Lies of the Heart
Page 26
“Kate.”
“Sorry. Go ahead.”
“Well, so you were obsessed with them when you were little, remember? You’d watch them over and over. One would finish and you’d rewind and watch it all over again, and you’d cry and get angry or happy or sad all over again, like everything was happening to you.”
“That’s what filmmakers want, Dana. They want you to relate to the main characters, to empathize—”
“I know, but it wasn’t just with movies. You’d watch people like that all the time, too. I don’t mean you’d cry or laugh or anything, but you always had that same incredibly intense look on your face, like when you were in front of the TV. You do it with your documentaries, and even now you still sit away from the crowd and watch everything happen around you, instead of actually interacting with the family.”
“Can you blame me? You see the way they treat me.”
“How do they treat you?”
“Everyone in this family, except you, has always treated me differently.”
“Differently than what?”
“Oh, c’mon, Dana, don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. Different from you,” Katie says.
“Well, we’re different people, Katie, and back then just the difference in our ages would—”
“Give me a break,” Katie snaps. “You know what I mean. Maybe the reason I watched those movies so much is because I wanted to know what it felt like to exist. Everyone in this family has always thought you were perfect. And you love being in the spotlight, completely adored, while I’m—”
Her sister jumps up. “That isn’t fair! I never asked to be in a spotlight.”
“But you are.”
“And what, you’re stuck in the shadows? Because of me?”
Katie is on her feet now, too. “You’re actually going to deny it?”
“This is part of the issue, Kate, sometimes you say things like this and I realize what a skewed perception you have of your place in relationships—”
“Skewed? Are you serious? Do you even live in this family?”
They are face-to-face now, only inches apart, Katie trying hard to control her breathing. Dana checks the doorway again.
“This is all wrong, I didn’t want it to be like this.” Dana shakes her head. “Mom was right, I shouldn’t have come,” her sister says. “I should go.” Like a shot, Dana is pushing past Katie.
Katie follows at her heels. “Are you kidding me? You’re leaving?”
Her sister skips down the stairs, swipes her purse and coat off the kitchen table, and heads to the front door.
“I came here because I felt awful about the other night, Kate, and I wanted to give you time to think about it.”
“Again, care to clue me in before you leave a second time?”
Dana faces the front door, head lowered, taking in deep breaths. She places her purse on the floor and slowly pushes her arms into her coat, then turns to face Katie.
It’s the closest Katie has ever come to striking someone—even angry and trying to escape from Katie’s home, her sister looks composed, completely in charge.
“I knew you might have felt this way when you were young, but I thought you were over it by now. I thought you wouldn’t still try to blame me.”
“I’m not blaming you, exactly.”
“Yes you are. You’re trying to say it’s my fault.”
“I don’t even know what the hell it is, Dana!” Katie roars. She is seconds—just seconds—from driving a fist into her sister’s infuriatingly calm face.
“I’m not in some sort of spotlight, Kate. Our family treats me the same way I treat them,” she says. “Even now, during this trial, I know you’re taking everything in, you’re making your assessments—but then you share only a fraction of what you’re feeling. Can’t you see how that might make people react?”
“So this isn’t about me watching people now, it’s about the way I treat our family?”
“You were the one who brought them up, Katie, but yes, it’s all tied together. It’s about your relationship with the family, with people—”
“I’m not worried about people, Dana, I’m worried about this trial, about Nick.”
“I know, and I know that Nick was the most important person in your life, and without him—”
“Right, without Nick it’s just ‘more of the same.’ ”
“Kate,” Dana says, “will you please stop getting caught up in Mom’s words?”
“She wanted to know what my story was, right? You want to know? This is my story! I don’t understand why you all think it’s so easy to just let go of him. Can’t I even wait until the trial is over before I change my personality and go out and get a new fucking life?” She is shaking so hard that her teeth start to chatter.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to upset you. This is why I thought you should talk to someone, why I suggested—”
“I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?”
“You know what I mean, Katie. A therapist, someone who’s objective and trained to deal with grief and these kinds of issues.”
“‘These kinds of issues’!” Katie shouts just inches from her sister’s face. “I’m fine!”
“Really?” Dana says. “I know you say that all the time, but are you? This is why I came tonight, too. To ask you to consider talking to a professional. Not just about Nick’s death, but all of it,” her sister says, opening her arms wide.
“So now I need professional help because my husband died and I watch other people and I treat these same people like shit. Great, Dana, thanks for letting me know just how crazy I really am. You have impeccable timing, just like Mom.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy—I really didn’t come here to upset you.”
“Another fantastic job, Dana, really stellar.” She wants to hurt her sister, wants her words to come out like knives, but instead there are bumps in her voice. “How about this? How about you all just steer clear of me from now on,” she says, turning away, but Dana grabs her by the upper arm from behind and wheels her around.
“Listen—”
Their faces are too close, and there’s something in her sister’s eyes—pity or shame or aversion, maybe all three—so Katie tears herself out of her sister’s grip and pushes her away, hard. Dana’s eyes flare in surprise, and she trips backward, palms smacking against the door, her head whipping back and hitting the wood with a loud thud.
“Oh, God,” Katie says, “I didn’t mean—”
But her sister shrugs off her sympathy, holds her back with one hand. “Last night,” Dana says, barely controlled now, “I was in bed, and I was thinking how good it was that you and Nick never actually had a baby. Because if you did, Nick would always be with you. A little girl who laughed like him, or a boy who had his eyes, or something like that.” Her sister’s eyes roam all over Katie’s face. “But it’s more than that. You’re never going to figure out what you really want until you take a good look at yourself, until you let him go and you finally—”
“How can I, with this trial?”
“Just stop,” Dana says, then composes herself, softens her voice. “Have you ever considered, just once, that none of the answers you need are out there? You’re always looking everywhere, you’re always looking to other people for answers, but—” Dana sighs, shakes her head.
She moves forward, presses her finger into the center of Katie’s chest, softly. “Right here, Kate. The answers have always been right here.”
12
For the documentary’s interviews, Katie used the room in the Warwick Center with the two-way mirror where Nick met with his clients, because of its simplicity—a table, four chairs, and scenic pictures of Rhode Island meant to calm: Black Point, Narragansett, with its moss-covered rocks meeting the ocean; a landscape of Breakheart Pond in Arcadia, where the water looked like a glass floor extending out from the forest.
Too many faces could potentially confuse viewers, so Patricia and Nick had helpe
d Katie compile a list: Dottie Halverson, Eddie Rodriguez, Patricia, and of course Nick. Patricia had helped persuade Jerry’s hesitant social worker to allow the filming, and she even made numerous calls when the necessary permits and permissions were bogged down with red tape. It was the first time Katie had sought anyone’s help with a documentary, and she was grateful. She was even more grateful that Nick sat by her side at night, reviewing the footage.
—The first thing I’m going to do in the new house is set up your pull-down screen, Nick told her one night after filming.
—That would be great, Katie said, spooning film onto the spindle.
—Okay, we’re all set here. Now, remember, this is just a rough cut of the interviews. I’m still working on how to string them together to get a coherent history. I’ll have to edit out initial responses to my questions, repetition of information, and weave actual footage in between.
—And then we do my narration? Nick asked.
—We don’t add your voice-over until we’re done. Sometimes you don’t know what the story is until the very end, so we’ll work on that after we’re done with all the filming.
The first footage on the wall showed a close-up of Patricia nodding thoughtfully. Behind her and a little to the left, a photograph of Cold Brook in Little Compton, because Katie had liked the effect: stripped branches bent over with snow and reaching across the frozen brook.
—Yes, Patricia said into the camera after a moment.—His mother, Evelyn. She was a deeply religious woman. And yet, despite her convictions, she had engaged in an affair with a married man.
Jerry is this man’s son?
—He is. According to the files, Evelyn told the social workers that this man was going to divorce his wife, but when Jerry was six months old, he was diagnosed with mental retardation. Soon after, his father cut off all contact with them.
Did he try to support Jerry financially?
—Initially, yes. But after the diagnosis, all talk of divorce ended. He stopped visiting soon after, and the child-support checks stopped a few months later. Evelyn did some investigating and discovered that Jerry’s father had died suddenly of an embolism.
That must have been a horrible shock for her.
—Apparently not. She saw it as a sign from God. Divine retribution for their sins, Patricia said, mouth curving with derision.
Five seconds of blank space on the wall, and then Dottie’s face replaced Patricia’s.—Evelyn was very religious, Dottie said.—But obviously there was a lot more going on there. I don’t think she was ever officially diagnosed by a psychiatrist, but it’s clear from some of her statements that she suffered from severe mental issues. Dottie shook her head.—When Jerry’s father died, it only got worse.
How so?
—She believed that Jerry’s MR, what she called his “affliction,” was an indictment against her for her adulterous sins. Some of the statements she made to social workers . . . Dottie shook her head again, this time in amazement. Well, it’s evident her disturbed mind and stringent beliefs about God turned to a sort of religious fanaticism. And Jerry’s illegitimacy and handicap made him the obvious bearer of atonement. The abuse—Dottie said, and stopped. She turned away from the camera to collect herself.—She told the social worker that Jerry’s father was in hell because of Jerry, and her son needed to know that. He should feel it.
After a moment Eddie Rodriguez appeared on the wall, a body shot of him sitting at the table.—She abused him all the time, horrendous things. Reciting from the Bible like a high priestess the whole time. She’d recite to the social workers, too. Katie, you wouldn’t believe some of the things she said to them. Eddie shifted in his chair, looked off to the side.—Sorry, he said, and cleared his throat.—I forgot not to address you directly.
Patricia was back after a few seconds of blank space.—During his formative years, when most children learn to communicate and establish loving, trusting relationships with adults and other children, Jerry was locked in a dark room with only minimal contact from his unstable mother. And that contact. . . . Patricia shakes her head angrily.
—She may have forgotten to feed or bathe him for days at a time, but she never forgot to torture him.
Dottie was back, explaining how Jerry finally escaped this abuse; how, when he was six years old, a nurse at Kent County Hospital went to the Department of Children, Youth and Families and demanded that they take a second look at the numerous medical reports of Jerry’s “accidents.” Jerry and his mother were woken in the early-morning hours by a social worker, accompanied by two police cars, their lights spinning; afterward, Evelyn made sure Jerry took responsibility for the meddling presence of the police.
—Even now, after all this time and all his progress, Dottie said, when Jerry sees police cars with their lights on, he panics.
—There was a lengthy investigation after that, Patricia said next. —Then, and only then, did some of the neighbors finally come forward.
—Can you imagine keeping that sort of thing to yourself for so long? Eddie Rodriguez asked the camera after a brief space in the footage. He sat back in his chair, shook his head sadly.—All the crying and yelling, and they did nothing.
But obviously some of them had to give statements?
Eddie described the police report given by an elderly neighbor, detailing the haunted look of the small boy who she thought was deaf and mute on the few occasions she saw him being led to and from the house.
—How can you be mute if you spend six years screaming for help? Nick was the last interview, an extreme close-up of his face.
—Jerry was finally removed from Evelyn’s custody, Nick said.
—And then he was shuffled from one foster home to another. As a teenager, and then as an adult, Jerry was housed in group homes, where it was easy to get lost in the commotion of demanding, mentally challenged adults.
It was a miracle, then, Nick told the camera, that Jerry survived at all, that he was able to communicate or trust adults after so many years of abuse and neglect.
—But we have hope, Nick said, a confident smile on his face.—His past is starting to work its way out of him, and we’re going to keep him safe. We’re going to make sure Jerry has a very loving, supportive, and peaceful future with us. Only good things in his life from now on.
The third time it happened, they were at the zoo, Katie watching from behind the camera, Nick slipping coins into the feeder for the baby goats, Jerry giggling in anticipation with cupped hands. Then a small bubble of thunder in the distance, a mother moaning loudly, Oh, God, not a storm! and Jerry’s instant reaction: eyes lifting to the sky, lips moving—then fists punching the air, punching Nick, who had a bruise on his neck for weeks. The fourth time was at Chelo’s by the Sea in East Greenwich, Nick dipping steamers into butter, trying to persuade Jerry to try one. Jerry laughing, shaking his head, saying, —No way, day like boogers. And then, at the table right beside them, too close, a woman clicking her lighter. She lit her cigarette, took a long drag, stared back at Jerry, whose eyes had attached to hers. She held the cigarette up for him to see. What? her gaze asked. This? She pushed it forward in his direction. You want one? And then the other patrons were rising, standing back and watching in stunned horror as Nick wrestled a thrashing Jerry onto the floor, the tablecloth inside Jerry’s fists. Their lunch skidded across the table, crashed down on top of them: plates, silverware, creamy New England clam chowder, small cups of hot butter, and dozens of tiny steamer shells that crackled underneath their rolling bodies (later a trip to the ER, because Nick needed stitches where a shell had dug in, and a tetanus shot). Katie glared up at the woman, her cigarette still poised in front of her mouth.
—Put it out! Katie yelled.—This isn’t the smoking section.
—It isn’t? the woman had asked. And took another long, fascinated drag, watching Jerry sob and reach for Katie, already on her knees beside Nick, who was shaking his left hand in pain (an X-ray revealing his index finger broken in two places).
Amid the frantic images of Jerry’s anger and whirling fists, amid the footage of Jerry working at the Warwick Center and the interviews with the center’s staff and Nick working with Jerry in their sessions (Jerry holding a mirror, watching his mouth stretch wide to train his muscles—Ohhhhhhh, Eeeeeeee—or Nick holding a tongue depressor against his tongue, coaching him:—Say “that,” Jerry. “Thhhhhhat”), there was also Jerry, hauling boxes into their new house in Warwick Neck, grinning into the camera. And Jerry, standing in the spare bedroom, his bedroom, turning in circles with his arms out at his sides. Staring in amazement.
—True? he asked Katie behind the camera.—Mine?
The room bobbing up and down as she nodded behind the camera. —Yours, Jerry.
The camera lingered on his face, on the expression of relief and happiness so potent, so powerful and real that Katie put the camera down to go to him.
—A family, Kay-tee? he said into her hair, buckling her into his arms.
—I told you, Jer, you’re stuck with us.
—Better. The word like a sigh.
Nick popped his head inside the room.—Let’s get a move on, slackers.
—Mine, Nick! Jerry told him, releasing Katie and running to Nick. —Mine.
Nick turned inside Jerry’s arms, whispered to Katie.—You should be filming this.
They set up his bed, plugged in the Bugs Bunny night-light Katie had picked up at Toys “R” us, taped his pictures onto the wall. Right beside the bed, they filled a small white bookcase with his “best” books, an assortment of drawing pads, and a jar of pencils. On the dresser a framed photo of the three of them squinting into the sun at a seaside restaurant in Mystic, Connecticut, Jerry’s stuffed beluga whale from the Mystic Aquarium propped up beside it.