Restless Souls

by Alisa Statman

  I spent each waking hour waiting for my mother to take her last breath, yet she lingered for a week without change while I soaked up every second she remained. Afraid to close my eyes, I rebuked sleep as another time thief. The daylight hours passed to onyx, one after another after another. Over and over, I whispered to her, “You’ve waited so long to see Sharon, why are you hanging on?”

  On day eight, depleted of sleep, I closed my eyes.—Just for a minute, I reasoned.

  Entrancing shadows from the television danced across my eyelids. Smoky, abstract shapes stretched apart, then fingered back together. Their ballet propelling me forward until a white flash absorbed me into the past, where I find myself on the bench in Robert Evans’s greenhouse. The mystery man from Sharon’s funeral is again at my side, repeating, “All you have to do is call her name and she’ll be there. Talk to her every day because she will need you as much as you need her.”

  I’m launched into Jay Sebring’s house, looking for ghosts with Sharon. She stops abruptly behind a bar full of wines and liquors. Her eyes are wide and she puts a finger to her lips. “Shhhhh. I will show you the secret.” She continues in a German accent, “But! You must never tell anyone or I vill have to keel you. Versthen?” She presses a secreted button below the bar’s surface. A hidden door swings open.

  “Wow!”

  “Come! Inside is the key to the kingdom,” she says, pulling me through the door.

  I expect to find a treasure chest full of jewels. “Ah, it’s just file boxes and paintings.”

  “To your eye,” she says, still playing along, “but this painting of a flower holds very magical powers. Close your eyes and make a wish—keep them closed until I say you can open them.”

  I think of a wish while I hear her scurrying around. I feel something wet against my cheek. “Okay. Open them!”

  “Oh my God, it’s a puppy! Is it for me?”

  “Yep, happy birthday.”

  Fragments of Sharon’s life splash through my mind as if the key to the kingdom has unlocked my secluded memories of her—memories I had neatly tucked away with the pain of her death.

  Sharon flips through Movieland magazine. “There,” her finger lands on a small picture, “that’s Roman.”

  “That’s your new boyfriend?” I ask.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Is he as nice as Jay?”

  “Well, he’s a bit like Dad. He smokes cigars. He’s very sensitive and stubborn. He makes decisions and nothing changes them—that’s for sure. He’s an interesting little guy, except he’s short and ugly,” she giggles. “I don’t know if that means anything or not.”

  “Only if he’s mean.”

  “He’s not mean, he’s marvelous.”

  Whiteness again, and then I’m in New York, where snow blankets the ground near the Hudson River. The water beyond us is a motionless slate of ice. The air is just as icy. “Cut!” the director yells.

  From just off camera, I run to Sharon, and throw her mink coat around her, full of worry. “Why can’t you wear this during the scene? It’s freezing out here.”

  “In the story,” her teeth chatter, “I’ve hocked my mink coat just before this scene, so all my character has left to wear is this raincoat.”

  Mark Robson, the director of Valley of the Dolls, towers over us in his winter parka, mittens, and knit hat. “My dear, the scene won’t work if you’re convulsing with cold.”

  “What do you expect?” Sharon challenges. “It’s so cold I can hardly open my mouth, and when I do the wind is blowing so hard that it freeze-dries my teeth, then my upper lip sticks to them. And in case you haven’t noticed, there’s a blizzard and you’ve had me out here for an hour in stockings and a trench coat.” She blows out a purposeful breath. “Do you see that? It’s so cold that you can’t even see the warm air from my lungs. It just disintegrates. So yes, I’m shaking. And yes, I understand it doesn’t work for the scene. And no, I’m not an idiot.”

  “Makeup!” Robson calls out, completely unfazed by Sharon’s meltdown. “Give her some color. She looks blue. Let’s go again!” he yells to the crew.

  Blurry at first, our kitchen in Palos Verdes comes into focus. “We’ll be back in California next week.” I pull the phone from Mom’s ear so I can hear Sharon’s voice from England. “Roman is making a film out of a book called Rosemary’s Baby. It’s a fantastic book by Ira Levin. Get it if you can, I think it’s just getting to the US market. Anyway, he has a two-picture deal for directing, and he’s writing the script for both—though you mustn’t tell anyone. No one knows yet. Listen, I’ve got to run. Give my love to the girls.”

  I grab the phone from Mom. “I’m here, Sharon. I love you, too.”

  “Love you more, Patty Cakes.”

  A gentle hand nudges me. It’s Mom’s nurse, Frannie. “Honey, I think she’s gone. I’m going to get your father.”

  I roll over; confused for a moment, and then I know I’m in my mother’s bed. Her room is as peaceful as a gentle spring rain.

  Like the last burning glow of a candlewick after the flame is extinguished, Mom is barely with me. I lay across her unstirring body, holding on, selfishly wishing her back.

  I close my eyes. Ideas form without words, without visions, just knowledge. Her soul is leaving the body. Weight is coming off her as if she’s taking off a horrible lead jacket she’s worn during her lifetime. Light as a feather she rises. I feel a rush go through me, while euphoria overcomes sadness. She’s gone.

  Another gentle nudge. Now awake, I rolled away from my mother to find Frannie looking down at me. “Patti, wake up. She’s gone. Your mama’s gone to see the Lord.”

  While Dad stayed in the kitchen waiting for the mortuary, I picked up Mom’s Bible from her nightstand. A page was bookmarked with my children’s picture along with Father O’Reilly’s eulogy for Sharon’s funeral. The marked passage was from the book of Judith: “And they cried to the Lord the God of Israel with accord that their children might not be made a prey, and their wives carried off, and their cities destroyed. . . . Remember Moses the servant of the Lord overcame Amalec that trusted in his own strength, and in his power, and in his army, and in his shields, and in his chariots, and in his horsemen, not by fighting with the sword, but by holy prayers: So shall all the enemies of Israel be, if you persevere in this work which you have begun.”

  IT TOOK THE death of my mother for me to figure out her life. I let the fine grains of dirt around Sharon’s grave sift through my fingers. An area at the foot of her coffin had been cleared for Mom’s urn.

  If President Bush’s Point of Light could serve as Mom’s epitaph, then the thoughts Father O’Reilly shared during Sharon’s funeral seemed to foreshadow Mom’s life.

  “There is one question I must ask this morning because I believe that we must do more than mourn the passing of Sharon. Her talent, the memory of her friendship, and her love call us to transcend our present sorrow. They demand that we engage in purposeful action to wrest some meaning from a senseless deed. We can do something, I believe, and we must. We are the only ones who can answer for her before God and man.

  “What must we, the living, do to ensure that such a terrible thing will never happen again? What must we do to bring about a world where there will be no more hate, no more cruelty, no more awful tragedy? It is left to us to determine what good or evil will come to this world. We create in every act of good we do; we destroy in every act of evil we perform. We can make the world a better place. We hold the future in our hands. In God’s name, let us put out our hands to the task and our talents to the cause of the right and the good.”

  I left Mom’s public memorial service early so that I could have a quiet moment with Sharon before the rest of the family arrived for the private ceremony. The last time I stood near Sharon’s coffin, I felt a tremendous need to say good-bye. Now I was equally needy to say hello.

  In my hand was an aged, worn letter, soft as fine fabric. The words from Sharon to Mom are faded though legibl
e:

  Dear Mother,

  Right now, I’m waiting. Roman had to go to New York for a few days, and will be back on Friday. As far as our situation, I’m waiting because I really know he wants to be a faithful husband, but he’s frightened. Believe me, he’s changed enough in the past year, so I’m going to give it until the Academy Awards to see how things are. Believe me, I’m just as obstinate and opinionated as he is and maybe even more so. I know this is the only man who could ever keep me interested forever. So I’m not going to give up so easily. I think the mistake with him would be to give up. You see, that would only prove to him that love wasn’t so strong. I want him to understand that love is a bond that keeps us all together forever. I must say, I may appear not to be a very strong girl, but I’m not a giver-upper and what Lola wants, Lola gets, so the song goes. Well, I’d better close now. I love you all very much and write soon.

  Love, Sharon

  In my other hand, I held a letter that I wrote to Sharon last night.

  Dear Sharon,

  Life slips by, doesn’t it. Holding on to it is like trying to keep water within cupped hands. Tonight, I feel lost. I’ve lost you, Mom, and myself. I always tell my kids if they get lost, stay put, hug a tree, and wait for me to find them. Here I am lost without a tree in sight—and even if I found one, who’s going to rescue me? At thirty-five, I’ve found that I haven’t any real friends, just many acquaintances, including my husband. He’s the one person I should be able to open up to, and yet my life and your death are a taboo scandal he refuses to acknowledge. I guess my marriage is just one more drop that slipped through my fingers. We lost respect for one another years ago, and without respect, there’s no hope for love or even friendship.

  So instead of a tree, I decided to find you, and the promise I made to you all those years ago in that dressing room at Saks Fifth Avenue because maybe you can help me to find myself. That portrait of you that’s been hidden in my closet by a lot of clothes and a lot of years, comes out tonight.

  Love you tons and tons—and write soon—Patti

  I dropped both letters onto the surface of Sharon’s casket. “You take good care of Mom.”

  THE TORCH HAD been passed, and the gentle, circling winds of change that started with Mom’s cancer zeroed in and knocked me on my ass. A part of my life had raced ahead while the other half had stalled in my oblivious existence. I was haunted by two warnings: the mission skulls on the brevity of life, and Mom’s to stop hiding behind my fears. I found myself an orphan seeking identity; clawing my way back to myself.

  The night following my mother’s funeral, I took my first timid steps toward a new and more daring lifestyle. Just as I promised Sharon, I removed her picture from the closet and hung it prominently in the living room. Satisfied, I waited on the couch, knowing my husband would come out to see what I’d been hammering. I was looking for a fight, and he was about to unwittingly step into the ring.

  When he entered, his eyes followed my gaze to the picture. “What’s that?”

  “That is my sister Sharon.”

  “Obviously. What’s the deal?” he asked.

  “The deal is, that’s my sister and I’m tired,” I said.

  “Yeah, I know, we’re all tired; it’s been a long day—”

  “No!” I cut him off. “I’m tired of everything, tired of hiding my family and Sharon. I’ve been hiding for so long that lately, when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize who I’ve become.

  “I’ve been a shitty role model for my kids. What have I taught them? To hide their heads in the sand and let someone else worry about the bad stuff. No more. I want to be me again—that’s a hoot isn’t it, I don’t even know who I am. But I’m going to find out whether you like it or not. I buried my mother yesterday, but I will no longer bury my family or what we stand for.”

  Caught off guard he said, “I’m not asking you to.”

  Angered at his denial, I stood to confront him. “You ask me to every time you deny who I am.” Then I hit him with a verbal one-two punch: “I’m going public. Next week the CCPOA is opening the doors of the Doris Tate Crime Victims Bureau, and they’ve asked me to be a board member.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I promised Mom that I’d carry on her work.”

  “So what does that mean? You’re going to ignore your family like she did?”

  Six months ago, I would have agreed with him. With my mood, he was lucky to be beyond my arm’s reach. “Ignore us? Everything she did stemmed from love in an effort to make the world a better place for us; she didn’t care about herself. I will honor the work she began, and if my kids have a few less minutes with me, then so be it, because in the end, it’s all about them. I’m going to bed. And I want to be alone.”

  I tossed and turned into the dead of the night thinking about what direction I was heading. At two in the morning, I gave up and switched on the light. I picked up my new journal and wrote.

  Dear Sharon,

  I talk a good talk, but I’m sacred shitless. I’ve been trying to hold on to my marriage for the kids’ sake, but I can’t keep up the charade. Tonight, I told him I wanted to be alone. The only thing that accomplished was equaling his physical distance to his mental distance. Here’s the funny part. That situation pales in comparison to having to go and face one of those monsters at a parole hearing. I’ll tell you, it’s like Freddy Kruger’s knocking on my dream door and saying, “Surprise, baby, this is the real deal!” I don’t know how Mom did it for all those years—not just did it, but learned to relish giving them a piece of her mind. To tell you the truth, I don’t think I have it in me to carry it through. Mom’s probably pitching a fit about now, but tell her to rest assured, I’m not a giver-upper either. More soon.

  Love you tons, Patti

  I flopped around on the bed like a hooked fish; my fragmented thoughts skidding the surface side by side. “She’s in a better place,” scrambled in my ears, the same token the well-wishers had uttered since Mom’s passing. Of course she’s in a better place, but why did Mom have to get the cancer in the first place? Why did Sharon have to be murdered? In the end, who had it worse? Sharon’s fright for an hour, or Mom’s staggering disease? Why was I still here? Why was I deemed fit to go on when they weren’t? In contrast, maybe death is a reward for the good while life is punishment for the bad. What direction would our lives have gone in if Sharon had not been murdered? Would Mom have gotten cancer? Would I be lying in this bed? What bed will I be in next week? How in the world am I going to support my kids?

  I’m not sure when I finally fell to sleep, but I must have because when I rolled over, I found Mom and Sharon at the foot of my bed. Mom was again robust and healthy, Sharon, young and gorgeous. They appeared so very close, yet when I reached out to them, they seemed a hundred miles away.

  Their appearance wasn’t startling. To the contrary, it was natural and comforting. My darkened room gradually brightened from the radiance discharging around them. Their light gravitated around me, embracing me with a love beyond human emotion.

  Their arms outstretched. At the same moment a silver cord uncoiled from my belly and then drifted toward them to form a connection. My body was weightless, floating from the bed, gliding across the cord’s path to Mom and Sharon. I sailed further and further until the brilliance of the light erased time and space. I wanted to pass through to the other side of this light, where Mom and Sharon hovered, but as I got closer, Mom put her hand up to stop me. “Soon, honey, but not yet. For now, you’ve got to go back and finish what you’ve started.”

  Arms seemed to be engulfing me from every direction, but something felt different. I feared that opening my eyes would diminish the surrounding serenity. There was a fluffy kiss on my cheek. Then a familiar giggle brought me into full consciousness. Still, I didn’t open my eyes; I knew the touch of my children. My son was resting on my belly giving me little butterfly kisses all over my face; the two girls snuggled up on either side of me. I pulled the
m in closer, tightly hugging them. I could have stayed that way forever. My children were my lifeline, my joy, and my best reason to get out of bed, put one foot in front of the other, and get on with it.

  The pink and purple sky turned blue as the sun rose higher with the promise of a new day.

  Bryce pushed at my nightshirt and blew raspberries on my tummy. “Mama, what’s that? Is that blood?”

  I lifted my head and simultaneously rubbed at my sore belly button; it was cranberry red and protruding just as it did in the days of my pregnancies. “I think it’s Nana’s calling card.”

  17

  THE CROSSROADS

  These people were so cruel. My sister was the last one to die. She sat and watched every one of her friends die before her in a very, very cruel way. And I relive her last moments in life over and over and over.

  —PATTI TATE

  Patti

  The morning dew had yet to evaporate when the doorbell’s ring disturbed my morning cup of coffee. Something only the foolish or unfamiliar dared because it was the only unclaimed part of my day.

  After the inevitable breakup with my husband, I moved with the kids into my parents’ house. In the absence of Mom’s warmth, the house had cooled to a place of indifference, where Dad aimlessly roamed from room to room like a lonesome dog awaiting its loving master’s return. Almost a year had passed since Mom died, and Dad had not moved so much as a stitch of clothing from her closet. He’d never admit it aloud, but I knew he missed her terribly.

  Living with Dad again was enough to roust the dead from the graveyard of my childhood. With just a look, he could whisk me back in time until my kids weren’t the only children in the house. My circumstances weren’t the best; no one likes yelping defeat on the hobble back home. Regardless, I had nowhere else to turn. Rent was free, but I paid for everything else. A friend helped me get work as an extra on a television show. And even though I had zero interest in working in the film industry, a hundred bucks a day entitled me to the best part-time job in town.