by Margo Walter
Two days after David’s birth, the Pediatrician arrived to tell us some disturbing news. It seemed that David had a VSD, ventricular septal defect, and it could be dire. The good news was that you could hear a “whoosh” when you put your head on his chest. That meant it was a tiny hole in his heart which created a lot of pressure pushing blood through the opening and making a louder noise than a more massive hole would produce. The bad news was that it could still be fatal or cause for surgery if it did not close on its own. David would need constant monitoring for six weeks and a weekly visit to the Pediatrician before he would be out of the woods. The next six weeks were pure hell in the Simpson’s home. Wes and I took turns sitting by David’s crib. We had set up an electric monitor so we could hear him turn over, cry, or cough. Neither of us could rely entirely on this little box to care for our infant son, so we were in his room almost every hour throughout the night and day. We were terrified that we would lose him. I could not eat or sleep during this time and could not talk to anyone about how scared I really felt. Wes and I were not even talking to each other.
Spirituality was not discussed, and religion had ceased to be a part of my life. That too can and did change. During this emotionally and physically challenging time with David, I turned to my “God” with a constant prayer that my red-headed baby would survive. Wes tried to be supportive, but our marriage was being tested in the middle of potential tragedy. Many couples divorce during times of adversity, but finally, with nowhere else to turn, we started leaning on each other for strength. I began to rely heavily on Wes for physical and mental strength and Wes looked to me to carry on with as much courage as I could muster. The tragedy became a crisis; the crisis became a situation; and finally, the small hole closed by itself. David began playing on the floor with his brother George. The spiritual journey would continue and lead me to a renewed faith which would eventually save not only my son’s life but my life. Faith has been defined as believing in what cannot be seen. I knew every time I looked at David that there indeed was a higher power, an almighty, loving God who loved my son.
Wes was on his own spiritual journey and continued to nurture and teach his two sons. There was no doubt who the father was of these two boys. The physical resemblance was noticeable from birth.
Fathers were still a hot topic in my world, and I continued to write letters to my real father. We still had not met, but he continued to write, and I kept every letter in the special red notebook. One day, this red binder would be exceedingly handy and valuable to its holder. After congratulating me on the birth of our first son, my father moved to New York, and our correspondence continued.
After Law School, we also made a big move from Amish Pennsylvania to a beach resort in Virginia, the place where I was born and spent the first 14 years of my life. Moving to a new city and a new job was extremely exciting for our young family. My trust fund made it possible to buy a beautiful house in an older neighborhood of Rehoboth Beach. Wes opened his own law firm with a partner and funding from my mother’s current boyfriend. Family money can create significant problems, and it was the beginning of the end. Apparently, there was just not as much money as had been anticipated, and our budget was being stretched. Since I never had had to worry about finances, we lived in a fairytale world where money was not an issue… until that first summer in Rehoboth Beach. Then the shit hit the fan. There were debts and many expenses. What happened? Quite simply, the trust fund dried up! It was time for me to think about earning an income and joining the workforce. I had never really worked outside the home, except babysitting and a brief stint of taking care of kids in a daycare facility in Switzerland. I did not know where to begin and put it off as long as I could. Afterall, I loved being a stay-at-home mom, and a job search was not part of the plan. For the first time in my adulthood, life was good! I had friendly neighbors, new friends, two beautiful baby boys, a big-shot attorney for a husband, and I was in excellent health. I nursed both my boys until they were over a year old and banned alcohol or drugs of any kind from my diet so that nothing wrong would be passed on to my babies.
We were especially close to a British family that lived across the street. We would join them on their weekend adventures. In exchange with our military surveillance department, Paul was a true Englishman. He had six children, an attractive, supportive wife, and two years to experience as much of the United States as he could. That meant weekend trips to historical sites, like Williamsburg, weekly jaunts to the beach, and lots of time in our backyard pool. Wes was spending more and more time at his Law Firm, and I was busy enjoying my boys every day in every way.
Our home was immaculate: a brick ranch home with a big stone fireplace in the library and a gorgeous lot with huge pecan trees and live oaks. There were many neighborhood cookouts and three months every summer that were spent around our pool. Who knew that all of this would come crumbling down stone by stone?
The second spring in Rehoboth Beach, I decided to take the boys and go visit my mother, who had moved to Calpe, Spain. My grandma Lee was there, which made the trip very exciting. Not only was it an opportunity to show off my two boys, George and David, but I could enjoy the company of my very favorite person, my grandma.
It was exactly two days after my arrival in Spain that I came down with the flu, or so I thought. It was my grandma that posed the question: “Could you be pregnant?” A visit to the local medical center confirmed her suspicion, and there would be a new baby just after Christmas. Wes did not take the news with as much enthusiasm as I had anticipated. We had avoided having financial discussions, and I had not made any attempts to enter the real world of work.
Our daughter, Kate, was born right after the holidays and she almost entered our world in the hospital elevator. It was awfully close, but Wes made it to the hospital in time to see our second bright redhead be born. She was healthy, energetic, and red curls were on top of her perfect-sized head. Did I say she was a girl? I never knew how much I wanted a daughter until I saw her for the first time. The boys became her protectors from the beginning, and we taught her to swim before she could walk. When I was pregnant with Kate, I took the real estate course. It was the only pregnancy that I had to munch on saltine crackers for the first three months, and my fellow students seemed to pick up on my symptoms. I took the licensing exam feeling quite nauseated, but I passed and joined a large firm in town to begin my new career. My mother was the instigator of this new line of work. Over the years, I have not known whether to blame her, salute her, thank her, or condemn her for pushing me into real estate. You can decide.
I did exceedingly well in my first job as a real estate agent and excelled way beyond anyone’s expectations, especially mine. I was getting ahead of myself.
***
I want to discuss fathers at this point and evaluate Wes as the father of our three children under the age of five. This is easy.
He was devoted to the kids, loved them unconditionally, and tried, really tried, to give them as much attention as possible. It was the balancing act that did us both in. Launching a new law firm and being the best lawyer that he could be took an inordinate amount of time. We hired an English nanny to take care of the kids. We did not want her to be their parent, just their caretaker. Isabel moved in with us and helped tremendously with the childcare, the housekeeping, the cooking, the lifeguarding, and the chauffeuring. Wes and I, unknowingly, began competing for more time to spend at work. We did not realize what was happening and there was no intention to hurt each other or the children. We did. We damaged each other and our family in a way that could not be salvaged or repaired.
***
About this time the Admiral and I started communicating again. There had been a few letters, but in 1981, not only did I start saving his messages to that red book, I began keeping my responses. We still had not met, and there always seemed to be a good excuse.
October 1981
“Dear Janet… I loved your
letter. I am amazed at what you have done. I want to see you as soon as possible just as you do…. I am off to California this coming week for a business and a lecture at the California Institute of Technology and I am not really ready or knowledgeable enough to give it. Anyway, to get back to our meeting. I don’t want just a luncheon meeting either and I want to be alone with you. I believe as you do that the best thing for me to do is to come to Rehoboth and spend the weekend with you. My only problem at the moment is the time for I am quite involved up until the middle of December…. Please be sure I won’t let it die this time and we will be together, and I hope it will be soon. Yours, Matt”
December 1981
“Dear Matt… I return from Spain January 2 and now I just have to meet with you…. I am very confused about my feelings for you right now…. In my last letter, I did a lot of bragging about myself, my career, and my family. This letter I just do not feel like bragging. Feelings are a funny thing. You are in touch one minute and confused the next…. In any case, bringing you back into my life has not been easy. I love you, and that is not simple. I love the idea of you—the idea of having a father. God, I spend most of my life quietly and secretly crying out for someone to love me, really love me—just for me—like only a parent can love. And somewhere out there is a father that I have really never met. If that sounds melodramatic, I do apologize…. This thing with you and I is something left hanging and it goes against my entire personality to leave something undone. In fact, it drives me crazy or just to drink and forget it. There does not seem to be any gray area in my life. Everything is black or white. I am always right in there living life to its fullest or I escape and get out. The escape part is the scary part. It is irresponsible, selfish, dangerous, and bound to hurt the people I love…. There are days on end where I do not have a drink. Then—presto—it’s release time and I drink six, not two, or smoke a little grass or whatever…. I don’t expect miracles. You have your own life and I am not part of it. I cannot say that that does not make me unhappy. It does…. I have decided that I need to know you. Write to me when you can…. I definitely have a void in my life, and I guess that is what I am trying to say. Please do put everything aside early in January so that I can see you…. I cannot wait until we get together and yet I am scared to death…. I am expecting too much…. Let me hear from you and here’s to seeing you in 1982. Thirteen is my lucky number and it was thirteen years ago that I discovered you exist. Love, Janet”
December 20, 1981
“My dearest… I loved your letter and you can call me anytime. Your mother always knew me as the Admiral so I guess that is fine…. Never doubt however that I love your mother and am sure if I saw her again the same old chemistry would be there for me. I guess it will always be that way until I die…. You sound like a fascinating person with probably your mother’s brains and my bad faults. Please give her my love and have a Merry Christmas, and here is to New Year’s. Love, the Admiral”
***
Our children were always safe, but we ignored the signals that we were neglecting our parental roles. Wes loved his children, and no one would dispute that, but when the children were young, he made a significant decision to back off being their father. Our world was collapsing. Through all the letters that I had received from my father, the Admiral, I knew that he had also chosen career over family. More specifically, he chose the Navy over his daughter, me. We had regressed from “Love, Daddy” to “Love, Matt” to “Love, the Admiral” in his letters, and I became more distant with the name change.
In my perfect, happy family I was not an innocent bystander. I now had an office, a boss, coworkers, goals, clients, commissions, financial security, and a competitive drive that my company was happy to support. Two lives were created. I was Mommie three nights a week and half of the weekends, and I was the real estate agent 24/7, even when I was with the children. Do I have regrets? You bet. I did not miss many soccer games, birthday parties, or sleepovers, but I did miss what counts—quality time with each of my children. It hurt to continually be making choices between my family and my work. Wes and I were drifting apart in a sea of chaos, passing in the driveway and using phone check-ins as an intimate contact.
Looking back, it was easy to see that we were in an incredibly competitive race to succeed and make lots of money (that was our measure of success). It was easy to throw blame at each other and glaze one of the children in the act. Needless to say, our marriage ended unpleasantly.
***
At the end of my first year in real estate, I was named the top agent in a 400-member firm. We moved the family three times because of the good “deals.” We went through three nannies and early preschools. I took night courses to become a real estate broker and manager. Once you were number one, it was hard to settle for less. I fought to be at the top of the heap and collected many awards, accolades, and much money along the way. The price was the gift that keeps on giving—guilt.
***
Weaning my daughter before she was a year old was the most painful and upsetting act of motherhood that I had ever encountered. It hurt right down to my bones, and I am talking about physical pain, not just tremendous emotional distress. I had nursed both the boys through their infancy and intended to do the same with Kate. I tried pumping and leaving milk for the nanny, but it didn’t work. I was only able to nurse her for seven months. My choices were a mistake. Mothers everywhere are torn apart having to choose between career and family. I really believed that I was different and could do both well.
It had been five years since I smoked dope, drank alcoholically, or put anything up my nose. As soon as I quit nursing Kate, it was back to the races. I had chosen the perfect career for an alcoholic. I believed with all my heart that I could not be one. Almost every day you could find a new construction site opening that had an open bar that began at 4 pm and closed at 8 pm. There goes dinner with the family. Liquid lunches were every day because you had to solicit your clients. Office parties were scheduled at least once a month and booze flowed readily. I am not implying that all real estate agents are drunks because that is not the case. On the contrary, most agents are honest, diligent, family-oriented persons that you would be glad to call your friend. I was not attracted to that individual. I sought out the most competitive, fun-loving, single party goers that I could find. Why? What about my family, my husband, and my three beautiful children? My priorities were upside down.
***
Let’s get back on track in the order of events. I still had not met my biological father. Turning thirty was an eye-opener for me. I was the youngest managing broker of the firm and ran the top-producing office of the entire area. My agents decided to have a surprise birthday party for me at the office. Even the top brass stopped by and everyone was in a festive mood. My secretary, Ellen, came up to me and right in my face (I guess she was whispering), said, “You are so lucky. You have a successful lawyer husband, three beautiful children, a huge house on the water, three cars, a boat, and this incredible job. Wow!” I did not respond. I just stared at her like a deer in a car’s headlights. There was only one thought in my head. All I wanted to do was kill myself. What was wrong with me?
June 11, 1982
“Dear Admiral… You are either the procrastinator of a lifetime; have been seriously ill; or have decided to write me off permanently. You do underestimate my tenacity….Maybe you are not aware that I drove to your house in February to see you, left a note, saw your home, toured around the neighborhood—neat town—but unfortunately, missed you. It actually was a turning point in my life. When you hit bottom, no one is going to be there to pull you up but yourself. I was running to the last hope that I thought that I had—you—and ironically, you were not there but in Florida…. No one will know the pain or the joy that my weekend drive to your home caused…. The next move was yours. Call me, plan a visit, or tell me when you will be home so that I can visit. Do not worry about your notoriety or your fa
mily; I am and will always be anonymous, a friend of the family, or whatever…. Janet”
I made a promise that I could not keep.
***
Making a decision once again to visit my father after the failed attempt to his home was another impulsive move with little forethought and less planning. My only friends were my secretary, several of my top-producing agents, a couple of fellow managing brokers, and my supervisor. These were my party buddies, my drinking friends, and my drug connections. So, I decided to take Rose, my friend/office secretary, and drive to D.C. for two days to meet my father. We left Friday afternoon and drove four hours on route 95, one of Virginia’s busiest interstates to the nation’s capital, Washington D.C. You could cut the tension in the car with a knife. I was stressed out and no one was talking. I felt like I was driving to a funeral, not a reunion. Usually I am not at a loss for words, but there was an eerie silence in that Buick.
We arrived at the Omni hotel in Alexandria, right outside the beltway that circles D.C. Two days before, I had telephoned my father and told him I wanted to meet. Actually, that call was a threat. If he did not want to meet me, I would be forced to go back to his home up north and surprise his wonderful family, including his wife. He believed me. I had resorted to blackmail. We arranged to meet in a restaurant in downtown D.C. on the following Saturday. He said that he had business there and that would work out. In other words, it was not a special trip just to see me. The wheels started spinning, however, and I imagined the scene of outstretched arms embracing me with the love of the world in his slate-blue eyes. Would I even recognize him? Or would he be able to pick me out of the busy lunch crowd?