“She did the same thing to me, only I never told you. I was furious. Like I hadn’t learned anything or read. As med students, I guess I never told you, the guys examined us and we did them. It was embarrassing, and weird, but we got used to it. But there she is, lecturing. I wonder how hard grandma Cunningham was with her. I’ll bet mom gave it to grandma. Oh. This is nonsense. Spending our time talking about it. Let’s go to the beach.”
The wind was picking up. The water and sky were grey, the waves larger with white caps leaping and falling on the shore and against rocks. Seagulls seemed caught in the wind, gliding with it, allowing it to carry them where it would. The sisters laughed as they brushed their hair out of their eyes, then placed their arms about one another, laughing into the breeze, daring it to part them. They let their hair go, walked, skipped over a bump of tufted grass, hollered at the gods. “Nothing can part us.”
~
1980 and I’m getting worse. I thought by now I’d be getting along better, fooling myself, I guess. Physician, heal thyself of thy wishes and desperation.
Catastrophe is part of human nature, whether we create it for ourselves or the gods of destruction hurl their venom at or entomb us in it. Mount St. Helens, fifty-one people killed, forests destroyed, including all that animal life. Why think of the billions of dollars from that eruption? Or why, later in the year, in December would someone kill John Lennon who harmed no one and gave pleasure. And why would we elect an actor Ronald Reagan President who on death would be installed as the first American god? He was on Olympus while Washington and Lincoln were on a ledge below.
Ah, all this is my life, and I either walk or lie and cough, am feverish, and my beautiful daughters must endure my weakness while my wife. My wife. Is she my wife? She did have a nurse come to the house, and I told Pamela to get herself to her Masters in Creative Writing. Often it is hard being alone, scary, wondering whether I’ll cough too hard and cause a blood vessel rupture, and Deirdre will come home and find nothing, Nothing. Only blood. Medical man that I am, my thoughts are like that. After all, physicians have problems too. They fall ill, they injure themselves, they die. Ah. Pam will be home within a few days on vacation. Melinda is on her fellowship but manages to sneak off. And Deirdre sneaks off to where?
I was in the hospital again for about a week. I don’t remember. But I do remember Brigit coming to see me, bending over me, kissing me on the mouth, oh so softly, and I reached up and brought her closer to me so I could feel her mouth more warmly and the touch of her pliant, soft breast. We stayed together like that for some time until she rose, placed her hand on my forehead and then slid it down along my cheek, the way she would when she wanted to calm me when I was angry about something at the lab in Boston.
Something peculiar happened. The nurse Deirdre hired appeared less often. Somehow, Brigit managed that and took care of me. She told me Thomas didn’t mind. Her children are now fifteen and twelve. I’ve seen them occasionally. Kathryn resembles her in many ways, probably will be as fetching as her mother. Oh well.
Pamela came home. When she saw Brigit, she halted, looked at that stunning woman, the two of them staring, then moving toward one another. Pamela spoke first. “Brigit. Oh, Brigit. What are you doing here?” and then hugged her, kissed her cheek. They stood there for a bit hugging one another. I wonder what was in their minds. Love between them was obvious.
Pamela then looked at me, my smile. She hurried to me. “Dad,” and she hugged, kissed me. Looking back at Brigit then again at me, “Are you O.K.?”
“Sure. Don’t you see my nurse making sure I don’t do anything bad?” Bad, that was the wrong word. I did want to be in bed with Brigit, to make love to her as though it were for the first time. I wanted her warm, lithe body naked lying against me. I wonder if she thought about it. She must have. Anyhow, after a few days, Brigit had become used to the house and occasionally went looking about from curiosity, perhaps wanting to know how we lived. I never said anything. Once I called to her. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, nothing, Looking at this museum you have in the house.”
It was sometime about then when Pamela was upstairs. Neither of us could help ourselves.
After, we heard Pamela coming down the stairs and Brigit slipped quickly from the bed and straightened her clothes and brushed back her hair. I think Pamela knew when she came to the door. There was her somewhat surprised look, her quick gaze going from Brigit’s hair, reddened face, to her skirt. But if she suspected, she ignored it.
Pamela looked at me, hesitated, and came in when I motioned. Pamela walked to Brigit, looking intently in her eyes. Of course Pamela knew. “I hope you’re making him happy. He needs that,” she stopped a moment, “and you.” Her face flushed. She was uncertain about continuing. “Brigit, there's something I’ve wanted to say.”
Blushing again, she blurted, “You all belong together.” Her voice dropped. “But you’re both married to others. Oh, God and damn.”
Brigit had cheated on Thomas, I on her, more so than I thought on Deirdre. I know she was screwing that Frenchman and God knows whom else. What did it matter anymore? Except for Brigit’s pain.
I knew Pamela would talk to Melinda. “If only,” perhaps Pamela was thinking. “But onlys don’t count.” She paused, stammering, “I love you both. I’m going back to my room. O.K.? probably write a little.” She hurried off.
After she left, and despite the love and hugs exchanged, we all felt awkwardness. Watching after Pam, Brigit turned to me. “Well, that was close.” She smiled. “Love, you’re – I’m – stuck now. Listen, though, we’re not giving up ever again. I won’t let you go.” I told her, “Never.” She sat beside me, holding my hand. Looking at the open door and to the darkened space beyond – it seemed her shoulders shivered – whatever was beyond there, she didn’t say, just held my hand more tightly.
She looked back at me. “I do love your daughters, Greg, and I intend to take care of you all, regardless of cost – except for my daughter – and son.”
She sat silently for several minutes and then told me what she saw, an art piece with doors that aroused her curiosity, thinking she had seen it in a magazine. The shiver in her shoulders must have been an image in her mind that made her wonder, frightened her. In the dark she saw something painful.
For now, though, her expression serious, her eyes intent on me, her voice low, she muttered, “Greg, I'm going to get Pam.”
“What’s wrong?”
“If I'm right, you'll soon find out.”
Brigit went upstairs, “Pamela, I need you.”
Startled, her eyes widened in fright. “Is dad all right?”
“It’s not your dad. I want you with me to look at something downstairs. I don’t feel comfortable about looking through your dad’s or mother’s possessions.”
“Well,” Pamela answered somewhat irritated. “I wouldn’t think you would.” She paused. “Now I am curious.”
They went to the darkened den where there was a wardrobe, with drawers behind closed doors. Brigit opened them. “Pamela, let’s look in a drawer, it’s such an unusual piece, but I wouldn’t do it without you here. I just stumbled on this when I was looking around the house at the antiques. I can’t deny I’m curious. You know the saying,” she smiled, “a woman’s curiosity.” She was suspicious regarding such obviously expensive antiques and did want to see inside.
“I just don’t want to do anything that may bother or hurt you, your sister, or your father.”
Pamela did catch the omission of her mother. Was Brigit just a jealous woman after all? Was my love misplaced? “Well,” her voice somewhat cold, “open it,” although now Pamela was not only curious but frightened.
Brigit realized what was going through Pamela and placed her hand gently on her arm. She opened a drawer in which there was a key, perhaps inadvertently left, and brought out some papers with numbers and also references to museum pieces.
Pamela stopped her. “You have no right. I don’
t.”
“Pamela. Listen to me. I’m asking you to trust me. You must. This is important. You’re a grown woman and have to learn to take it.” Brigit’s impulse was to hug her. There were tears in her eyes that Pamela noticed. “I trust you, Brigit,” she said uncertainly, still frightened looking at the papers Brigit held.
“Come here. Let’s sit. I didn’t want to ask your father just now. He, he’s, oh damn.” And she started crying.
Pamela moved quite close to her, their thighs touching, and placed her arm about her shoulders. “Brigit. You love him. I know it. Melinda knows,” she told her tenderly.
Brigit brushed at her eyes. “Oh damn, Pamela. I’ve been clumsy. I didn’t intend it this way.”
“Here wipe your eyes.” Pamela’s hand shaking, she took a tissue from her jean pocket. Brigit sniffled, wiped. “I need another,” wiped, shook her head. “We’ve got things to do here. You don’t need a weeping woman on top of it all.”
“O.K., Brigit. Go ahead and let’s see what’s in there.”
Brigit opened another drawer and unthinkingly pulled out additional sheets with a series of numbers with dollar signs, places of deposit, and dates.
“What is that?”
“Pamela. You’re mother is very methodical. Let’s see.” Brigit hesitated. I have no right.
Pamela looked at the bottom of the paper, seeing Total: $14 million in her mother’s handwriting. There were also references to offshore and Swiss accounts, all in her name. They looked further and found certificates of deposit, a number of large-figure withdrawals.
On another list were references to some museum pieces, sold by her, with the notation, “Étienne took these from sites (unnamed).”
“Brigit. My mother’s a thief. Oh, God. She can’t be. She’s all kinds of things sometimes. I admit it. I’ve even hated her. This will kill dad, blow up the whole family, all of us.”
“Pam,” and Brigit held her closely. Now Pamela was crying and shaking. “Shh. Shh. It’s something we’ll deal with.” Brigit kissed her cheek, pulling her tightly to her. “You’re going to be a brave woman, dear. Shh.”
“Oh, Oh, my God. We’ll be in the papers. Dad will be ruined, the family so shamed.”
“Stop, Pam. We both have to calm down. We have to tell your dad.”
“Oh, my God, Why the hell is she my mother? That Fucking Bitch.”
“It’ll be all right. Nothing can hurt your dad. He’s too well thought of. And I promise, I’ll protect you and Melinda.” However I can, I’ll do it. They’re my children too. She paused. “However I can. Damn. Why did I ever look?”
She waited for Pamela to calm some. “Come, dear. We’ll go see your father.”
~
When Pam and Brigit came back to my room, they both looked as though they had had an argument or had emerged from a confessional booth, damned, to be saved only by countless Hail Marys that perhaps would erase their tear-blurred eyes.
“Dad,” Pamela started.
Brigit interrupted. It was then I saw Brigit holding a sheaf of papers. “Let me, Pamela. O.K.?”
Pamela nodded a “yes.”
“Greg,” Brigit began. “I was looking at the art works, wondering how there could be so many and some seeming so unusual. I called Pam, because the wardrobe fascinated me, having, I think, seen it in a magazine. I wanted to look inside. I guess I shouldn’t have, I know.”
I was struck that she would have done that, as though she were possessing my home. However, I wasn’t that annoyed, because I wouldn’t stop her from doing anything here. It was as though it were her house, that my children were hers. That we had lost all those years was what truly bothered me. I waited for her to continue.
She appeared as though she expected disapproval, but continued. “Pamela and I agreed that I’d talk.
“I think there could be something funny going on with Deirdre.”
I thought she was going to tell me about love letters full of innuendo and explicit sex talk.
“She could be holding back objects from the museum. It’s possible she’s not only been misleading the museum but her partner. Maybe I’m all wrong and want to believe this.”
“Is that what those papers are you’re holding?”
Her eyes were now filled with tears, and she had a difficult time answering me. Pamela, too, looked terrible, her face white, her hands shaking, even though she tried to hold them close to her sides.
“Dad.” Pamela never hesitated. “She’s a thief. My mother’s a thief,” she shouted and sobbed loudly. “She’s probably cheated on you too.” She inadvertently looked at Brigit, perhaps thinking about finding us. I don’t know. It made no difference. “She’s no good, dad. I can’t stand it. My mother, your wife, our mother, Oh. What about Melinda?”
I sat stunned. What bothered me at the moment was Pamela and thinking of Melinda, then my disbelief. “Brigit, I don’t believe this. I admit I’ve had some bad thoughts about her,” as I glanced at Pamela. I began to cough and couldn’t stop. Brigit came to me, rubbed my back and forehead, “I knew I should have approached this differently,” as she lightly continued rubbing my back, hearing her whispering to herself, “How differently? Impossible.” I coughed more.
“Here, lie back on the pillows.” She raised them so I would be able to cough without choking. My arm pits were wet, my head and face hot. I could feel perspiration in other parts of my body.
“Pamela, go get a warm, wet towel and a dry one, please,” Brigit asked her.
“I hate this, Greg. I just Hate it. I didn’t want to . . . .” She stopped. Then she put the papers in my hand. “Here. When you feel calmer, please, dear, look at them. You’ll agree with me, I’m sure. I’m so sorry.” She did feel terrible. There was no doubt. But she would tell me later that she didn’t care a bit for Deirdre but for me. And for the girls and what we all would have to endure.
As I read through the papers, Pam came with the towels. Brigit gently wiped me. She looked at Pamela as if to say it was O.K. what she might see Brigit do. She helped me off with my shirt and wiped more and dried with the towel. I wondered what she thought of my body now. I had lost some weight. What difference did that make? She started to reach for my pajama bottoms, stopped, turned to Pamela again, “Let’s let your dad do this.”
“No. Don’t leave. This can wait.” I watched my daughter and waved my hand for her to come sit beside me, likewise with Brigit. With both women beside me, I slowly and with some stammer told them, “We’ve got to report this. Oh, Jesus. What the f . . .,” I started to say; “whatever possessed her?” But I knew. She needed money and recognition, more than I could give her. “Perhaps,” I thought, “it was the war.” But it wasn’t the war. It was in her character, buried in that effervescent, extroverted facade of hers. The one that enraptured me and cheated me of Brigit. Brigit knew what she was then and what she is now. Is she pleased?
As though knowing what I was thinking, Brigit interrupted my thoughts. Neglecting Pamela, she said, “Dearest, I’m so awfully sorry. I feel hurt and hated to tell either of you. I even thought of trying to forget it, but that was impossible.” She turned my head toward her. “Gregory, if you think I’ve had my revenge, forget that. I just feel so horribly rotten inside. She reached across me to Pamela’s hand, limp at first, but then pressing into Brigit’s. “For you too, Pamela. You have no idea.”
“I do,” Pamela murmured. She started shaking, crying loudly. “My mother. My mother. How will I ever get over this?” She shook. Brigit rose and sat beside her, pulling Pam to her, holding her very tightly, and allowing her to cry into her shoulder.
~
The following day, giving herself time, as well as Gregory, Brigit pondered over Mary’s knowing a museum Board member and whether to draw her into this. She also knew that Deirdre had been elected Treasurer perhaps two or three years ago. That explained her opportunity. It was self-explanatory. She hesitated, still concerned for Gregory and his daughters.
Another day p
assed. Uncomfortably, she decided to confront Gregory with her idea. She also wanted Pamela to listen, wishing Melinda could be with them. However, while she thought and asked herself what right she had in Gregory's family affairs, the enormity of Deirdre's activities swayed her.
She drove to the house, waited, trembling some but determined. When Pamela let her in, Brigit told her, “Pamela, I know what we . . .”
The word struck Pamela. We. Is she now part of our family? Is she the one suffering? Perhaps she is for us. She loves dad. It's obvious. Always has. But she’s got her own children and husband. I should feel hateful after finding them pretending they hadn't, call it what it was, been fucking. But why didn't I care then? Why now? Because of my thieving mother who doesn't give a damn for us. She's going to end up in jail and embarrass us all. Just stop. You love Brigit, told her so. She loves dad. She does care what happens.
Without thinking Pamela quickly put her arms about Brigit, kissing her. Surprised, Brigit thought she knew what Pamela was thinking, kissed her back, moved her away. “Come, let's go to your father. I believe I know how to settle this.” But, then, there could be unknown consequences for them. What though? “Like hating me.” She shook her head to clear her mind, her heart beating faster; she wished to ignore it, but she was now determined.
Gregory was in the music room, the door open, because Deirdre was away again.
“Dad. Brigit is here.” Hearing her name, he smiled, shut off the high fi, looked brightly at Brigit and Pamela. “Oh. I’ve been waiting for my nurse. Here. Take my pulse.” He put out his wrist. “It’s fast, doctor. Have you got a fever?” The innuendo though obvious, she placed her hand on his forehead. It was warm. “Pamela, please get the thermometer. He’s not smart enough to take care of himself.” He did have a fever. Brigit decided that would not stop her.
Our Seas of Fear and Love Page 31