I Know This Much Is True

by Wally Lamb

  “I’ll have them finished next time I come in,” I said. “Definitely. Not a problem.” I would, too; I’d keep the TV off and start them that night.

  Doc Patel closed her pad. “What about your grandfather’s history, Dominick?”

  “What about it?” I couldn’t remember having put Domenico’s life story on my list.

  “Well, we haven’t chatted about that for a while. The last time we discussed it, you were telling me how painful it was to read it. Do you remember? We discussed whether it was better for you to finish the history or just stop.”

  She waited. I couldn’t speak.

  “Do you remember what your decision was?”

  I nodded. “I said I wanted to finish it. Get it over with. Get it behind me. . . . I don’t remember putting it on my list though.”

  “You didn’t. But I thought that as long as we were on the subject of procrastination and its connection to this depression you’re feeling, it might be—”

  “I’m almost finished with it.”

  “That was what you told me the last time—that you had about fifteen pages left.”

  “Look,” I said. “The reason I’m depressed is because my brother died. Not because of some stupid things on a list. . . . We were twins, okay? It hurts.”

  She nodded. “Understandable. But right now we’re talking about—”

  “Why’d you even give me those books to read—all those photocopied articles about how bereavement’s a process, about the special needs of a grieving twin if . . . if you expect me to just be over it in fifteen minutes?”

  “I don’t expect you to be over it in fifteen minutes.”

  “I mean, he’s locked up in psycho-prison for seven months. Then he gets out and drowns—kills himself, most likely—and I’m supposed to just go, ‘Oh well, that’s over with. Onward and upward. Time to make some major career change.’”

  Dr. Patel said she most certainly understood that bereavement was a complicated process—that its movement was both forward and backward, a series of small steps over time, and not always manageable or predictable. She granted me, as well, that the circumstances surrounding Thomas’s death and the fact that we were identical twins and had had a complicated relationship further entangled matters. She acknowledged my pain, she said; she neither slighted nor underestimated it. An important part of her job was to listen to my testament about Thomas’s death and to explore with me my complex responses to it. But as my advocate for a mentally healthy life as a surviving twin—and, she said, she wished to emphasize that fact: that she was my advocate, not my adversary—she could not in good conscience take money for our therapy sessions and then allow me to immobilize myself under the guise of grief. Yes, grieving was a painful process. Yes, one negotiated one’s losses through a series of steps. But one lived in the meantime. One accommodated the reality of death while living life. Dreams or no dreams, I was not Thomas, she said. I was Dominick. My heart beat; I drew breath. I needed to face not only my brother’s death but my own life as well.

  She consulted her list again. My list. “Have you called Ray yet?”

  Bingo. The $64,000 question. All the rest had just been warmups.

  In my first appointment after Thomas’s funeral, I’d told her about my public tirade against my stepfather—how, after she and Sheffer had left the house on Hollyhock Avenue that day, I’d fired on Ray. Had taken him down in front of witnesses. That session had been a marathon; she’d canceled her last appointment and we’d gone on for an hour and a half longer than my scheduled time. By the end of that particular fun fest, most of the remaining Birdsey family secrets had fallen like dominoes: Thomas and my mother “playing nice” upstairs; my giving them up to Ray that afternoon when he’d come home unexpectedly. Before that session was over, I’d screamed and sobbed and chanted exactly the way my brother had chanted that night. Let . . . me . . . out . . . of . . . here! PLEASE . . . let . . . me . . . out! When we were done, Doc Patel had walked me down the stairs and out to my car, praising me for my big breakthrough—for having lifted the burden of all those secrets and begun, in earnest, my healing process.

  And I’d felt unburdened, too. I’d driven away from her office feeling battle-weary but free. But it had turned out to be a pretty quick buzz; it had lasted only about as long as the ride home. Granted, I’d taken the scenic route—had driven past the old homestead on Hollyhock Avenue, out past Dessa’s. But by the time I pulled up to my cookie-cutter condo that night—my sorry-ass home sweet home—the despair had already set in. Most of the anger was gone, granted, but hopelessness had seeped into the spaces. Hopelessness, exhaustion. I’d felt tired ever since. . . .

  Because what good’s confession without penance—right, Father Guglielmo? Right, Father LaVie? Getting your head shrunk could only take you so far, and then it came time to drop to your knees and humble yourself. Ask forgiveness of God the Father. Or, in my case, God the Stepfather. And, goddamnit, my knees just didn’t seem to bend that way.

  So I’d been avoiding Ray. Not answering the messages he kept leaving on my machine. Not going over there. I couldn’t “clear the air” with him, whether or not I had put it on my list of goals. Whether or not he’d gone out there that morning of the funeral and planted those tulips for my mother, my brother . . . and my baby daughter. He’d been decorating Angela’s grave all along, I’d found out. Almost eight years. But I still couldn’t forgive him. Couldn’t let bygones be bygones, surrender to the statute of limitations. And anyway, how could I let Ray be my old man when I was still waiting for the real thing? Still waiting for my real old man to show up and save the day?

  “Dominick?”

  “What?”

  “My goodness, you’re distracted today. I asked you if you had called your stepfather yet.”

  I answered her by not answering.

  “When do you think you’ll be ready to take that step?” she said. “What is your deadline, please?”

  I shrugged.

  At the doorway to her outer office, I thanked her, told her I’d see her on Friday—our standard adios. But the good doctor threw me a curveball. She was canceling our Friday appointment, she said. I should call her once I had accomplished the things on my list. She would look forward to speaking with me at that point.

  I stood there, smiling, as embarrassed as I was pissed. “What is this? ‘Tough love’ or something?”

  She said she supposed it was. Wished me good luck and closed the door.

  Answering the sympathy cards wasn’t that bad, once I started. Not opening them had been worse. I’d gotten a card from the crew down at Sherwin-Williams, a couple of notes from teachers at the school where I had taught. Ruth Rood sent her condolences. She was retiring at the end of the semester, she said. Putting her house on the market. She and her sister were planning to do some traveling. I had never even acknowledged her husband’s bullet to the brain. Her sympathy card made no mention of him, either.

  I wrote all the insides first. Depersonalized it as much as possible. Turned it into an assembly line. Thank you for your kindness at this difficult time. Much appreciated. . . . Thank you for your kindness at this difficult time. Much appreciated. . . . My ex-in-laws had sent this oversized gold foil job, Mass cards from the Greek church inside. I’d have to remember to tell Ray at some point: Thomas had gotten his church service after all. Services. Six Greek Masses. The Constantines had sent flowers to the funeral home, too—an arrangement twice the size of Ray’s and mine. Big Gene’s signature was on the sympathy card, not just Thula’s. I wondered how Thula was doing since her tumble off the stool that day. I’d have to ask Leo. Dizziness could mean a lot of things. . . . It was funny, really. Whenever I saw Big Gene down at the dealership, he could barely acknowledge my existence. Then my brother dies, and he’s the king of condolences. . . . That big flower arrangement had probably been turned into a tax write-off. The Mass cards, too, for all I knew. Thank you for your kindness at this difficult time. Much appreciated.

>   Mrs. Fenneck sent me a card—the librarian who’d called 911 that day and then shown up at the condo. Asking for forgiveness or dispensation or whatever the hell it was she’d wanted me to dispense that day. “My husband passed away a month ago,” she wrote now. “I pray for your loss and ask you to pray for mine. I’m glad your brother has finally found peace.” Well, peace be with you, too, Mrs. Fenneck. Peace on earth, good will toward widows and librarians. Thank you for your kindness at this difficult time. Much appreciated.

  I didn’t recognize the address on the card at the bottom of the pile, but I sure as hell knew the handwriting. It turned out not to be a sympathy card; it was a birth announcement. Tyffanie Rose. Six pounds, seven ounces. Eighteen inches long.

  California hadn’t worked out for them, Joy wrote. They had moved back East again—to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where Thad had once been stationed. He was working as a masseur at a “wellness” clinic now; she was waitressing at a Mexican restaurant. Things weren’t going that great between them. It was pretty complicated. She had some decisions to make. Tyffanie was an easy baby, though—six weeks old and already sleeping through the night. “I’ve screwed up almost everything in my whole life, Dominick,” Joy wrote. “Tyffanie’s the one thing I managed to do right.”

  She’d enclosed a picture—one of those shots they take in the hospital that prove once and for all that we’re related to the apes. Tyffanie Rose: dopey name, cutesy spelling. Typical. I studied the wrinkly little twerp, wished her good luck. She was going to need it with those two washouts for parents. . . . What were you supposed to do with pictures like that, anyway? Throw ’em out? Stuff ’em in a drawer someplace? Little Miss Monkey Face there had nothing at all to do with me, despite the fact that her mother had tried to trick me into thinking I was her father. Toss it, I told myself. I got up, got halfway over to the wastebasket, and then changed my mind. Shoved her into my shirt pocket because I couldn’t think what else to do. Sat back down to my assembly line.

  I stamped all the cards I’d written, put the stack over by the phone. “Call State Department of Education!” I scrawled on one of the extras. Put it on the top of the pile to remind myself.

  I went into the living room and flopped onto the couch. Reached for the remote. I’d mail the cards first thing in the morning. Emily Post and Dr. Patel would both be happier than pigs in shit. At least I’d accomplished that much—could cross one thing off my list.

  Seinfeld . . . The Simpsons . . . the Sox. Boston was playing New York that night. Clemens was on the mound. Butter-butt. Big overpaid baby. Baseball’s nothing but a three-hour waste of time. . . . Yeah, but the sympathy cards are done, I reminded myself; you’ve earned seven or eight innings’ worth of down time. . . .

  By the time I woke up, the late news was on: Rajiv Gandhi burning on a funeral pyre, Queen Elizabeth knighting Norman Schwarzkopf for having done such a bang-up job of killing Iraqis. And then, something closer to the bone: Duane Taylor being led down the courthouse steps.

  He’d been arraigned that morning on 115 counts, the reporter said. The charges ranged from the aggravated sexual assault of eleven mentally unstable patients to racketeering—the consistent, methodical, and ongoing use of a state facility in the conducting of criminal activities. From the look of things, Taylor had fully recovered from his garroting, but there was nothing left of that cocky attitude I’d seen down at Hatch: him out there in that recreation yard in his cowboy hat, the big man who held the cigarette lighter and the ring of keys. He could get life if convicted, the reporter said, but the case was tricky—reliant on unreliable witnesses. When Dr. Yup had examined my brother, she’d found inconclusive evidence. But I was goddamned if I was giving Taylor the benefit of the doubt. Burn in hell, I told that hollow-cheeked motherfucker as they led him, handcuffed, into the backseat of a cruiser. Die forever.

  I deadened the set, killed the lights in the kitchen. Went into my bedroom thinking I’d never get to sleep—not with a dozing session already under my belt and freakin’ Duane Taylor on my mind. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and flopped belly-down onto my bed. Lay there in the dark, thinking about those things still on my list: call Jankowski about the power washer, call the State Board of Ed.

  Doc Patel was right, I knew that: grief or no grief, I had to get on with it.

  Call Ray.

  Finish my grandfather’s book. . . .

  I reached under my bed and felt for it in the dark: Domenico’s manuscript. “The History of Domenico Onofrio Tempesta, a Great Man from Humble Beginnings.” Once I finished that thing, I’d have a fuckin’ bonfire out in the backyard. Good riddance, you pompous motherfucker.

  Mother fucker. “Motherfucker,” I said. In the dark, out loud.

  Faced, for the first time, why I had not been able to bring myself to finish Domenico’s story.

  Because I was afraid, that was why.

  Afraid that, by the end, he might have spoken the truth. Spelled it out in black and white. . . . Was that why she’d never been able to tell us? Had he taken advantage of his harelipped daughter’s weakness, her innocence? . . . Was our father not the dashing stenographer but our own grandfather?

  I lay there at the entrance of the black hole, feeling its pull. . . . Was that it, Ma? Had you been too weak to say no to him? Had Thomas and I been conceived in evil?

  Sometime later on that night—after the shaking had subsided, after I was able to move voluntarily again—I rolled over in the dark. I heard a soft crinkling under me and reached over, turned on the light. Fished inside my shirt pocket. . . .

  I squinted at her—Tyffanie Rose. Little Miss Monkey Face. I brought the picture to my lips and kissed it.

  I put it over on my nightstand for safekeeping and turned the light off again. Lay there smiling, for some reason, in the dark.

  The following morning, I drove to the post office and mailed those cards. Drove down to the beach and stood there, watching the waves, the seagulls. On my way home again, I drove right past the exit for Three Rivers. Drove all the way up to Hartford and pulled, spur of the moment, into that Cinema 1-through-500 place off of I-84. Sat there, in the dark, watching Bruce Willis and his testosterone save the free world. Again. Balls to the walls, man. Might made right. . . . Bomb those Iraqis. Hog-tie the black man, beat him with billy clubs. Make a fist and show your wife who’s the boss. . . .

  I drove home again. Faced the phone.

  Beep. “Dominick? It’s Leo. Hey, I was wondering if you were ready to let me beat your ass in some racquetball yet? Or are you still pussying around about that foot of yours? That excuse is getting old, Birdsey. Let me know.”

  Beep. “This is your old man calling. You home yet? Give me a jingle, will ya?” Will do, Ray. Mind if I wait until hell freezes over first?

  Beep. “Hey, Dominick. This is Lisa Sheffer. Just wanted to let you know I’ve been thinking about you. . . . Just wondering, basically, how you’re doing. So call me. Okay?”

  Beep. “Ray Birdsey. Four-fifteen P.M. You home yet?”

  I’m canceling our Friday appointment, Dominick. Call me after you’ve accomplished the things on your list. . . .

  Jankowski’s wife told me she’d ask him, but she doubted he was still interested. He’d bought a power washer on Monday from some outfit in Cumberland, Rhode Island.

  The third woman they referred me to at the State Department of Education was able to answer my questions about reinstatement. I’d need to take a refresher course, she said, and then take a test, and then have three classroom observations by a state-trained evaluator.

  Forget about it, I told myself. The writing’s on the wall. You’re a housepainter.

  Domenico’s manuscript stayed under the bed.

  I’d call Ray the next day, I told myself. I’d already accomplished plenty. I turned the TV on, turned it off again. Reached over for the Rolodex.

  Shea, Sherwin-Williams, Sheffer . . .

  She’d been thinking about me a lot, she said. I had been such a g
ood brother. She just wanted to make sure I wasn’t beating myself up about things.

  I thanked her—told her I hadn’t KO’d myself just yet. I decided to skip the counterargument I could have given her about what a good brother I’d been.

  She wanted to know what else was new—what I’d been up to.

  Not much, I said. I was trying to decide whether or not to sell my business.

  “Really?” she said. “You don’t feel like painting houses anymore?”

  “I don’t feel like falling off roofs anymore.”

  Somewhere during the conversation, I figured out something: Sheffer felt guilty. She’d been beating herself up. It had been her idea to put Thomas in Hope House, the place he’d wandered away from that night. When they’d sprung him so unexpectedly from Hatch, Sheffer had made an issue of how the group home would be a much safer temporary environment for him than my place.

  “Look, Lisa,” I said. “I want you to know something, okay? Nobody’s blaming you for anything. You did everything you could for him and then some—up to and including getting whacked in the face at that hearing. We’d all be a bunch of geniuses if we had hindsight ahead of time.”

  She said Dr. Patel had told her basically the same thing. She’d started seeing Dr. Patel, by the way. Professionally. Not to be nosy, but was I still seeing her?

  “Uh, yeah,” I said. “Off and on.” So much for confidentiality.

  Sheffer advised me to discuss my decision about the painting business with Dr. Patel—that she might be able to help me “objectify” my options. Social worker talk.

  “I have talked about it with her,” I said.

  “And?”

  “She thinks I should pack it in. Go back to teaching.” Sheffer said she could picture me in front of a high school class.

  I could, too—that was the problem: I kept seeing those two little tough cookies I’d stood behind at Subway. Kept remembering those students’ faces that day I’d cried in front of them. That day I’d left my classroom and never gone back. Diana Montague, Randy Cleveland, Josie Tarbox. Those kids must all be in their midtwenties by now. Out of college, into adult lives. Kids of their own, now, some of them. “Yeah, well,” I told Sheffer. “I may sell the business, I may not. I’m still weighing my options. But anyway, I’m grateful for everything you did for my brother. I mean it, Lisa. Thanks.”