by Nikki Sex
“Found it,” I call out, forgetting for a moment to be quiet.
Renata returns. “I found her handbag too, so we’re all set.”
While still glancing through the drawer, the sight of an old file catches my eye. What the hell is this? I pull out the file to find out more. It's yellowed by age—obviously very old stuff.
I read, 'You must submit your fingerprints to the Texas Department of Public Safety and the FBI. This is part of a criminal background check that must be performed before you can apply.'
I quickly ascertain these are certified adoption papers, signed and dated over forty years ago. They look as though they haven’t been touched since then.
What the Hell? Who was adopted?
Curious, Renata peeks over my shoulder to see what's drawn my attention. “What is it?”
My hands are shaking. “Adoption papers.”
“For whom?”
My mother? It can’t be!
Just a second,” I say breathlessly, frantically combing the page for more information, ‘If the child is 10 years of age or older, his or hers written consent is required.’ The next section has fields requesting the following information, ‘The child’s current legal name, place of residence, date and place of birth, date of adoption request and reason for adoption.’
Elegant cursive handwriting answers every question distinctly. The responses that gain most of my attention while blowing my mind are, ‘The child’s name is Georgia Patricia Brennan. Her father is in jail serving a life sentence for the murder of the child’s mother. In the best interest of the child and with her written permission, we wish to adopt her, legally changing her surname from Brennan to Schoefield, the surname of her late mother’s sister (the child’s maternal aunt). Mrs. Savanna Mable Schoefield is married to the child’s uncle, Martin John Schoefield.’
What?
This document shows that my mother was adopted and raised from a tender young age by her maternal aunt and uncle, people whom my siblings and I only knew as our grandparents. This is news to me.
Anxious to understand, I scan a newspaper article I find in the same file, clipped out from back then. When I read it I feel the blood drain from my face. It seems when my mother was no older than ten years old, her father shot and killed her mother! What the fuck? How could this be true? My grandfather murdered my grandmother!
I never knew.
Did my mother witness the murder? How did she find out? Shit, my grandfather may still be alive, rotting in jail somewhere. Maybe he’s sharing a cell with Renata’s father. No, we have capital punishment here in Texas. My grandfather must’ve been put to death by now.
Sure enough, it takes only a moment to find a death certificate for the man, issued by a doctor employed by the Department of Corrections.
My mind reels.
Truth and lies. Lies and truth.
Hidden, shameful secrets gain strength, growing ever more toxic as years go by. Events never discussed in order to ‘protect’ loved ones from harsh realities. Except when those who’ve been deceived discover what really happened, they can’t help but feel utterly betrayed.
Just as I do right now.
Renata was right—my mother has been traumatized. Does she even remember? Or has she forgotten, has she suppressed these painful memories? Either way, no one told me.
Where is my real grandmother buried? What was she like?
I think I deserve to know.
Deception, lies and long standing secrets—my family is full of them. The truth can be painful and yet, it’s still the truth.
Should any adult be sheltered from reality? If so, why? It seems both patronizing and demeaning for people to think they have the right to determine what’s "best" for someone else. What an arrogant role for somebody to claim for themselves and others.
Would most people prefer to hear an ugly truth or a pretty lie? And shouldn’t that be their own choice?
Did she see her father shoot her mom? Is that why she’s so cold, why she could never get close to anyone physically or emotionally? Is that part of the reason behind her inability to give affection, to touch or be touched? Is that how she became so seemingly proud and distant? Maybe she isn’t distant at all, she’s actually disconnected.
I’ve been there. I know what that’s like.
‘All people,’ André says, ‘whatever they are doing, no matter how crazy or irrational it seems to you, it is how they need to act—from their perspective. I do not justify or rationalize an individual’s behavior—no. I simply tell you there is always a reason.’
My mother’s hard-earned denial seems a sensible choice considering the circumstances. Her denial level? 100 out of 100. Her skill level for ability to ignore reality? Advanced. Except no one can run from their past forever. No one can run away from themselves.
Shit. Is this why she tried to kill herself? Did the truths I forced on her tonight about her husband and kids trigger memories of her own childhood trauma?
They say patterns tend to repeat themselves over generations. It's also said women marry men who are like their fathers. Did my mother marry someone like her own father? Was my biological grandfather like my dad? Was he also a charming, manipulative pedophile—a sociopath as well as a murderer? Did he molest my mother? Did he beat her? What kind of a monster was he?
Men tend to seek out and marry women like their mothers. Fucking hell. Renata and my mother have much more in common than I thought. Coincidence, surely.
Renata reads the documents with wide eyes. “Jesus Christ, Grant,” she breaths.
“Tell me about it. I had no clue about any of this.”
“I resented your mother for not protecting you,” she adds, biting her almost non-existent thumbnail. “Yet my mother didn’t do any better. I also disliked your sister for being such a miserable bitch. I still think the things they did were mean and stupid. Both of them made choices… and yet, I find I can’t hate them. I’d probably be just as bad if I never met André.”
“I doubt that, but I understand what you’re saying.” I suck in a deep breath, pause and blow it out again. “Did my mom watch her own mother die? Was my mother like me, did she blindly love her abusive father as much as I did? Think about it, Renata. Her entire life changed, just like yours did. She lost both parents in one fell swoop. She had to move and switch schools. She couldn't possibly fully understand what was going on at that age. Also, what led up to the murder? Was her father always violent? Was he a pedophile? Did she blame herself? What kind of hell did she go through?”
Renata puts the papers down, gingerly closing the file. Standing up, she wipes her palms on her jeans. “Wow. I don’t know what to say.”
“My mother was always so disconnected from the family,” I inform her. “She was there but not there, you know? Mentally, physically… I think she stayed away on purpose. Even when she was home, she remained in the periphery, always focused on some project or another, anything outside of the family. The part she played in our little family tragedy is unforgivable, and yet…”
“And yet what?”
I draw in another deep breath. “I’m not making excuses. People have to be responsible for their actions. I hated my mother, Renata. I hated my sister, too.” I let my breath out with a sigh. “Yet, somehow I find it’s impossible to hate someone once you begin to understand them.”
Chapter 65.
“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
— George Santayana
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
Three months later
“Let me get this straight. You want to schedule an appointment for family counseling for myself and my mother… together?” I ask, raking a hand through my hair.
“Yes, exactly. At this point, I think it would be best for the next step in your mother's treatment to have sessions where she, you and I meet. This could be quite important for her progress. I also believe these sessions might benefit you, in light of your pas
t relationship with your mother.”
Dr. Eva Elliot, my mother’s therapist, clarifies her plans in an understanding, yet no nonsense tone. I don’t want to go, but my mother’s therapist can be really pushy.
“Would tomorrow night work for you, say at 7:30 p.m. at my office?”
“Fine,” I answer reluctantly.
“Thank you. I'll see you then, Mr. Wilkinson,” she concludes and hangs up.
I sigh and run my palm over my taut facial scars. Shit. Will they want to hear details of my father’s sexual abuse? Or does my mother need to tell me about her traumatic childhood? Neither option appeals to me.
I have absolutely zero experience actually conversing with my mother. Our typical interactions involve her talking at me, rather than to me. Loosely translated, she nags, makes demands and negative judgements (either in the form of thinly veiled, back-handed or direct insults) of my various shortcomings.
Well, that might not be totally accurate. She also insists on checking up on me regularly. Although she has definite issues involving listening, she seems to want to know what's going on in my life, well, without much detail.
My happiness never seemed relevant. However, in all fairness, until I met Renata, my happiness wasn’t even relevant to me.
It was non-existent.
Of course, I rarely told my mother anything of substance. ‘I'm fine,’ or ‘Yes, she is pretty," for the most recent debutante, or excuses to get out of various commitments.
Painfully aware of the consequences, I hated telling her anything. Invariably, anything shared with her was quickly dismissed or would bring me back to square one—nagging demands and negative judgments.
My mother talks at length about her innumerable charity functions and projects. These updates always lead to petty gossip. They also seem to give her opportunities to attempt (always fruitlessly, yet relentlessly) to manipulate me into dating women with pedigrees, in hopes of marrying me off.
She wants me married to the right kind of woman—one from a good, well to do family with an exemplary social standing in the community. A family like our own. The idea is so outrageous it makes me laugh.
Our family only had to be seen as perfect.
It did not have to be perfect.
In fact, the more perfect a family has to appear to be—in my opinion, that’s usually the kind of family with the most to hide.
My mother has a talent for keeping busy. Like a shark, she seemingly has to keep moving to live. If she took a second off, she might actually think about something of substance about herself or her life.
For the most part, my contribution to our interactions has always been me grinning and bearing it—without me actually grinning. I bob and weave, tolerating and muddling through the crap she sent my way, always itching to escape.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!
Have a therapy session with my mother? I’d rather shave my genitals with a dull razor, then coat the raw, nicked flesh of my dick and balls with wasabi.
Seriously.
Our mother was admitted to a psychiatric hospital after attempting suicide and suffering a complete nervous breakdown. I found out from discussions with her doctors that my mother managed to totally block all memories of her early childhood, including her original last name, as well as her real mother and father.
I sincerely feel sorry for her. This does not mean I can forgive her actions or inactions, nor do I like her as a person. However, from what I've discovered about her past, I now know how damaged and fragile she's always been.
The poor woman must've suffered to have repressed so much, so thoroughly, and for such a long time.
Spurred on from the adoption papers discovered the night of my mother's suicide attempt, I hired a private investigator to research her past. Through school and medical records, old newspaper articles and various legal documents, as well as limited discussions with living relatives, neighbors and family friends, a sketchy view has been drawn of the timeline and events of my mother's childhood.
More recently, we began to add her input and insights into the mix, as the latest drips and drabs of information gleaned from her memories of her past have arisen. It's all still rather vague, but has been growing slowly and steadily.
Apparently, once Mother moved in with her aunt and uncle, after the murder that resulted in her losing her parents, she became mute. After not speaking for a year and repeating the fifth grade, she began calling her aunt and uncle ‘mother’ and ‘father’ and appeared to be ‘fine.’
No one dared remind her of her past.
My mother's immense repression of her past trauma was not solely on her. It took a determined group effort to maintain. After more than four decades, this pattern of secrets and lies has been broken.
Alex, Betty Jo and I remain very curious about the details of our mother and our family's history. We're shocked but fully appreciate that our mother wants to share the details of her past with us. It seems so out of character for her. But with everything that's going on, maybe she’s trying to discover who she is.
Her doctor explained that fully occluding memories is classic PTSD behavior, where traumatic memories can remain dormant for decades.
Repression is a way for the mind to ‘cure’ itself of trauma, maybe like a computer reset. However, there’s no wiping of the mental hard drive. Instead all the bad stuff is filed away in some sort of backup—a backup which one day can arrive like a virus to totally crash the system.
Renata feels it’s probable my mother was sexually abused as a child. Why? Because she married a pedophile!
Those with an abusive childhood who do not confront their issues, often find the past repeating itself.
Humans’ have a curious and dangerous tendency. Without awareness or conscious choice, they are drawn to the very things that once compromised their lives, safety and sanity.
I remember my unwanted attraction to dicks. Is it possible I repeated that pattern in an attempt to master what I found most difficult to face, the fact I had sex with my father?
Perhaps this was why images of dicks were unconsciously present in my thoughts, all of the time. In my concerted struggle to avoid cocks, all I ended up being aware of was male genitals. I guess in my mind, I was still fighting and trying to win a battle I had already fought long ago.
After all, Jung said, ‘What you resist, persists.’
Regardless of why, the initial step in resolving any problem is to first admit you have one. If you deny, ignore or pretend by refusing to grasp events you can’t face, then you’re doomed to get caught in the cycle.
Name any unsolvable problem; PTSD, alcoholism, chronic victims of domestic violence, drug addiction, or those of us who have been sexually abused—until we address our difficulties, we’re all trapped repeating endless patterns that will never go away.
When I told my mother I’d been molested, she refused to believe me. It appears finding out about my abuse was a huge trigger for her. Later that same night, her suppressed memories flooded back, with a vengeance.
Result? Immediate system crash and drug overdose suicide attempt. Her death was prevented by her maid who happened to find her unconscious.
My brother under arrest, my sister off the radar, and my mother in hospital. I feel as though a plague has attacked the Wilkinson family and I’m the last one standing. It’s like some sort of macabre version of the Highlander movie, ‘There can be only one!’
Yet, now perhaps our entire family will have a chance to heal.
Chapter 66.
“Driving instructors tell you to keep your eyes on the road. Why? If you look at the object you are attempting not to hit, the steering wheel, it automatically moves in that direction. Oui! Oui! This is true! Et voilà, then you have the accident, no? Life, it is also like this, n'est-ce pas? Do not focus on what you do not want. If you do, je suis désolé, this is exactly what you will get.”
— André Chevalier
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
I stare out of my office window through the late afternoon light into the tree-lined streets below. The maples are changing color, fall has arrived. It's one of my favorite times of the year. My garden is lovely during this season.
Somehow, here I am, running Highland Park Real Estate, my family’s business. For over thirty years the multimillion dollar company has specialized in sales, marketing and consulting services for luxury residential developments, as well as private and commercial concerns.
Now it’s all my responsibility.
How did it come to this? I’ve run a successful business, but when it comes to real estate, I have no idea what I’m doing. At least I have a number of experienced, full time sales consultants and two administrators, who know what they’re doing, thank God.
I hate sales, always have. Alex and Betty Jo are the salespeople of the family. With my scarred disaster of a face, I would probably scare potential customers away.
My brother has been officially indicted; he’s currently awaiting trial. Grand Jury proceedings won’t proceed for another couple of months, but our legal team has everything well in hand. Wearing his ankle monitor, stuck at home, Alex is making up for lost time with his son, Briley.
As for Betty Jo, she recently was released from alcohol rehab and is receiving extensive counseling as an inpatient in another facility. She emails Alex and me at least once a week, but says very little. I’m sure someone is making her write—probably André.
Dr. Zhao, Betty Jo’s therapist, is well known in her field and is frequently called as an expert witness in court proceedings. Betty Jo calls her ‘The Gestapo’ because she’s so strict. Dr. Zhao, a doctor of psychology and psychiatry, has a list of letters after her name that reads like the alphabet.
Unfortunately, my sister’s passionate, no-nonsense doctor also charges like a wounded bull. Good thing the Wilkinson family can afford her exorbitant fees.
Alex and I are trying to figure out if Betty Jo intends to let Alex take the fall for the murder of our father. When I ask André, he’ll only repeat, ‘All will be well, my friends. Trust me. Your sister and I have a plan.’