All the Things We Never Knew

by Sheila Hamilton

  I grew up about as far away from the reaches of the Catholic Church as possible: Utah, land of the Mormons, big mountains, small towns, and the knowing feeling that I didn’t quite fit into such a conservative community. We were not religious people and spent our Sundays at rodeos and horse shows rather than church. We lived on a quiet street with huge cottonwood trees and several acres of rolling grass and farmland behind our house. We owned five horses, two dogs, a goat, and a cat—not exactly a working ranch, but a kid’s paradise.

  Everyone in town loved my father. “Bones,” as he was called, was a lanky, gregarious man who had built a thriving general contracting business on the strength of his personal relationships. He won nearly every city and county contract for huge pipeline jobs or sewer systems. As the population grew, so did the number of Caterpillars, graders, loaders, and gargantuan pieces of yellow equipment at his work sites. On the rare days that Dad would call me up onto one of his pieces of machinery, I felt dwarfed and tiny compared to the masculine power around me.

  He’d met my mother in high school. “The Tempest in the Teapot,” he called her, a feather of a woman compared to his six-foot-four frame. (I would later seek out men of nearly the same height as my father, never doing it consciously.) Donna was fiery and smart and passionate, and she first caught his eye wearing a tight pink sweater and bobby socks that showed off her slim ankles, or so he said.

  My father’s nicknames defined him. Bones, for his length, and “Glue Tips,” for his good reach and sure hands as a tight end on the football team. He won a football scholarship at BYU. It wasn’t until Dad returned home from the Korean War that he set about wooing my mother. She wasn’t easily convinced, and in hindsight, she said if it weren’t for his good genes and long legs, he might never have had a chance with her.

  My mother was in her early twenties when she married, and she started having children faster and easier than either of them wished. We were all beloved, and my mother recounts those early years, with five children under the age of seven, as her favorites. I was the middle child, squeezed between two standout older siblings and two mischievous younger ones.

  Black-and-white Polaroids of my mother give distinct clues as to where the family started to break. In nearly every frame, you see the stress of a woman trying to do it all too well: standing or kneeling behind five adorable children all in a row with starched rompers and hair that had been twisted or curled into place. Five pairs of polished white shoes, never a scuff, never a detail wrong. The house is orderly in every shot. My mother is dressed as if she were having a professional photograph taken every day: trim and groomed, her hair in an updo even as she battled the reality of motherhood—diapers, puke, and colic. But there is sadness in her eyes, and I would later learn my father’s approval was as rare as a full night’s sleep.

  In kindergarten, I saw, for the first time, a huge pile of dirty laundry on the laundry room floor. Mom was rarely up when I returned home from school. She started excusing herself from making dinner to stay in her room, and eventually she was absent from every family meal.

  I remembered watching my father stir a marinara sauce after working all day long, his work shirtsleeves rolled up as he tested the sauce again and again. The steam from the spaghetti noodles whistled into his face, making him sweat above the stove. “Who’s hungry?” he’d asked, forcing a cheeriness to his voice.

  I was five when she slipped into a full-blown depression. Nobody called it that. All I knew was that I rarely saw my mother. One morning I stood outside the door of her room and offered a knock. “Mama,” I asked, “are you sick?”

  No answer.

  I slid my back down the door and waited. My brothers and sisters played rambunctiously in the hallways, and I shushed them.

  The next morning I left toast at her door. By that afternoon, the edges of the bread had curled upward.

  More days followed, with no improvement. I fished a dirty shirt out of the hamper to wear to school, not understanding the gravity of what that meant until a teacher pulled me aside and asked me if everything was all right at home. I lied. “My mom’s on vacation.”

  I missed her laugh—a shush of air that came out uninhibited, her white teeth flashing as she threw back her head, slapping her hand on her thigh. I missed her lying down beside me at night to tell me what a special girl I was, that I was loved beyond the moon and the stars.

  I tried new ways to move Mom from her bedroom. One day, I brought her a Coke, with five ice cubes, the way she liked it, and put it by the door. It spilled, and I cursed myself for being so stupid. “She’s not even in there,” I told my youngest brother as I scrubbed the carpet with a white bathroom towel.

  Several more days went by, as my father hushed any discussion of why Mom wasn’t feeling well, offering instead to make us pasta or pizza for dinner and instructing my older brother on the ways of the household.

  By the time my father insisted on professional help a few weeks later, we’d all learned how to pack our lunches, wash the laundry, vacuum the floor, and finish our homework without supervision. We coped.

  I started spending most of the time away from my house, in the garden or in the tree house. Nobody really seemed to notice my absence anyway. Time passed more slowly without the frequent visits from my mother’s friends, without her remodeling the living room (again), and without the magical conversations we had about what I was reading or writing.

  My older sister soon learned to saddle our horses, and we would ride in the fields behind our home. I avoided the house, my mother’s lingering sadness, and the heartache of losing touch with the one person who reveled in my stories, my theatrics, and my funny dances on the fireplace stage. Dad took her to a hospital and brought back bottles of pills that were supposed to make her better. One day she was up, folding the laundry, going through the motions of being a good mother. She attended our horse shows and clapped whenever we won a ribbon or trophy. But there was a hollow beneath her eyes that frightened me.

  I would be an adult before I learned the true cause of my mother’s pain, a family secret that unfairly left the burden of dysfunction on my mother.

  One day, after we had been dating about nine months, David and I hiked up Hamilton Mountain on the Washington side of the Columbia River. The hike was the kind I liked, a tough climb with an amazing view at the end—in this case, a stunning vista of the Bridge of the Gods and, on the Oregon side of the river, Multnomah Falls, with a peek at Portland to the west.

  Hiking always seemed like a good time to talk, and as we made our way up the mountain, I finally said out loud what I’d been thinking about for months. I wanted to have a child. I wanted a life beyond my own. I found myself breathlessly telling David how I’d come full circle on the question of children, largely because of his presence in my life. He’d brought a dimension to loving that felt sustainable, a connection as viable and strongly rooted as the old growth around us. He was the only man in my life that I’d ever considered having children with. I loved him for bringing out a side of me that I’d either ignored or marginalized for far too long. I knew I was risking our relationship when I told him I was planning to have a baby, either with him or without him.

  He stopped walking, turned, and looked at me, breathing hard. His face was flushed, his eyes were lifted, an expression I hadn’t yet seen from David—one of pure joy. I didn’t really know what he’d say. In fact, I’d surprised myself by laying my feelings out so bluntly. But what he did next changed my life: he proposed to me, on the spot, in a way that was completely his own. “Well, we should get married then, right?” he asked.

  It was not the most romantic gesture, but it was David’s way, completely authentic and unplanned, and I didn’t hesitate. “Yes, yes, of course!” I dropped my backpack on the trail and kissed him squarely on the lips. “What are we waiting for?”

  I was as sure as I could be that I loved David—loved him very deeply. A decade later, I would relive that moment, asking myself whether that was th
e hour that David began to feel trapped or suffocated by my version of happiness. He had never been one to fall in line or make decisions to please others. I expected he wanted a life together as much as I did.

  We were married on December 7, 1996. The tearoom, where we would be married, was decorated with a fifty-foot Christmas tree. There were huge silver snowflakes hanging from the ceiling. The grand staircase I would walk down was carpeted in red, the banister wrapped in fresh laurels of pine and flowering poinsettias.

  My sister Diane wasn’t seeing any of the charm. She paced back and forth in the upstairs dressing room like an anxious bride.

  “You are a miserable Matron of Honor, Diane.” I was joking, but there was a little truth in it.

  Diane shook her head, her eyebrows pinched together in an expression I’d come to associate with her blunt and honest approach to the world. “What’s going on with David? It’s like he’s drunk or stoned or something.”

  I stiffened, looking away from her for fear I’d say something I’d regret. My ring finger was bare for now. My fingers weren’t trembling. Why would she say something so profoundly troubling today, of all days?

  “Are you serious?” I asked.

  “Sheila,” she said, “something is wrong with him.”

  I suppressed a bubble of anger long enough to consider my sister’s worrying statement. She was not trying to be mean—she was seeing something I wasn’t.

  David had called from his home that morning to tell me he hadn’t slept well, that he’d caught a bad cold and would be taking cough medicine just so he could get through the ceremony. I shifted in my makeup chair.

  “He’s sick, Di,” I said, defensively. “Give the guy a break.”

  She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “He’s not relating to other people. He’s more than sick. He’s checked out.”

  I stood up, straightening my dress as if it would also smooth the impact of Diane’s observations. I trusted her judgment. But what was I to do? Call David at the last minute and accuse him of “not relating”?

  Neither of us had touched our champagne. I heard singing below, a woman known as Portland’s Queen of Soul. The acoustics were so clear; why couldn’t I feel the same? My sister was asking me to view my wedding day through a lens I didn’t own—the lens of skepticism and doubt. Diane hadn’t mentioned her concerns previously. Why now?

  One hundred of our closest friends were downstairs waiting, seated in front of a huge fireplace. I stood up, hugged my sister awkwardly, and rounded the corner to the grand staircase.

  “It will be all right,” I assured her.

  She kissed my cheek. “I hope so, She,” she said.

  It was time.

  My tall, handsome father, waiting for me in his stately tuxedo, took my elbow and guided me carefully down the stairs. I was the centerpiece of a wonderland, like something out of Bride magazine. I was about to marry a wonderful, exciting, adventurous man, and I felt like I was outside my body. Diane’s words haunted me. Was David ready for this? Would he pass out and collapse during the ceremony? Every step heightened my anxiety; my legs went stiff, and I felt as if I would fall off my heels, tumble down the stairs.

  I spotted my mother in the front row, beautiful, smiling broadly. She was better now—her marriage had survived the early turmoil, and she loved my father, despite their checkered history. David’s parents looked over their shoulders to see me coming and nodded approvingly. It was going to be okay. As I reached the grand tearoom, David stepped forward, calm and stunning in a traditional black-and-white tux with long tails. His eyes were clear, bright blue, and he smiled straight at me. I remember my father smiling as he passed me off to my husband-to-be.

  We were going to be okay. Everyone was happy.

  That’s how it felt at the time. But weeks later, when I opened the wedding photographer’s book, I was stunned. My father wasn’t smiling at all—his face was ashen, drawn, plagued with conflict. The photo in which David greets me at the bottom of the stairs was as I imagined, David smiling, his head tipped to one side as he takes my hand to greet the crowd. But in dozens of other, more candid shots, David was just as Diane described—his eyes unfocused, his fingers pinched nervously.

  Something wasn’t right, and Diane had seen it. Yet I refused to believe I’d made a mistake. I had married the man I loved.

  SIGNS AND SYMPTOMS

  One in five Americans will develop a mental illness at some point in their lives. Caregivers are often quick to rationalize the behavior of our loved ones—especially if we are unaware of the symptoms of mental illness.

  In the early years, I chalked up much of David’s behavior to his eccentric upbringing and fierce independence. There are universal symptoms of mental illness that should not be ignored, especially if they become persistent and interfere with daily life. Among the early symptoms I noticed in David but ignored or minimized: a perpetual sense of sadness and negativity, confusion and a reduced ability to concentrate, extreme mood changes, sleep problems, and withdrawal from friends and activities.

  David also began to exhibit major changes in his eating habits and developed an inability to control his emotions, resulting in explosive rage or laughing and hysteria. In the latest stages of his illness, David detached from reality, suffering from delusions, paranoia, hallucinations, and olfactory disturbances.

  People who have had a biological relative with a mental illness are at greater risk of mental illness, as are those who are enduring stressful life situations, like financial problems, death, or divorce. Other people who may be at risk include those who were exposed to drugs and alcohol in utero, anyone who has suffered from brain damage as a result of serious injury or trauma, and people who have endured military combat or a physical assault.

  Chapter Four

  After our wedding, we briefly honeymooned in Hawaii. I got pregnant quickly thanks to a sinus infection and a powerful dose of antibiotics that rendered my birth control useless. Less than a year after our wedding, Sophie was born.

  I took four months off to be with Sophie, the maximum amount of pregnancy leave the company offered. For the first time in my life, I was completely, wholly blessed, and I believed David felt that way, too. Mothering Sophie was the most natural, exciting job I’d ever had. As long as I paid attention, Sophie let me know what to do next. I soon came to recognize her hungry cry versus her sleepy cry. I marveled at the miracle of every new kick, yawn, and gurgle. Even with the crazy hours of new motherhood, I hummed with happiness.

  Meanwhile, David took on a new seriousness in his role as provider. He worked longer hours, but he also seemed to relish parenting, taking Sophie on long walks, bathing her, and even pitching in with diaper changes. His eyes lit up when he first saw her after a long day of work. I thought he was as happy as I was.

  We’d been married a year and a half when I learned that David had never stopped sleeping with the girlfriend he’d had before me.

  I’d gone back to work at my job as a television reporter when Sophie turned four months old. I worked nights so I could be with her during the day, and then switched off child care duties with David at 4:00 p.m. The work, which once captivated me, had become a crude reminder of the world I’d brought my child into. I stepped over a crack baby in an abandoned house; I interviewed an adolescent girl who’d started doing heroin because it numbed her to the pain of sexual abuse. I carried the residue of my reporting home with me to my sweet, untroubled baby girl and found I had to force my job from my mind completely before I could enfold her in my arms. I did not want to taint her with any of the outside world. She would know it all too soon as she grew into womanhood.

  One evening I was at the TV station putting together a story on Cesar Barone, a Portland-area psychopath who had finally been convicted of a series of brutal murders in the early 1990s. One of his crimes had stuck with me for years, the random, senseless killing of a Tuality Valley midwife who was driving home late at night after helping deliver a baby. Barone had peppe
red her car with gunfire, tried to rape the wounded woman, and then dragged her onto the road, where he shot her in the head.

  The file footage detailed his early criminal history, starting at the age of nineteen, when he raped his seventy-one-year-old neighbor and then strangled her in her bed. The courtroom video of him showed no remorse, no inkling of feeling or compassion for the families of the people he’d brutalized. Chantee Woodman was another of his victims, a twenty-three-year-old whom he abducted, assaulted so brutally she was unrecognizable, and then shot in the head. Another victim, Margaret Schmidt, was sexually assaulted and strangled in her Hillsboro home. There was also Betty Williams, fifty-one, who died of a heart attack as Barone began sexually assaulting her at her Portland-area apartment in January 1993.

  The women he victimized were so unassuming—just driving home from work, reading a book, puttering in the kitchen. He was a monster who had remained at large for years before he was finally arrested. How many others like him were out there? I recorded a voice track, finished the editing, and then delivered the story an hour early. “I can’t take this anymore,” I said to the eleven o’clock producer. “I’m going home now.” He looked at my face and must have known I’d hit the wall.

  “Thanks for your good work, Sheil,” he said. “Get some rest.”

  I drove home from work cold and depressed. The house was empty. I opened the door to Sophie’s nursery and found it pitch-black inside. Holding her would give me the sense that everything was okay again, but she wasn’t in her crib.

  “David, where are you? Where’s Sophie?” I dropped my purse and my briefcase on the nursery floor and ran through the house flipping on lights. “David? David, honey. Where are you?” Halfway down the hall, I stopped running. Suddenly, I knew where he was.