“You are not going to tell me what to do. Do you understand that?” Even when Charles didn’t yell, there was more venom in his words than there had ever been when I had raged my loudest. To me, my screams seemed more like shouts of frustration; his words felt deadly. But did he experience his words the way I had experienced mine?
“I am not telling you what to do. You don’t want to talk with me about anything, and you don’t want to negotiate anything. You say you want joint custody. I’m afraid, Charles, that seems to be an oxymoron. If you can’t or won’t communicate with me, joint custody will not be very successful. You bought the kids beepers so that we can have as little direct contact as possible. What in the world do a nine-year-old and an eleven-year-old need with beepers? Within two days, the kids will have lost them. If that’s what you want to do, that’s fine, but don’t expect me to be involved with them. I think they’re ridiculous, and they do not allow for any real communication.”
“You don’t like the idea because you think it came from Victoria.” Each of his words was clipped.
“I don’t like the idea because I don’t think it’s appropriate, and I think that we need to be communicating directly. And until we have a signed agreement, I’m not sure I can agree to overnight visits.” The water was still running, so I turned to the sink, pushed the stainless-steel lever down, and walked out of the kitchen. Then I turned back to Charles and said, “I’m willing to talk about this further, but I want the agreement signed before the move.”
I walked through the living room, feeling unbalanced, then walked into the bedroom, taking deep breaths, trying to make the shaking stop, wishing desperately that it would. I took a deep breath, called my dad, and asked him to take the children to dinner and bring them home at eight thirty. I knew the conversation with Charles was not over, and I knew it was better if the kids were gone.
“You’d better not try to keep me from seeing the children.” There was Charles in the doorway. “You don’t know me at all if you think I’d let you get away with that!” He stared at me, his dark eyes narrowed and piercing.
“Charles, I would rather that we handled this in a reasonable way. All I want is to have a signed agreement before the move. I don’t know why you’re making it so difficult. You have an equal legal say in all of the decisions about the children. It isn’t good for kids to move between houses on school nights; that’s all I want to avoid.” I wanted to say that he was more interested in money than he was in his children. Suddenly, he wanted all this time with them, when he’d never had time for them before. I didn’t say that. In any event, I already knew that once he got his way, he wasn’t going to have any time for them. Nevertheless, I needed to stand firm.
“I’m done supporting you,” he said. “That’s it! I’m not going to sign the agreement. I’m not paying for the movers—get some other stooge to do that. And just so you know what you will get, I will be giving you ten dollars per child per week for child support.” He glared at me, and I could see that nearly imperceptible twitch in the corner of his mouth.
“You’re pathetic!” I shouted. I slammed the bedroom door and turned the lock, gritting my teeth as volcanic rage roared inside me. He got me, damn it! I had lost it—again.
I didn’t have the money to pay the movers. I couldn’t and wouldn’t ask my dad for the $2,500. He had already put a huge down payment on the house, had paid for all of the renovations and his move, and had bought me my minivan, and for months he had been giving me extra money for groceries and expenses for the kids. I couldn’t ask him for anything else.
No, I would not allow that to happen. I rubbed the palms of my hands over my thighs slowly, pressing down hard with all of the strength in my upper body. I squeezed the muscles in my arms and legs tightly. Slowly I breathed in, feeling the rise in my chest. Then, as I released my breath, I allowed my muscles to relax. In two days, we were moving. I would find a way. I had survived many things. I would find a way to get the $2,500. That seemed like nothing in comparison with everything else.
I began to do a mental inventory of all the things I could sell but realized quickly that that should come after the move, so the kids and I had money on which to live. Twenty dollars a week in child support wasn’t going to do much, and I didn’t even have a court date yet.
I called my friend Peg, and she said that she would lend me the money. I didn’t let Dad know that Charles hadn’t given it to me. It would be a number of months before I would be able to pay Peg back. In fact, without asking, I began receiving a lot of checks in the mail, unsolicited, all given as gifts. I kept a close tally of how I would repay it all, as I didn’t want gifts, but it was not lost on me that friends and family were rallying around me in all sorts of ways.
My experience was funny in that dark sort of way that allows one to feel pain, humiliation, and embarrassment that would otherwise be too excruciating to acknowledge. I had felt it first when I was going through treatment for my cancer. At that time, I thought about how I had lost all sense of physical pride. I was aware that I had no sense of shame or humiliation. I could bare my body to anyone—it was just a vessel—or at least I was great at dissociating myself from the sense of degrading mortification or an inkling of embarrassment. Now, with no money and the need to support myself and my children, I would be juggling air and borrowing from Peter to pay Paul. I would be writing checks, smiling sweetly, hoping the checks I deposited in the bank would clear before the one I was writing at the cash register reached the bank. I needed desperately to get a real job with benefits. Private practice, especially when I was in such profound physical and emotional despair, would not be enough to sustain us.
Next, I called Dan, my attorney, and told him about what Charles had said.
“Can he legally give me twenty dollars a week in child support?” I asked incredulously, always feeling that Charles must know something I didn’t know.
“Of course he can’t do that legally. It’s way below the guidelines based upon the number of kids you have and his income. But until we get to court, he can do anything he wants to do. You already know he will do anything to get out of taking any sort of responsibility, but in the end, he’ll have to give you the back money.”
“But now is when I need it, Dan. My practice isn’t taking off. I just can’t get it together. As soon as we move, I’m going to start looking for a job.” I knew I sounded desperate and whiny, but that was exactly how I felt. I wanted someone to take care of me. As much as I longed for that, I knew I could and would take care of my children and myself.
“I’ll send a note to his attorney, Diane, but I’m not sure it will make a difference, because your husband doesn’t listen to his attorney. I’m trying to get us a court date as quickly as I can. Focus on the move and getting settled. Then find a friend who lives somewhere nice and take the kids on a road trip for a visit. It’ll be a good break after the move, and it won’t cost too much.”
MOVING day arrived.
“Momma, I don’t want to go to camp today. I want to help with the move,” Sam said.
Elli rolled her eyes, as always. “We have to go to camp today. Mom is going to be busy with the move, and she doesn’t need to have you underfoot, making a mess of everything.”
“Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah . . . You’re not the boss of me, Elli! Momma, I want to stay home with you and help move. You go to camp if you want to—I don’t!” Sam stuck his tongue out and slapped his hand under his armpit, making a farting sound.
“You are so immature,” Elli sighed, sauntering up the stairs.
“Listen, you’re both going to camp today. I’m going to be busy with the move, and it won’t be any fun to be with me. At camp, you’ll have a great day with your friends, and when you get to the new house, you’ll have your bunk beds all set up. Won’t that be cool?”
“I don’t want to go to camp!” Sam yelled, as he yanked on my arm.
“Sam, that hurt; I’ve told you I don’t like it when you pull on my arm that way.
You’re going to camp today. It is not an option. Now, go upstairs and get dressed while I make breakfast.”
Charles passed by Sam as he stomped off. “I guess your mom is in one of her bossy moods this morning, isn’t she?” Charles said to him. Sam didn’t respond.
Charles never supported my being firm with the kids, even when things were good between us. Of course, he always forgot that he became a tyrant when he got angry at them.
Just a few more hours, I thought.
As much as I had been walking around with terror about this move, as much as I had felt a constant tightening of my chest and racing of my heart, as much as I knew Charles would still undermine everything I said and did, I was sure that my life was about to become much easier emotionally. This was finally the day when easier would begin.
After breakfast, I told the kids that Poppy would pick them up from camp and I’d see them at the new house. “I know you’d rather be part of the move, but I think it will be more fun at camp, and it’ll be easier for me to get things set up if I don’t have to be concerned about what you’re doing.” I knelt down as I spoke, and hugged both kids. “I’ll see you after camp. Have fun. I love you.”
Charles was silent. He opened the door. The kids called goodbye and followed him out to the car. I was shaky, but I kept repeating to myself, over and over again, This, too, will pass.
I knew in my head that there had been a time when I had loved coming home, knowing that Charles would be there, but that had been so long ago. These past two years had been unspeakably horrific. I also now knew what I hadn’t been able to admit before: that my emotional and physical chains had been strangling me for many years before that. I just hadn’t been able to acknowledge what I saw or what I felt was happening. I hadn’t been able to accept that my very early misgivings had become the horrors of my existence. But I was not going to go there. I was out and finally in my own space. The healing could finally begin.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
THE HEAT THAT SUMMER WAS DEADLY. MY DAD LOOKED more and more tired and increasingly sad. Still, he played an early round of golf with his buddies a few times a week.
“Poppy, can I go with you and ride in the golf cart?” Sammy often asked.
That was one of the things that always made my dad smile. “Sure, sure! You’ll be my caddie for the day!” They would laugh, and off they would go into the humidity of Baltimore’s greens. They loved it.
But when Charles came to pick the kids up, if my dad was sitting at the kitchen table when Charles walked in, my dad would nod his head, without meeting Charles’s eyes, and leave the room.
It wasn’t long before one of Charles’s interminably rambling e-mails arrived.
Di,
Knowing that you will soon enough receive a response from the universe to the thoughts about me that you indulge in and plant in the minds of others, and aware of how precious is the time we are given, I have been uninterested in commenting on all that you express that I disagree with. And then it seems there comes a point.
The way your father treats me when I come to pick the children up is clearly the result of the poisonous thoughts that you have implanted in his mind. I have been only good and kind to your father, and for him to treat me with such disrespect when I come to get the children is highly insulting and inappropriate.
You never had much of an idea of whom you were dealing with, and you still don’t. Educational opportunities in this area await you. If you don’t want to receive preliminary installments such as this one, make sure your father understands that I do not like the way he is treating me, especially in front of the children. And stop indulging yourself in your poisonous delusions.
Charles
The e-mails started immediately after we moved. The language sounded crazier than ever; it was undigested word salad. Unlike Charles, I never communicated with him by e-mail. I responded angrily to him with spoken words, but I never put anything in writing. As brilliant as he thought he was, he didn’t seem to be concerned that he was putting all of his craziness on paper, giving me a record of it all.
Nevertheless, the e-mails, particularly this one, were disturbing. I was still so easily triggered into thinking I was at fault, that maybe he was right. Now, though, I could feel myself clawing out of the hazy confusion when I felt myself ensconced in it, and my escape from the fog was quicker, my disorientation shorter. He was still trying to dictate and control how I did things, but now he did so through these e-mails, as condescending as ever:
About bread . . . I am not in any way telling you what you should do in your house, but I’ve been frustrated not to be able to get Elli and Sam to eat anything other than white bread, challah [white bread with egg yolks], and bagels. Naturally, if that is the only thing they get the majority of the week, when they are with you, that’s what they will insist on here and in the lunches I make. I certainly hope we can coordinate an effort to help them appreciate the taste and texture of bread that has fiber and nutrients in it and that would promote greater health. . . .
If I hadn’t been saving these daily e-mails and letters for my legal case, as well as for the book I might someday write, I would have just thrown them out. As it was, I still did read them, even though that was not a smart thing to do. It would take quite some time before I was really able to disengage enough to stop caring about what Charles thought of me. For now, the situation still felt very crazy; I felt crazy.
Despite the e-mails, despite my not knowing what was and wasn’t real, and despite my lack of money, so many things in life were so much better—namely, my kids were happy again.
“I’M going out to play Capture the Flag,” Sam called one evening, as the door slammed behind him.
Elli followed him. “Mom, I’m going next door to Carol’s, okay?”
“Sure, have fun,” I said, but the door closed before she even heard me.
We had just finished eating dinner, and, as had become the custom, the dishes were barely off the table before both of them were gone.
“You know, Di,” my father said, “I think this is a great place for them. It’s a real neighborhood. They just walk outside and have loads of kids to play with. I think it’s great. They seem so happy here.” My father smiled. Anything that had to do with his grandchildren being happy gave him so much pleasure.
“Dad, speaking of the kids, I got an e-mail today from Charles. He doesn’t like it that you ignore him when he comes over to pick them up. He feels insulted.”
There was a long pause, and then Dad said, “He feels insulted? What a joke! I’m afraid he’s just going to have to deal with it. I’ve already told him what I think of the way he’s conducting himself. I’m not pretending I think he’s a great guy. If he wants to have more of a conversation, let him ask me himself.”
“It’s fine, Dad. It’s just an uncomfortable situation. I agree with you, but he doesn’t want to look bad in front of the kids.”
“He doesn’t want to look bad in front of his kids?” He stood up and started pacing. A moment later, with a reddened face and enraged constraint, he continued, “For the past two years, his kids have seen their father treat their dying mother with horrible contempt and disrespect. They have watched him treat her in ways someone shouldn’t treat a stranger, never mind his wife or the mother of his children. He doesn’t want to look bad because I ignore him? Well, that’s just too bad! As we used to say in Brooklyn, he can bite my biff!” Dad’s face had now lost all of its color, and he was breathing hard. I was afraid he was having a heart attack. I didn’t know if I’d ever seen my mild-mannered, soft-spoken father this angry.
“Daddy, sit and calm down. I’m sorry I brought it up. I understand. Believe me, I agree with you completely, and I appreciate how much you’ve been here for me and the kids.” My eyes were welling up with tears.
“Di, you don’t need to be upset. Please don’t read his e-mails; they’re not good for you. They’re poison.”
I closed my eyes and took some deep b
reaths. “I know, I know. I’m trying, and I’m getting better. I really am. I’ll be okay, Dad.” I went and poured a glass of iced tea for each of us and suggested we go outside and sit on the deck.
The cool sweetness of the tea, the softening light at the end of a summer day, and the peals of laughter from children playing all seemed to lighten the heaviness that both my father and I carried in our chests. We sat quietly for a few minutes and settled into our own rhythms.
After a few minutes, I spoke. “Dad, I’m taking the kids to the beach for the day tomorrow; we’re leaving at about six. Do you want to come with us? It’ll be a fun day.”
“No, thanks. I have an eight o’clock tee time. But it’s a long drive. Why don’t you stay over?” He looked puzzled.
“The kids will enjoy it just as much if we just go for the day, and that’s all I can afford. Even a day is a stretch, but it’ll be fine. I’ll pack our bikes, food, and drinks, and the ocean is free.”
“I’ll give you the money to stay over. It’s no big deal,” he continued.
“It’s just not necessary. It’s the middle of the week, so we won’t hit traffic, and it will just be a nice break for all of us. We’ll go on the boardwalk and the beach and then drive back. You know, you always tell me I have a lead foot when I drive, so it won’t take so long.” I smiled and hugged him.
When I told the kids that we were going to go to the beach the next day, they were thrilled. Charles never wanted to go to the beach, especially not during the summer season, the time when kids enjoy it most. They were so excited that they had no trouble getting up early. I had the van packed, and we were on our way by six thirty. Needless to say, my father slipped each kid fifty dollars to give to me.
Lost in the Reflecting Pool Page 25