflakes and raindrops. I love walking up the stairs to my deck where the Adirondacks in purple, blue, green, yellow, orange, and red are waiting for me.

I can even sit in the red Adirondack now. It doesn’t bother me at all.

And I love Blake and my collection of animals, too.

 

“Meeegie! How you doin’?” Kalani waved at me with both hands through Skype. “We so busy now! Ya. We busy since that Fashion Story thingie. I hire more women, no men. They play with their balls, like Tory say. You know Tory? Hey! Thank you putting my story in Fashion Story thingie, about that bad husband and he bite part my ear off, how I have job and house now, no bad men, I the boss. But first I tell you how I am because you say, ‘How are you, Kalani?’ ”

I groaned quietly, so quiet, keeping my teeth out and smiling for her. “Tell me how you are.”

“I do badly.”

“Why are you doing badly?” Oh no. “What’s wrong?”

“I tell you, I cry over your grandma, ya, I cry like this. See my tears? I miss that old, old lady. I always miss her. She tough. She don’t ask me how I am much, but we still talk. I work for her. She my boss. She save Kalani. I tell you already, I tell you again, sorry about that, Meeegie. She good woman, like you. You good, too.”

“Thank you. She really cared about you, Kalani.”

“Ya, I know. I try no talk to her about my gas and my curses, not like that kind of friendship, you know, you and me and Tory and Laceeey, we have that seeester friendship. Laceeey not so fat now with that baby out, but I cry for her, too, when there bad accident, and I cry for Tory, too. All night. I cry so hard for all you and for the teeny, tiny Laceeey baby. I cry for her, so happy baby happy now. Ya. I happy about that.”

“Me too, Kalani.”

“Ah, when Laceeey back? I send present, too, for new good baby. So sweet and good. She probably be like her momma. Not like Tory. Tory not good girl. Tory tell me good girls boring, they don’t get no have fun. I like the fun. Black magic. You want to see new bras now, Meeegie? Here, I ready. I done saying how I am. I show you.”

“Okay, Kalani.”

She showed me the bras and thongs and panties and lingerie. She put on a number of the bras over her own chest. “I like this one. Ya. I like tassels on this purple and gold bra. Women freedom! And this? What you say? Bustier. Black with red flames, for the angry lady. Good. I like tattoo bra, too. Rough ladies wear tattoos. I like nipple cover. I try on for you. See my nipple? I try scented glue in vanilla! Yummy nipple bra now. And whip! That’s liberty. Black leather bra with zipper and skeleton. Ya. I like power when I wear the leather.”

It all looked good. I sighed with relief. Finally, no disasters.

“I’m delighted with the work, Kalani. Deee-light-ed.”

“Oh ya. Me too. We make best bras whole world, right, Meeegie? All these little pieces in bras, so many things must go right, all the parts, sewing, wire, colors, material, lace, the cups be perfect. So hard. But for your grandma we still make all this lingerie pretty. Honor Grandma. Honor ancestors. They still with us. In our hearts. Right? It, what you say, the other day? New American word for me: legacy. It your grandma legacy.”

“Yes it is. It’s Grandma’s legacy.”

“Okay, bye-bye. Love you, seeester Meeegie.”

“I love you, too, Kalani.”

 

Tory and I had Cassidy, Hayden, and Regan for the day. We took them to a pancake restaurant, then to the movies, then home to my tree house for tacos. First, however, we had Baked Alaska, which we’d learned how to make in dessert class, and Cassidy set it on fire, as we’d been taught. We all cheered. It was getting to be a regular occurrence—the five of us out doing something fun.

Regan played with all of the animals. Pop Pop grinned. He was on probation at doggie day care yet again. Jeepers hissed and hid. It took Regan fifteen minutes to get Jeepers out from under my bed upstairs so he could cuddle him like a baby. Regan also held the lizard, Mrs. Friendly, who was not affectionate; Ham the Hamster, who ran away under my couch; and Breadsticks, who was afraid of Jeepers.

“I want to talk to you about one more cat, Aunt Meggie. She has a good heart like Pop Pop, and the curiosity of Mrs. Friendly, and the brain of Ham the Hamster . . . and Aunt Tory, I think I have the perfect dog for you. It’s a small Great Dane named Spider . . .”

Hayden said that school was better. He was teased some, but not near as much, and tried to ignore it. He’d lost a couple of friends but gained more than that. Hayden was wearing a white dress and sandals and gold hoop earrings, his hair in a ponytail. He had the lead in the school play. He would play the part of Juliet in
Romeo and Juliet
. Tory worked on his acting with him. She’s impressively dramatic.

Lacey and Matt were talking about what his future would look like in terms of an operation, hormones he could take, etc. It’s complicated, it’s not easy, nothing was easy, but there was no question that Hayden was more comfortable, happier now in many ways. As he said, or as I should say
she
said, “I have to be on the outside what I am on the inside.”

Cassidy received another 4.00. As she also takes AP classes, Calculus, etc., she is hoping to be valedictorian her senior year. “Cody and I are going to take a year off after high school and travel. Mom says no, I say yes, and I’ll be eighteen. We want to make love in ten different countries. That’s our goal.”

What to say to that one? Tory said, “I think Scotty and I should have that same goal.”

That night I sat in the yellow Adirondack, Tory purple, Cassidy red, Hayden green, and Regan blue. Pop Pop sat in my lap. Breadsticks sat with Tory. The cats had had a small fight, but we separated them before stitches were needed.

“We have the best aunts in the world,” Cassidy said, so pleased. Regan and Hayden agreed. I saw Tory hide her delighted smile in Breadsticks’s fur.

The maple trees were budding. Soon we would have green leaves hugging us again.

 

“Can we talk about the sperm donors?” I asked my mother. Lacey, Tory, baby Victoria, and I were at her Snow White house, drinking coffee and eating banana, zucchini, and orange bread and chocolate muffins. My mother had been up all night again, grieving for her mother, so instead of wasting time in bed, she’d baked.

“We don’t need to talk about them,” she said. She waved her hand as in, “They are nothing.” “The chocolate muffins have a silky svelteness to them this time, I think. I added two types of chocolate chips: semisweet and baking chocolate, light crust of sugar on top.”

“We need to talk about this,” Lacey said, nursing Victoria. “Please, Mom. You’ve always said you had one-night stands, two of them, to have Meggie and me, and you only knew our father’s first names, but that doesn’t make sense. You’re too smart, Mom.”

My mother picked up a china platter. “Please taste this banana bread. It’s scrumptious. I added orange peel and an extra dash of salt.”

“You know more, Mom,” I said, dipping my banana bread in my tea.

“I’ll have banana bread,” Tory said. “My horoscope says I should pay attention to what I’m putting into my body so I can settle my inner serenity.”

My mother took a sip of coffee. Today she was wearing black slacks, flats, and a light green crew neck sweater. Her hair was in a prim ball, glasses on. The other night she’d done an interview where she encouraged everyone to buy one sex toy this year. “Just try it!”

“They were your sperm donors, girls. That’s it. They are not your fathers. It’s always been us, not them.”

“But it’s not that simple, Mom. We accepted your story that you didn’t know more about these men, but you do,” I said. “Why keep the secret anymore? We have a right to know.”

“Why can’t we have a pleasant morning drinking coffee with cream and eating my breads?”

“They are good,” Tory said. “I’m exhausted anyhow. Scotty and I did it three times last night.”

“Good for you, dear.” My mother patted Tory’s hands. “Sex is good for the complexion, and yours looks wonderful. I must say”—she peered over her glasses at Lacey and me—“both of you look particularly pink and healthy, too. I’m pleased.”

“Mom, please,” I said.

“With the zucchini bread I used a Mexican vanilla for that extra punch.”

“Mooomm,” Lacey said.

She sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know the nationality of Sperm Donor Number Two, my father.” I put my coffee cup down. “What do you know about my biological dad?”

“I know that his grandparents were African American.”

“What?” My father’s grandparents were African American?