you think are solid—suddenly you realize you could have been someone else. Anyone else, depending on the family that took you in. Rich or poor. State junior college or Ivy League M.B.A. Catholic or Protestant. Or, God knows, maybe Baptist, Holy Roller, the child of tongue speakers or snake handlers. I felt like I was back at the foundling hospital, sitting there in the overheated lobby with my wet clothes in my lap, waiting for Mrs. Waters. Sitting there afraid, afraid of being exposed.
Exposed as what? the doctor asked.
A fraud. A construction. An arbitrary set of facts.
(How glorious! I thought, as I listened on my side of our common wall. She knows she is self-created!)
But is it not also true, said the therapist, that we discussed some core inside you, something that felt alien to your family, something that remained unchanged despite the pressures put upon you to be one thing or another?
(Yes! Self-driven, immune to the mere circumstance of birth!)
The patient breathed in and out. Yes, she said at last. But there was something else. I looked at Mother, in her lovely outfit, with her perfect yellow ball of hair, her nails polished a pale pink, her red high heels, all this on a Sunday evening at home. I watched her drink; I saw the way she put the glass down on the tabletop so carefully. And I knew then that she was afraid. I suddenly wanted to protect her—and realized I’ve always been protecting her.
Protecting her from what? the doctor asked.
Oh, from all the pain opening up this subject would cause her.
Cause
her
pain? Dr. Schussler asked.
I’m assuming it had to be hard, to get a child to adopt, to suddenly have this little alien put in your arms. You don’t know where she came from—a human meteor dropped from the sky. Maybe she’s a demon seed, the patient said with a laugh.
Well, perhaps, said the doctor gently. Perhaps it was hard for your mother at the beginning. But then she was rewarded for whatever difficulties she might have gone through. After all, said the therapist after a long pause, she had
you
.
The patient gasped. Me! she said.
She fell back into her chair.
Me, she repeated softly.
She was silent for some time. I’d never considered that, she finally said.
And your mother then goes on, said the doctor, to find that she is a fortunate woman, who has been given not a demon but a treasure.
The patient laughed. Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.
Yet there was no doubt that the thought of her worth had fallen upon the patient with the force of revelation. The timbre of her voice brightened; the cadence of her speech strode forthrightly on. For now, fortified with her new understanding, she seemed to take courage as she resumed the story of her mysterious birth.
27.
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
Exposed as what? the doctor asked.
A fraud. A construction. An arbitrary set of facts.
(How glorious! I thought, as I listened on my side of our common wall. She knows she is self-created!)
But is it not also true, said the therapist, that we discussed some core inside you, something that felt alien to your family, something that remained unchanged despite the pressures put upon you to be one thing or another?
(Yes! Self-driven, immune to the mere circumstance of birth!)
The patient breathed in and out. Yes, she said at last. But there was something else. I looked at Mother, in her lovely outfit, with her perfect yellow ball of hair, her nails polished a pale pink, her red high heels, all this on a Sunday evening at home. I watched her drink; I saw the way she put the glass down on the tabletop so carefully. And I knew then that she was afraid. I suddenly wanted to protect her—and realized I’ve always been protecting her.
Protecting her from what? the doctor asked.
Oh, from all the pain opening up this subject would cause her.
Cause
her
pain? Dr. Schussler asked.
I’m assuming it had to be hard, to get a child to adopt, to suddenly have this little alien put in your arms. You don’t know where she came from—a human meteor dropped from the sky. Maybe she’s a demon seed, the patient said with a laugh.
Well, perhaps, said the doctor gently. Perhaps it was hard for your mother at the beginning. But then she was rewarded for whatever difficulties she might have gone through. After all, said the therapist after a long pause, she had
you
.
The patient gasped. Me! she said.
She fell back into her chair.
Me, she repeated softly.
She was silent for some time. I’d never considered that, she finally said.
And your mother then goes on, said the doctor, to find that she is a fortunate woman, who has been given not a demon but a treasure.
The patient laughed. Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.
Yet there was no doubt that the thought of her worth had fallen upon the patient with the force of revelation. The timbre of her voice brightened; the cadence of her speech strode forthrightly on. For now, fortified with her new understanding, she seemed to take courage as she resumed the story of her mysterious birth.
27.
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
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