such
thing as hope in our house. Hope was like an apology; it was a
weightless stone tossed at a steel house, as useless as the words
I’m sorry were to a madhouse doctor.
He said it was always smarter to say
nothing. He called that kind of withholding mercy, and I wondered
if he had ever really wanted me to talk again at all. He called my
story about Ellie malicious, and told me we’d be better off just
forgetting her, and to forget Ully, as well.
But wasn’t forgetting just like murder?
Because of his silence—and mine—I had lied.
That was the difference between me and Dad, and it was a difference
I had to remember, Amelia would say. I would rather lie than keep
quiet, and sometimes that isn’t a bad thing. Remembering was as
important as knowing. Amelia reminded me that something inside that
little boy told him that his mother needed to remember, and that
she needed to know what she had done, and who her mother was, and
who her son was.
How far I had come from that little boy! The
drifter Amelia was watching now was nothing like that brave little
boy with the kind heart. He was hopeful. He was generous. And that
little boy was gone!
Within weeks, Dad left Mom and that little
boy, and therefore Dad left the decision to break the news of
Ellie’s death to me.
I told my mother that her mother died some
time later, maybe days or weeks later. I don’t know. I couldn’t
tell time well in those days. When I did tell her, it had the
impact I feared it might. Mom cried very jagged tears. She cried
like I’ve never seen a human being cry, and I cried with her, out
of fear mostly. Mom’s tears carried with them some very brutal,
very tempestuous screams, and it was frightening.
I’d never known my grandmother and I didn’t
realize how powerfully upsetting losing a mother could be. I
wouldn’t understand that for at least two more weeks.
Fear wasn’t all I was feeling, though. There
was something else. Mom’s reaction made me angry at Ellie, and
Ully, too—not just at Dad. A rage began to emerge in me to
compliment the fear and the resentment I was starting to feel.
Where had they been my entire life? Why hadn’t they come to visit
us? Why had I remembered so little about them? Why didn’t Ully call
on Mom when Ellie was sick, and had he even bothered to call Mom
when she was at the Asylum having God knows what done to her? Had
Dad? Had anyone been there to hold her hand while the doctors put
the eyelid retractors in place, while the leukotome cutter worked
its way through her orbital sockets and then well into her
brain?
And why hadn’t anyone been there to say, Welcome home!
But if I was angry at my father, Mom put a
stop to that. “Don’t be mad at Daddy,” she had said, remembering,
somehow, the smallest and oldest piece of their marital history, as
well as a piece of our entire family’s. “He is sick. We are all
sick, Mitchell. We always have been, and we probably always will
be.”
I tried to forgive my father, but I
couldn’t. What good does forgiveness do for someone who isn’t there
to receive it?
And Mom had an answer for that, too.
“Forgiveness is for you, Mitchell—not for the forgiven.”
Maybe it was another form of reverse
psychology—Dad’s leaving. Maybe he knew I wanted him to leave.
Maybe he left so that I’d learn to appreciate him, and if I begged
him enough, or promised to play his games the right way, maybe he’d
come back to us. But it didn’t work. No pleas. No promises. No I’m
sorrys worked with Dad.
All I knew was that Mom and I were alone.
Despite the stones soaring through the windows and the bitter
coldness of a fatherless house, I could take comfort in at least
one thing: Mom and I were finally able to speak again.
***
Chapter 10
Shadow Journal entry
August 20, 1995
Amelia had an interesting take on dreams.
Most people think dreams are a sort of moving picture your brain
creates to make sense of experience. Amelia said that was one way
to
thing as hope in our house. Hope was like an apology; it was a
weightless stone tossed at a steel house, as useless as the words
I’m sorry were to a madhouse doctor.
He said it was always smarter to say
nothing. He called that kind of withholding mercy, and I wondered
if he had ever really wanted me to talk again at all. He called my
story about Ellie malicious, and told me we’d be better off just
forgetting her, and to forget Ully, as well.
But wasn’t forgetting just like murder?
Because of his silence—and mine—I had lied.
That was the difference between me and Dad, and it was a difference
I had to remember, Amelia would say. I would rather lie than keep
quiet, and sometimes that isn’t a bad thing. Remembering was as
important as knowing. Amelia reminded me that something inside that
little boy told him that his mother needed to remember, and that
she needed to know what she had done, and who her mother was, and
who her son was.
How far I had come from that little boy! The
drifter Amelia was watching now was nothing like that brave little
boy with the kind heart. He was hopeful. He was generous. And that
little boy was gone!
Within weeks, Dad left Mom and that little
boy, and therefore Dad left the decision to break the news of
Ellie’s death to me.
I told my mother that her mother died some
time later, maybe days or weeks later. I don’t know. I couldn’t
tell time well in those days. When I did tell her, it had the
impact I feared it might. Mom cried very jagged tears. She cried
like I’ve never seen a human being cry, and I cried with her, out
of fear mostly. Mom’s tears carried with them some very brutal,
very tempestuous screams, and it was frightening.
I’d never known my grandmother and I didn’t
realize how powerfully upsetting losing a mother could be. I
wouldn’t understand that for at least two more weeks.
Fear wasn’t all I was feeling, though. There
was something else. Mom’s reaction made me angry at Ellie, and
Ully, too—not just at Dad. A rage began to emerge in me to
compliment the fear and the resentment I was starting to feel.
Where had they been my entire life? Why hadn’t they come to visit
us? Why had I remembered so little about them? Why didn’t Ully call
on Mom when Ellie was sick, and had he even bothered to call Mom
when she was at the Asylum having God knows what done to her? Had
Dad? Had anyone been there to hold her hand while the doctors put
the eyelid retractors in place, while the leukotome cutter worked
its way through her orbital sockets and then well into her
brain?
And why hadn’t anyone been there to say, Welcome home!
But if I was angry at my father, Mom put a
stop to that. “Don’t be mad at Daddy,” she had said, remembering,
somehow, the smallest and oldest piece of their marital history, as
well as a piece of our entire family’s. “He is sick. We are all
sick, Mitchell. We always have been, and we probably always will
be.”
I tried to forgive my father, but I
couldn’t. What good does forgiveness do for someone who isn’t there
to receive it?
And Mom had an answer for that, too.
“Forgiveness is for you, Mitchell—not for the forgiven.”
Maybe it was another form of reverse
psychology—Dad’s leaving. Maybe he knew I wanted him to leave.
Maybe he left so that I’d learn to appreciate him, and if I begged
him enough, or promised to play his games the right way, maybe he’d
come back to us. But it didn’t work. No pleas. No promises. No I’m
sorrys worked with Dad.
All I knew was that Mom and I were alone.
Despite the stones soaring through the windows and the bitter
coldness of a fatherless house, I could take comfort in at least
one thing: Mom and I were finally able to speak again.
***
Chapter 10
Shadow Journal entry
August 20, 1995
Amelia had an interesting take on dreams.
Most people think dreams are a sort of moving picture your brain
creates to make sense of experience. Amelia said that was one way
to
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