Lost in the Reflecting Pool

by Diane Pomerantz

  He laughed softly and shook his head.

  “Don’t be silly. Call Uncle Leon if you need anything. I love you. You’re the best.”

  The medical fellow came in and said it was time for me to go out to the waiting room. I hugged Dad and walked back into the hollow darkness.

  I don’t know how long it was before the medical fellow appeared. His eyes were sad and tired.

  “I’m sorry. I really tried. Your father was such a good man. I really liked him.”

  The deep wail that came from within me was a mournful cry for all of the pain and all of the losses—a cry of anguish, terror, and guilt. The young medical fellow put his arm around my shoulder and walked me to a separate waiting area, where he helped me sit, took my hands, and listened for a long time. After a while, we sat in silence.

  Then he said, “I’ve enjoyed talking with your father these last couple of days, and I wish I could have done more. But he was ready; his journey was done. Despite everything, he knew you and your children would have the strength and resilience to face the future. He told me that he had come to his destination.”

  I looked at this wise young man and realized that he was a messenger. Dad had been preparing and was ready. I had to do the same.

  I went back in to see him one last time. The doctor stood with me for a moment, touched my father’s hand, touched my shoulder, and walked out. Dad looked very peaceful. I hugged him and could feel the warmth leaving his body. The rock had slipped from his hand and lay on the side of the bed. I picked it up, and my fingers moved over the etched word believe. I untaped the photo from the IV pole and stood in the dimness, before walking back into the darkened waiting area.

  I did whatever needed to be done at the hospital, and then my friend Penny drove me, through the blackened streets, back to my house. Some calls would have to wait until dawn to make; others I needed to make immediately. I called the funeral home for the release of the body. I called Lydia. I called my nieces, my sister-in-law, and my aunts and uncles and cousins. I called all of the people who I knew would want to come immediately.

  Then I called Charles.

  As soon as he answered, I started speaking. “Charles, my father died.”

  There was a brief but audible horror-stricken gasp. Just as quickly, he composed himself and offered no words of comfort or condolence. With that, I knew both that my father’s death had had an impact on him and that Charles would not be there for me. I said, “I’d like the children to come back in the morning, Charles, and I would like to tell them myself.”

  “Okay. Sure. What time would you like them to be at your house?”

  “I don’t even know. There’s so much to take care of,” I said.

  “Well, they get up pretty early, so whenever you’re ready for me to bring them over, call and I will.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and he hung up, quickly fleeing from any real connection with me—as was the case with all of our interactions.

  When I called in the morning to make plans for the children to come home, his response was strange. “My parents think they would like to come and visit with the children. Would that be okay?

  I hesitated for only a moment. “No, that won’t be okay. If they want to come and pay their respects to my father by coming to his funeral, of course they are more than welcome to do that, but this is not the time to come for a visit with the children.” I surprised myself at how clear I was with Charles. I wondered if his parents really had made that offer or if this was just more evidence of how unable Charles was to demonstrate any genuine emotion.

  Charles and his parents did come to the funeral. His parents seemed genuinely upset by my father’s death. They visited at the house several times in the days that followed. Despite his presence at the funeral, Charles never said anything to me about my father’s death. He sat behind the children during the service, wearing a Buddha-like smile, and appeared to have put himself into a trance-like state. I know he told the children, “Poppy was a good man,” but to me, he said nothing.

  What stays with me to this day about my father’s death has little to do with Charles, though. The evening after the funeral, the house filled with family and friends. I saw a face I had not expected. The young medical fellow who had been so kind to my father, and to me, appeared.

  He approached me, smiled warmly, and, his dark eyes unwavering, spoke softly. “I wanted to come to see you and pay my respects to your father. I wanted to extend my condolences to you and to your children. You know, in the short time I knew him, I liked your father very much. He was a good and wise man.”

  My voice cracked as I said, “Thank you.”

  He smiled. “In Judaism, we’re taught that once the formal grieving period is over, it’s time to stand up and it’s time to come out from the darkness of the Shiva house. You don’t have to do anything in particular; you don’t have to accept anything; you don’t even have to move on. You just stand up and come out into the light, make space for brightness to come to you and to your children. Please”—he paused—“do that.” He smiled again. “Do that in your father’s memory, and do that for yourself and for your children. I needed to come and say that to you, and I’m glad I came. Please take care of yourself, and I pray that you will stay well.” He squeezed my hands and turned, and I watched silently as he left.

  I realized that I didn’t even know his name, but as he walked away, I felt as if an old, wise friend had visited me. The notion of “making space for the lightness” resonated deep within me.

  THAT night, I had the dream again. It was a little different this time.

  I was alone in a darkened theater. On the large screen, the credits began to roll, and then my grandfather’s image appeared. Ever the dapper English gentleman, he stood in his topcoat and hat and smiled at me. I watched as he turned his head and looked over his shoulder. My father and mother were walking toward him. When they reached him, Dad put his arm around Grandpa’s shoulder. They all turned toward me. Both Dad and Grandpa nodded in my direction, and Mom smiled with her beautiful, warm, laughing eyes. As they all looked at me, the warm gleam in their eyes spoke volumes.

  This time when the screen went blank, I was no longer in the theater but in a sun-drenched meadow of wildflowers.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  “MOMMA, YOU DIDN’T SAY HELLO TO POPPY AND Grandma.” Sammy was waving his arms out the window as we drove down St. John’s Lane and passed the cemetery where my parents were buried.

  “I did say ‘Hi’”; I just said it in my head. I’m sure they heard me.” I laughed. “It’s such a beautiful day—do you think they’re out playing golf?”

  “For sure. Can we drive around the road so we can find some rocks to put on their headstone? We haven’t done that in a while.” It really wasn’t a question. Sam’s voice was insistent.

  “Sure, but we can’t stay long, because we have to pick up Elli from Jenna’s house.” I made a U-turn and pulled off onto the quiet, parklike ring road that wound its way in graceful curves around the perimeter of the small cemetery. There were no other cars in sight, and as soon as I stopped and turned off the engine, Sam leaped from the backseat and began his search.

  “Momma, look at this one. It’s so white, but it has little bits of silver in it. . . . How cool.” Sam tossed the small, jagged stone into my hand, and I began inspecting it closely.

  “It’s really neat, Sammy. I think Poppy and Grandma will like it a lot.”

  “I just found this plain old gray rock from Elli. Do you think it’s okay, Momma?”

  “It’s like I always tell you: it’s what’s in your heart that counts, not what something looks like.” I found a couple of small stones, and I walked over to the gravesite and placed them on top of the headstone, where there already were other stones from previous visits. Some were little pebbles, and some were rocks the children had painted and decorated; some were personal treasures that they had found in a stream or in a field and thought Poppy or Grandma would like. All of
them were a way of saying, We were here.

  “Momma, I always worry that this one will get lost, but it’s still here.” Sammy picked up the smooth blue stone with the word believe etched into it. “This is my favorite, and I want it to stay here forever, so when Poppy looks down, he can see it.”

  “I’m sure he’ll always know it’s here, just like he will always be here,” I said, pointing to Sammy’s heart and then his head with my finger.

  “I think it’s so weird when you do that.” Sammy shook his head.

  “Why weird?” I wanted to know.

  “I don’t know—it just is.” He was already wandering over to a nearby stone bench, covered with intricate engravings.

  I walked over and sat on the bench. “Remember when we saw E.T.?” Sam nodded, and I continued. “Do you remember at the end, when E.T. is going home and Elliott is really sad that he’s leaving? What he does is touch Elliott’s head and say, ‘I will always be here.’”

  “Oh, so he’s telling Elliott that the memory in his head is a connection forever, even if they’re not together.”

  I hugged Sammy. “Exactly.”

  I knew memories could ground both Sam and Elli when the earth beneath their feet was shaky. I turned toward the van and said, “Come on, Sam, we’ve got to pick up your sister. Let’s get in the car.”

  The realization that Dad was now gone was so enmeshed with all of the other losses that I couldn’t yet differentiate the overwhelming feelings from one another. Nevertheless, the children and I moved forward. Countless muddy patches and ruts in the road were still ahead of us, but we kept walking on. It was important for me to believe we weren’t lost, that we just had to keep walking until we got there.

  Epilogue

  In the depth of winter,

  I finally learned that within me lay an invincible summer.

  —Albert Camus

  IT’ S HARD TO BELIEVE HOW MANY SEASONS HAVE PASSED, how many flocks of birds have flown south for the winter and returned for spring. I’ve measured the years with the coming of Yom Kippur every fall. In the Jewish religion, it is the Day of Atonement; for me, it has become the Day of Gratitude.

  When I was diagnosed with cancer, my prognosis was not good. Although no one ever told me what it was in terms of time, and I, uncharacteristically, didn’t ask, I knew that my doctors, and Charles, did not expect that I would see my children through their school years. I proved them, and myself, wrong. Elli and Sam have now graduated college and are living on their own. Elli, now twenty-eight, is a talented painter, teaches art to children, and has a position at a local university. Sam is twenty-five and has a wonderful marketing job in New York. I’ve been cancer-free for eighteen years. As I expected, the road has not always been easy.

  Now, more than thirty-five years after I arrived in Maryland, sixteen years since I separated from Charles, I make my way to a café to meet Elli and Sam for lunch. Sam is coming from New York for the weekend; Elli is meeting him at the train. Sam has been offered a job in California. The thought of going back there remains within me, but I know my children both like the knowledge of having a home base to which they can always return.

  I drive along the familiar streets that I remember so well, knowing I’ll pass my old painted lady, the house I lived in when Charles and I first met. Although the towering trees along these roads are still tall and majestic and the grandeur of the old Victorian sprawl remains, my lovely lady has taken on the tired and worn-out look of an old burlesque queen who has seen better days. The gnarled and knotty tree trunks are entangled with brush, and the lawn is covered in tortuously matted weeds and nettles. The flagstone walkway is broken up into jagged rocks and gravel. A weathered FOR SALE sign stands posted at the end of the drive. Beneath it an AUCTION SALE sign, with a date for next week is stapled to the post.

  I stop the car, lower the window, and breathe in the freshness of the air. For just a moment, I am transported back in time and I see a younger me dancing on the needle-covered lawn, along with images of a romping Winnie and a young Charles. My reverie ends when a young couple with an Old English sheepdog walk by and smile.

  There were good times. For many years, the positives outweighed the negatives; even when I saw how controlling Charles was, the needs that we both had were met, or at least mine were—I can’t speak for Charles.

  There are also regrets. There will always be sadness, and the losses will always echo within me, but that does not mean they define me. I did love Charles; the experience only deepens my understanding of myself and connects me more fully to others.

  I start the car, momentarily looking back at the painted lady, again pulled toward the memories, but now I know that, although it is more comfortable to remember things the way I wish they had been, I have control over my choices for the future only by seeing the reality of the past as it was, in its stark vividness.

  I drive off, wondering what other memories that old house holds within its walls. Unlike the way the house looks, I feel remarkably well. Although one never knows what tomorrow may bring, my health has been stable for a number of years.

  Elli and Sam aren’t at the café when I arrive, so I get a table outside, order a glass of wine, and take out my laptop to work on the edits for my book. I have been writing about the journey that I’ve been on, that we’ve all been on.

  Those first few years after the separation were a quagmire filled with strangling, choking vines. At the beginning, in the ubiquitous confusion that overwhelmed me, all I wanted was clarity. Back then, it was all about Charles. I believed that the pain would cease only if I could understand him, understand what was real and what was not real about our relationship. Trying to validate my own perceptions of what was real and also of what was abusive was a big part of why I was addicted to reading Charles’s journal and e-mails. I needed the continual validation of my own perceptions, of which I had become so uncertain.

  Charles was right when he said, “You don’t know me.” He was right, although I don’t think he meant to reveal that no one could know him, because a narcissist develops only a false sense of self. Nevertheless, at first when we separated, even apart, I couldn’t disengage from his internal presence. I felt totally lost. My own sense of self had been nibbled away at for years and eventually devoured. Charles had become so much of my identity that I clung desperately to the tattered remnants of what had been. I couldn’t remember myself from times before him. My insides were a constant, aching, and echoing void. I would call Dr. Putman in the throes of panic attacks between sessions with my own patients. In the grocery store, I would stand before a case of beans, removing and replacing the same can, unable to decide whether to purchase it.

  How I longed for my mother in those days. Was it a coincidence that I chose a partner whom I always needed to bring back to me whenever he disappeared emotionally? Probably not. You see, my mother became quite ill with rheumatic fever when I was an infant and was hospitalized and then in a convalescent facility for almost a year—a very long time for an infant. There was the part of me that was resourceful, competent, and successful, but those very same characteristics protected me from feeling my painful and early vulnerabilities of loss and neediness. I believe that my early experiences set the stage for my acceptance of the later cycle of expectation and hope each time Charles gave me a smile or some compliment, followed by my bitter disappointment in my abusive relationship with him. My need to keep trying with him was predetermined long before Charles appeared. If only I had been able to pay attention to what I saw—not that I think I caused the abuse, but I do believe that my own needs allowed me to ignore what I saw and not leave when I could have.

  My treatment for cancer destroyed the invasive cells and left me with residual seizures and congestive heart failure. But those effects felt manageable compared with the volcanic, searing pain and constant sense of a muddied mind that enshrouded me. Despite all of my training, my clinical understanding of human behavior, my own therapy, I ignored things I should hav
e questioned at the beginning of the relationship. I ignored things not only about Charles, but about myself as well. I ignored things that I saw that were important. I did not give enough credence to my own experience.

  When I stood in the doorway when Charles and I were newly married and thought, I know if I ever get really sick, he will not be able to be there for me, I remembered it but did not use the information to protect myself. When Charles would not come to the hospital when my lung was punctured and I needed an angiogram, I was terrified, and I remembered it, but I ignored what I saw.

  I have come to realize that for each of us, there are always certain issues that we bump up against. And whatever those issues are that we start out with, we just keep finding them, disguised in different costumes. It’s as if there is a master plan set out for each of us and we get to keep trying until we get it right. The ante just keeps on getting raised, until we finally get it . . . or die. I think that’s what happened to me. Maybe now I have finally learned to trust what I see. Maybe I’ve finally gotten it. But it didn’t happen quickly. There was no magic in that. It took time to heal.

  Charles continued to play both money and mind games with me. He stuck to his decision to give me ten dollars per child per week until we finally got to court, two years later. Financially, we struggled; I was perpetually juggling air. His relationship with Victoria continued in the same bizarre off-and-on pattern it had already developed.

  I was enveloped in a clinging, gauzy blackness that took hold of me. I managed as best as I could to hide it from my children while Dr. Putman and my closest friends shared the brunt of it. Eventually, I knew I needed some other outlet and began to seek the structure of a job.

  Several months after our separation and my father’s death, I was at a meeting and learned from a colleague that there were several school psychologist vacancies open in the county school system. As soon as I returned to my office, I called the director of psychological services. Luck was finally in my corner, and I was able to speak directly to her. She asked me to fax her my résumé. Within two hours, I had an interview with the search committee arranged for the next morning. The next afternoon, I was offered a position. I was still very depressed, often unable to control my tears, and yet at some point I realized that every day there was also laughter.