Secrets

by Kristen Heitzmann

  She went to the shed, a warmth of gratitude filling her. She had come home from the mental health center numb and resistant, but Lance had broken through with tenderness. Now he’d shown Star more kindness than he might even realize. Was he real?

  He was more like the being in her room that night than any real person she’d known. Could that being have taken form and—Good grief, she was crazy! Could someone invisible kiss and hold her? A cold dread washed over. Wasn’t that exactly what Mom had thought? Was Walter as real to her as Lance?

  The realization struck again that Mom had tried to kill her. She gripped the hammer. How could Mom love someone, real or imagined, enough to do something so terrible? And what about the love for her daughter? Rese gritted her teeth against the pain. The raw edge of it staggered her. Had she imagined that love, projected her own?

  She scattered the assortment of extra nails with her palm and chose two that matched. She had told Lance, but she hadn’t let him see how it hurt. Because she didn’t trust him? How could she?

  With hammer and nails, she headed back to the carriage house. Lance had leaned the painting against the wall beneath the place he’d chosen for it. He reached for the tools, but she said, “I can do it.”

  She had brought concrete nails, and with firm blows, she drove them into the wall. “For now you’ll have to hang it by the frame of the canvas. I might be able to rig a wire onto it later, but we’d have to lay it face down. Not a good idea wet.” She breathed in the potent smell of the oil paint and hoped for Lance’s sake it dried quickly.

  Star stepped back as he hung the painting on the nails. “You’ll have to frame it yourself if you want one. I’m broke.”

  “That’s the least I can do.” He seemed as pleased and impressed as he’d been with the bed, and for the first time, Rese considered how little he owned. What was he doing with hardly more than his bike and guitar? With his varied and competent skills he could be well established somewhere, not cooking in a bed-and-breakfast for room and board.

  She stepped back beside Star. The painting added color and energy to the room, and showed how badly he needed furniture. The thought of building it for him warmed her. That was a normal sort of pleasing, of giving, though the furniture would in fact belong to the inn, she supposed. Star’s painting too? Why was she even thinking about that? Lance wasn’t going anywhere.

  Star’s stomach growled. “Are you cooking?”

  He cocked his head. “Let’s order Chinese.”

  “Takeout?” Rese hadn’t imagined he knew the concept.

  “With fortune cookies!” Star draped both their necks with her arms.

  Lance laughed. “Why not?”

  With Star half dangling between them and Baxter barking alongside, they headed for the house. She could feel Star’s excitement in the trembling of her arms. She was almost dangerously exuberant. But she had a right to be. She’d accomplished something wonderful. That should matter; it should somehow balance the bad. She could be happy for Star. Truly.

  Lance batted Baxter’s head in a playful tussle before motioning Rese into the kitchen before him. As she passed, he caught her gaze and washed her with warmth and reassurance. She’d received the cruelest news of her life, and he’d taken away the sting.

  Star called the restaurant, ordering enough for a week. “I’m buying,” she said.

  With what, Rese wondered, but Lance took out his wallet. “No way. I owe you big time for that painting.”

  “I’m not selling it. Money is worthless. What matters is karma. The more joy you give, the more you get—a great circle of generous thoughts.”

  Lance studied her gently. “Then I’m providing the celebration. Just a little joy back at you.” He smiled. “For the pleasure I’ll have from the painting.”

  Rese’s heart clutched up inside her.

  “You really like it?” Star pressed her hands to her chest.

  “I really do.”

  She fairly quivered, the praise working in her like a drug. “It’s my own technique.” She explained how she layered the paint to give the hidden image depth and make it appear to emerge from the surface. Whether Lance understood it or not, he gave her his full attention.

  Rese washed up at the sink, refusing to begrudge Star her moment. She deserved Lance’s appreciation. But did he realize what he was setting into motion?

  He leaned on the counter. “It’s effective. Mind-grabbing.”

  Star’s breath escaped in a rush. “Mind-grabbing.”

  “I mean…”

  “No, don’t explain.” Star closed her eyes and mouthed the phrase. When she opened her eyes, they sparkled with tears. “That’s what Maury couldn’t see. He said it was a cheap trick. Poster art.”

  Lance frowned. “Who’s Maury?”

  “My persecutor.” Star crossed her wrists as though bound. “ ‘It is an heretic that makes the fire, not she which burns in’t.’ ”

  “And no one needs a heretic.” Rese tried to catch Lance’s eye, to ward him off that subject, but he kept the conversation there, drawing out details that Star had not shared before, and amazingly she responded without disintegrating.

  Rese looked from one to the other. It was the same thing he’d done with her, making her voice the pain, sharing the burden of it. The twinge grew to a cynical pang. He turned and met her eyes before she could hide it. She hated that. His transparency was one thing; hers, another altogether.

  Star sat down at the table, shoving a wad of spirals behind her ear, but her hair had survived the talk of Maury, and except for the red rims of her eyes, she’d survived it too. There’d been no hysterics, no talk of not making it, though her hands still shook. She reached for the folder. “What’s this?”

  Jarred from her concern, Rese thrust her hand out. “It’s nothing.”

  But Star had already opened it and read the facility letterhead. Her brow puckered. “Mental Health Center? Elaine Barrett?”

  Rese dropped her hand. Her throat squeezed tight. She didn’t want to discuss Mom with Star, not now, not at all. Star’s mother had been irresponsible and oblivious, but she had not tried to kill her. The impact of that hit her again, but at the same time she felt fiercely protective.

  Star stared up at her. “Elaine’s alive?”

  Rese took the folder and clutched it to her chest. “I just found out.”

  Star let out a mournful sigh. “ ‘Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, and therefore I forbid my tears.’ ”

  “Star.” Lance chided softly. He didn’t understand the impact this would have; how, to Star, Mom’s miraculous death was now lessened by her resurrection. She understood Star’s shock and the thoughts behind it. If one mother could come back from the dead, how could she hope to be free of her own?

  But Rese hadn’t wanted to be free of hers. She’d mourned her. “She’s been in the hospital since the night … of the accident. I don’t know much more than that.” Only that Mom wanted her dead. “I guess I’m responsible for her now.”

  Star jammed her fingers to her head. “ ‘Thus hath the candle singed the moth. O, these deliberate fools!’ ”

  The doorbell rang, and Lance went to pay for their food. Star stared at her, then sprang up and trailed after him, already putting it out of her mind. Rese set the folder aside, thankful for the interruption. They came back, laden, and set the wire-handled white boxes on the table. Star pulled napkins, chopsticks, packets of soy sauce, and fortune cookies from the bag.

  As hungry as she had been minutes ago, Rese wasn’t sure she wanted to eat.

  Lance took both their hands and blessed the food. Then he added, “And give us wisdom to know your heart and purpose, Lord.”

  Chopsticks raised, Star appraised him. “Oh, for such faith, I would sell my soul.”

  “That’s all it takes.” Lance smiled.

  “My ill and tattered soul would buy me but a moment’s audience wherein to earn me everlasting flames.”

  “That’s not how it works, S
tar. The more ill and tattered, the greater the grace.”

  For a moment Star looked hungrier for that grace than the meal before her. But her issues were deep, and the thought of mercy incomprehensible. Rese could hardly find an instance of it in Star’s entire life. Or her own, it seemed. And suddenly she wanted there to be something more; she wanted it painfully.

  A cloud of aromatic steam rose up from the first box Star opened. She plunged in with her chopsticks and pinched a wad of long brown noodles like a wig from the carton. She heaped more food onto her plate than Lance, and she’d eat it all too. Whether she’d keep it down, Rese wouldn’t hazard a guess. Her agitation was evident, but she’d always had the knack of ignoring whatever she didn’t want to face.

  When they had made their dent in the tangy-hot and sweetly piquant food, Lance closed up the rest and hauled it to the refrigerator. Star watched him as she had throughout the meal, then stood with a dramatic flourish of her arms. “The night beckons. I must away.” Which meant she was going out to find comfort in whatever form it took, and there was no telling when she’d come back.

  Lance watched her head for the door in swift, spirited steps, then returned to the table. “She’s really leaving?”

  “Why wouldn’t she?”

  He sat down. “I thought she would support you.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  He took her hand. “Seems a little one-sided.”

  Rese shrugged. “The day Star sees me as anything but her anchor, I’ll faint.”

  “Strong, tough Rese.” He squeezed her hand. “Even your meltdown was momentous.”

  Something she’d rather forget. “How are your sides?”

  “Fine. It’s inside where I’m in trouble.”

  “So you say.” She still didn’t buy it. Not when people she trusted had lied and tried to kill her. She was better off expecting the mouse to jump out, the whispered taunts and rough laughter. Better off keeping her face and heart hidden, especially with the way Star had looked at him.

  He leaned close and kissed her, scattering her resolve like a flock of butterflies. “You taste like teriyaki.” He made even that sound endearing, but she was not giving in.

  She looked into his face. “I know what you’re doing.”

  “What?”

  “Just what you did with Star.”

  He tipped his head. “I’ve never kissed Star.”

  He may as well have. “You took her pain and gave her strength.” He’d actually taken on her own role and played it better.

  He caressed her knuckles with his thumb. “Have I upset you?”

  “Of course not.” She reached for the folder. “I guess I should get it over with.”

  He touched her earlobe. “You survived these.”

  She glared. “Directly provoked by your baiting.”

  He laughed. “Can I help it if you’re compulsively competitive?”

  Rese couldn’t argue with that. She looked down at the folder and drew a hard breath, wishing the pain was as tangible as the stud piercing her ear. “I knew something was wrong. I heard the whispers. But I denied it. Seeing it here—”she pressed her palm to the folder—“makes it real.”

  “It’s better to know, Rese. Facing the fact that Tony was gone was easier than the awful wondering.”

  Maybe. But ignorance had worked for a long time. She opened the folder, took out the contents, and laid the sheets before them. Lance sat as close as their chairs would go. He rested his arm across the back of hers, and they read the first informational page together. At the second paragraph, a giant fist caught her solar plexus.

  Lance sensed it and cupped her nape. “What’s the matter?”

  It was the genetic connection that had socked her in the stomach. She touched the section with her finger. “I wondered. But I didn’t know I might really …”

  “Thirteen percent isn’t very high.”

  Rese swallowed. “To your non-related one percent.” Lots of factors contributed, including viruses which struck indiscriminately, but genetic predisposition raised the stakes considerably.

  “That’s still eighty-seven-percent chance you won’t have it at all. I’d bet on those odds.”

  Rese stared into his face. How could he be so nonchalant? But she knew how. They weren’t his statistics. She suddenly recalled something Brad had said when she was unresponsive after Dad’s death. He’d leaned close to Jake and murmured, “Hope she isn’t schizo.”

  He’d known? Had Dad told him? Rese pressed her hands to her head. “Lance, what did Brad say to you when he came here?”

  “He wondered how you were.”

  “Because?” His hesitation was enough. “He thought I was psychotic?”

  “He thought your reaction was extreme, but the circumstances were too.”

  She clenched her hands. “Did he mention Mom?”

  Lance nodded. “He told me she was schizophrenic.”

  “You knew she was alive?”

  “Would I keep that from you?”

  “I don’t know.” Fury was building inside that threatened another explosion. “Why would Brad know about her?”

  “Your dad told him.”

  Of course. Brad was the bosom buddy. Who else knew? The rest of the crew? No wonder they’d kept trying to put her over the edge.

  Lance leaned back. “Brad said your dad asked him to look out for you if something happened to him.”

  “I couldn’t look out for myself if I was psychotic, could I?”

  “I think it was more generic.”

  “He knew about Mom.”

  Lance rubbed his face. “Just her diagnosis, Rese. He said nothing about her being alive.”

  “They all probably thought—”

  “You have no idea what anyone thought, or what they knew.” He clasped her arm. “Would Brad have come looking if he thought you were crazy? He wants you back on the job, Rese.”

  That was true. But it didn’t excuse it. For any of them. How many more times would Dad stab her from the grave? She rubbed her eyes.

  He slid his hold to her hand. “Maybe we should wait until tomorrow.” His voice was gentle, offering her an out.

  She shook her head and gripped the paper, but the next section was just as bad, describing the symptoms. Lack of emotional response. Lance’s words—“Got a concept of emotion?” Was her self-control a “negative” symptom of the disease? Onset for women was typically between age twenty-five and thirty. She’d be twenty-five next month. She started to shake.

  Lance took her in his arms. “You’re reading too much into this.”

  “You said it, Lance. No concept of emotion.”

  “You were grieving, Rese. You’ve had serious stress. And you’ve had to guard yourself. I know what all that looks like. You’re not psychotic.”

  He couldn’t know that. She had shut down at Dad’s death. They called it shock, but catatonia was more like it, and that, too, was a symptom. “You might want to cut your losses now and run.”

  “Is that who you think I am?”

  “You have no idea what Dad went through. Look how he reacted.”

  He sighed. “Let that go for now. This is about your mom. Read it for her.” He clasped her hand tighter. “Let’s see what we’re up against.”

  We? How could he say we? Because he didn’t know. He didn’t really understand. He hadn’t lived with it.

  Walls came up inside, and even as they built they terrified her. How could she know what was normal self-protection and what was schizophrenic non-reaction? She took in the rest of the information on the introduction sheet, the drugs that were used to treat it, the positive recovery or control rate when caught early and medicated with dopamine blockers, the drugs that had been in use since the ’50s. Why had Mom not been medicated? If Dad knew, and he must have if he told Brad … then why?

  She took up the court order that had made her father the legal guardian.

  State of California, Superior Court

 
; City and County of San Francisco

  Case No. 1982-CV—12875

  In the matter of Elaine Barrett, by her Next Friend Vernon Barrett, Petitioner.

  ORDER GRANTING MOTION TO APPOINT GUARDIAN AND APPOINT CONSERVATOR OF ASSETS.

  Rese shook her head, skimming through the legal jargon that noted Dad would heretofore be known as Petitioner and Mom as Barrett, getting the gist that Dad was given control of Mom’s destiny based on testimony from the examining doctors and other witnesses. Mrs. Walden, a neighbor of Petitioner and Barrett … Georgette Douglas, sister of Petitioner … Aunt Georgie? Rese had stayed with her through the “funeral” after leaving the hospital. Aunt Georgie had testified against Mom?

  There were also emergency reports of two different suicide attempts and an occasion of violence toward a person Rese didn’t know. She had no memory of any of that. She closed her eyes and tried, but nothing came. Maybe she’d blocked it. She half expected them to surface as the other one had. Her mother standing outside, swaying, but no look of grief or fear or any other emotion.

  Mom cried, but only in the wake of Walter. And the laughter had sometimes been so inappropriate. As with the kitten she and Star had found dead. That was a memory she hadn’t recalled, but it blazed to life now. There were more. But she didn’t want them.

  Because of the medical condition and symptomology evidenced in the record, and based on the weight of the testimony of the witnesses, the Court concludes that Barrett lacks sufficient competency to manage the ordinary affairs of daily life, such that a Guardian should be appointed to take charge of her welfare until such time as she may regain such competency.

  So the Court had allowed for improvement in her condition, for a cure? The other information made that sound unlikely. But not impossible. Rese pinched the bridge of her nose, afraid to hope for what might never be, and more afraid of what might.

  She’d thought Mom trying to kill her was the worst of it. At least then she’d only be dead. This … the specter of actually being like Mom, seeing things that weren’t there, doing things that no one in her right mind would do, being a burden and a danger … She felt too battered even to think.