CHAPTER 11
Dee was unlocking the door as I stood a few steps behind still processing her words. Her boyfriend? She couldn't mean that in any literal sense. I mean, so far our relationship had been the definition of platonic if somewhat exhausting. I began to ask for clarification, but Dee was already on her way into the house. I hurried after.
“Mom, I'm home,” Dee shouted as she threw her jacket onto a nearby window seat.
I looked around. The house was as understated and well kept inside as it was outside. It was furnished in dark wood grains and richly patterned fabrics. The various surfaces and shelves were covered in vases, figurines, wood carvings... all nicely made but not overly ostentatious. The walls were covered in framed art work and photographs, the arrangement following no discernible pattern yet somehow still working together. As I scanned the room, a middle-aged woman entered. This could only be Dee's mother. The resemblance was unmistakable.
“Ah, Diana, I wasn't expecting you,” she said, “I thought you were moving into your new apartment today. If you had given me some warning, I could have prepared some lunch for you and your friend.”
“Oh Mom, stop with the mothering, you know I can feed myself,” Dee replied. Dee's mother did not immediately answer but gave Dee an expectant look, then tilted her head slightly toward me. Dee got the clue. “Oh yeah. Mom, this is Barry. Barry... Mom.” Suddenly Dee was grabbing my arm and pulling me next to her. “He's my boyfriend.”
“I'm so very pleased to meet you, Barry,” Dee's mother proclaimed as she offered me her hand.
“Um, yes, hello,” I answered, “It's really nice meeting you too Mrs...”
I suddenly realized I did not know Dee's last name. What sort of boyfriend doesn't know his girlfriend's last name?
“It's Mrs. Newell,” she volunteered, “I kept my married name. But feel free to call me Helen.”
We shook hands, Helen clasping both her hands around mine and giving it a gentle squeeze. It was like the handshake equivalent of a hug... warm, accepting, but not overly familiar. I felt myself smile despite my nervousness. For a moment I almost forgot the strangeness of the situation. Then Dee spoke.
“Barry is just helping me get a few things from my room. We won't be long.” She was already on her way deeper into the house.
“You are welcome to stay as long as you like,” her mother replied. She then noticed Dee's jacket on the window seat and gave a gentle sigh before scooping it up and hanging it on a peg by the door.
I hesitated a moment, unsure If I should continue talking to Dee's mother or follow Dee to her room. Following Dee seemed the less stressful option, so I turned to catch up with her. That was when I really saw The Wall.
It was covered in award ribbons, and plaques, and pictures. Many, many pictures.
A very young Dee riding a horse.
Teenage Dee at an academic competition.
Dee in rock climbing gear, clinging to a cliff face.
Adolescent Dee at a science fair, standing in front of a large chart and several glass containers.
Dee with a bow and arrow, an intense look of concentration as she draws the arrow back.
A pre-teen Dee dancing in a ballet recital.
An even younger Dee fighting in some sort of martial arts competition.
Dee on a balance beam, doing gymnastics.
There was also a glass walled case filled with trophies. The awards denoted an astonishing number of first place wins and only the occasional second or third place. I found myself trying to match every picture to a related ribbon or plaque or trophy.
“She was always good at everything she tried,” Helen said from behind me, “she just never seems able to stick with any one thing for very long.” There was an odd mix of pride and concern in her voice.
“Oh wonderful,” an exasperated Dee declared as she reemerged from her room, “you've discovered The Great Wall of Embarrassment.” In her arms she carried a box nearly filled to overflowing with paperback books.
“Oh Diana, stop,” Helen insisted, “a mother has a right to be proud of her daughter.”
“But do you have to pick the most god awful pictures of me?” she countered, “I mean, look at that hideous one from my ballerina phase.” She turned to me and in an exaggerated stage whisper said, “I think it's really just blackmail material. This is how she'll keep me from sticking her in a rest home when she gets all old and decrepit.”
I barely stifled a laugh. Helen gave an exaggerated sigh and answered by saying, “After all I've done for her over the years, this is the thanks I get.” Her serious tone was betrayed by the amusement in her eyes. It felt like they were treading in well worn verbal paths. There was definite affection in their wordplay, but also a note of tension.
“She would just toss all her trophies in the rubbish bin if I let her,” Dee's mother continued, “If she finds herself one more hobby, I'll have to add an extension to the house.”
“Oh here it comes,” Dee replied, “the whole 'you never stick with anything' speech.”
“That's not true, I wasn't going to say that,” her mother insisted, “I just wish you had more direction is all. You seem so restless.”
“You just can't get over me dropping out of college, can you.”
Helen sighed again, this time with less amusement. “Let's not have this argument again just now,” she insisted, “We have a guest after all.”
Dee started to say something, then seemed to reconsider. Finally she said, “this box is getting heavy,” and headed for the door, deftly opening it with one hand even as she cradled the box in her arms. She was outside before I realized I should probably be helping her.
“I just don't know how to talk to her anymore,” Helen said, more to herself than to me.
“It's not always easy,” I stammered, “talking to the people you love, I mean.” I wasn't sure how helpful that was, but it was all I could think to say.
“And do you love my daughter, Barry?”
“She's amazing,” I responded. It was an honest statement, though not strictly answering the question.
“I'm glad you see it,” she replied, “She seems determined to hide it from most people.”
Our conversation was interrupted by Dee reentering the house. “OK, enough slacking off,” she announced, “let's get to it, Barry.” I followed her to her room.
If The Wall was a glimpse into Dee through her mother's eyes, then the bedroom was a dive directly into Dee's psyche. Where The Wall was an orderly display of her accomplishments, her room was a chaotic mish-mash of her passions. It took several moments before the sensory overload died down enough that I could begin processing it.
The first thing I noticed was the posters. And the magazine clippings. And drawings. And sheet music. And countless other items covering every square inch of the walls. There seemed to be no unifying theme. A giant picture of Einstein shared a wall with a map of Antarctica and a classic 'Creature from the Black Lagoon' movie poster. A periodic table of the elements was overlapped with a pictures of an outdoor concert interspersed with circuit diagrams.
The contents of the shelves was equally varied. A copy of 'Godel, Escher, Bach' was sandwiched in between an anthology of classic science fiction stories and a compendium of European rock stars. A book on police forensic procedures leaned against a complete works of William Shakespeare. A menagerie of bizarre clay sculptures perched atop a haphazard stack of comic books. An assortment of tea mugs sat on a toolbox. A soldering iron dangled from its power cord where it was wrapped around the neck of a stuffed penguin. My eyes came to rest on the only picture of Dee in the room. It was a framed snapshot of her as a teenage girl giving a hug to an enormous man in army fatigues.
“My dad,” she said when she saw where my gaze had landed. “I miss him a lot, sometimes.” She plopped down onto her bed, pulled her knees up to her chin, and stared at the picture. I couldn't help but wondered if he had died in some m
ilitary conflict, but I didn't know how to ask such a question. As if reading my thoughts, she said, “My parents divorced a few years ago.”
“That's rough,” was all I could think to answer as I sat next to her.
“Would have been worse if I'd been younger, I suppose. I mean, I get that it wasn't about me. I'm not even sure it was about Mom really. Something was changed in him when he came back from the Gulf. Something was broken.” She was silent for a while, then said, “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.”
“Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms,” I spoke without thinking. Then I remembered the rest of the quote. But those that will not break it kills.
“Iraq broke my father,” she continued, “but he wasn't stronger for it. It killed something inside of him. He stayed broken.”
Silence lingered as I searched for something to say. “Healing can take a long time,” I finally said, “but people do heal, eventually. We don't stay broken forever.” I tried to fill the words with conviction, even though I wasn't sure I really believed it myself.
“I hope so,” Dee answered, “I really do hope you're right. He deserves so much better. He was always so strong. Strong and brave and full of hope. He came back from that damn war all... hollowed out.” Her voice trembled with suppressed emotion.
It effected me more than I expected. My vision grew blurry, then snapped back to clarity as a tear broke loose from my eye and fled down my cheek. I tried to pretend it hadn't happened and hoped Dee didn't notice, but she smiled and reached up, wiping it from my face with her thumb.
“Don't be embarrassed,” she said, “It's just empathy, Barry. It's your superpower.”
Devious Origins Page 15