THINGS UNSAID
Copyright © 2015 by Diana Paul
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2015
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-63152-812-5
e-ISBN: 978-1-63152-813-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015939230
For information, address:
She Writes Press
1563 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707
She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
For Doug, Maya, Keith, Collin, and Isabel
The heart has its reasons which reason cannot comprehend.
—Pascal
What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
—Iago to Othello
The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.
—Harriet Beecher Stowe
CONTENTS
Family Matters
Birthday Celebration
A Diva on Tape
Shadow Dad
Bailout
Forest Lodge
Tethered or Tenured?
Ghost Busters
Batting like a Girl
Hamburger Face on Saran Wrap
SafeHarbour
Things Unsaid
Mendel’s Theory
Brain Drain
A Corpse in the Closet
Collective Karma
Rehab
Lightning in a Bottle
Closets and Drawers
Happy Pills
Recovery
Letting Go
Thanksgiving
Bonfire
Another League
Mommy’s Little Helper
Acknowledgments
About the Author
FAMILY MATTERS
After penetrating the chain-link fence and knocking over the soccer goalpost, her father’s car had landed in the deserted grassy field. He had been very lucky.
“You could have hurt a child, Dad, maybe even killed one,” Jules said, pinching the bridge of her nose, as they waited to speak to an officer at the Edmonds police station. She had been pleading with her parents to stop driving ever since her father jumped a curb and plowed into an elementary school playground.
Her father didn’t flinch. “If I hit someone, I’ll stop driving.”
“Are you Julia Foster?” an officer asked, interrupting them. “The daughter of Robert and Aida Whitman?”
“Yes. Please call me Jules.” She cleared her throat and tried again. “My parents called me because they couldn’t reach my sister, Joanne Grant, who lives nearby. I’m just visiting from California for my mother’s birthday.”
“Well, ma’am, there’s a serious problem with seniors driving around here,” Sergeant Hernandez said, making eye contact. He was respectful. “Your parents claim they didn’t hear their car damage a parked Prius. And neither one of them heard our siren or acknowledged our lights flashing. We had to pull up to your father and use a megaphone before he realized what had happened.”
What had happened? A deep grinding, screeching, and scraping against the front passenger door. Then the dangling … and the glass. A broken mirror hanging, like an organ, on veins of red and blue wires. Her father must have pulled slowly out of the parking spot, oblivious to the damage he had inflicted. That’s what Jules pictured as having happened, judging from the looks of her parents’ car.
Sergeant Hernandez continued: “A witness heard the sound of the impact, so she ran out of the grocery store. She witnessed their 1978 Oldsmobile sideswiping a parked car.”
Jules’s daughter, Zoë, called the outsize muscle car her father drove a “pimpmobile.” It was larger than some people’s apartments in San Francisco.
“We have to cite your father for careless driving, and he’ll have to be tested by the DMV. That is, if he doesn’t voluntarily relinquish his license.” He turned to her father. “Dr. Whitman, can you hear me?” the robust-bellied police officer asked, his voice more a shout than a question. But there was tentativeness, too.
“Yeah, of course, I can. You think I’m deaf?”
“Sir, do you know you caused a lot of damage to a stationary vehicle?” He paused. “A nonmoving violation is rather common … among beginning drivers, the intoxicated … and seniors.”
“Well, I’ll have you know, I may be eighty-four years old, but I’m as healthy and alert as any of you.” Jules could hear the annoyance, the undeniable anger, in her father’s voice as he flailed his arms, gesturing to the other policemen in the room. No one looked up. “Just give me those papers,” her father said, pushing his words out with great effort. He yanked the forms out of Sergeant Hernandez’s hand and turned away.
Walking out of the station with her mother, watching her father’s stiff gait ahead of her, Jules cringed. He used to have such a strong, almost military gait.
“Mother … Dad … you really need to talk about giving up your driver’s licenses. I know it’s hard. But you don’t want to endanger others on the road.” Jules felt burning acid roiling in her stomach, pains radiating towards her back between her shoulder blades.
“Jules, you know how I refuse to get into the car with him.” Her mother fidgeted, her hand deep in her jacket pocket, the knuckles moving like marbles under the thin suede fabric. “I can’t let him shop for groceries by himself though. He’ll only buy junk food and everything I refuse to eat. You talk to your father. I’ve given up. He thinks you’re taking away his manhood if you take his license. And I could care less about driving. I’ll hire someone young and handsome who can drive me around like little ‘Miss Daisy.’ I’m ready. I’m more than ready,” her mother said.
“And would it be so bad anyway, Dad?” Jules tried. “SafeHarbour has regular shuttle service and volunteers to drive you wherever and whenever you want. That’s why you’re paying so much to live there. It’s a top-of-the-line assisted-living community. Besides, it’s chauffeur service, Dad. Anyone’s got to love that.” She touched his shoulder, hoping to reassure him, lessen the blow. He shrugged her off and silently fumbled with his keys.
Jules grabbed them from him. “I’m driving. Sit back and enjoy the ride. You’ve both been through such an ordeal.” She felt like the parent. It’s tough getting old, she thought.
“I’ve driven a lot more than these cops,” her father muttered. “Some day those assholes will wake up and suddenly realize they’re old men, too. Inside, you feel forever twenty-one, but others are constantly telling you to give up. ‘You’re useless, old man.’ ”
“Dad, look at the beautiful place you and Mother are living in. It’s like a resort.”
“For $5,000 per month, it’s a bargain. A damn bargain,” he laughed. The kind of laugh where Jules didn’t laugh back.
Driving back to SafeHarbour, the three of them stared ahead in silence, a silence in which Jules felt even the sounds of her swallowing were exaggerated. When they got there, her father walked into his study, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, looking pale and wan.
“Let’s leave your father here in fron
t of his damn computer,” her mother snorted. She was noticeably invigorated. “The rest of the day will be for more important matters. More quality time to be with your mother.” She shuffled out of the room. Jules following her, thinking about how they didn’t have much time left.
“Why did you have to go and buy him that damn computer last Christmas anyway?” her mother asked. “At least when he used to read the Wall Street Journal I could hide it and pretend I forgot where it was. Maybe we wouldn’t be in such a financial mess. I blame you, you know.”
Jules stared down into her coffee cup, stomach tightening, and tried to clear her throat. Her mother stood up, struggling to reach over for her insulated cup on the coffee table. After taking a sip, her pale hand trembling slightly, she slumped back down, sinking into the saggy stuffed chair. Jules swabbed the spill with her napkin the way her eighty-year-old mother still applied makeup, soaking the face oil and powder into her skin, pale and bloodless, beige dust resting in the soft folds and pockets of her face. “Mother, we need to talk about SafeHarbour expenses,” she said, circling the spoon around and around in her coffee. Her heart raced.
“Oh, why bother,” her mother said, redirecting. “You never really wanted to come for my birthday. Or help me. Or help your sister. Admit it.”
“No, I really do want to talk. Joanne needs help, too, I know.” Debts had to be paid. I can’t just abandon them. Where would they go if they had to leave this residence? But the bills were so expensive—they were being paid at a cost not only to her and Mike but to their daughter. Their credit cards were maxed out. Her income was unpredictable, and they couldn’t live on Mike’s salary alone. Zoë’s college fund was now at risk.
“Your sister has to lead her own life. I know that.” Her mother’s voice sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. “I don’t own Joanne’s life anymore. But still …” Her four-foot-ten body, stretching taller, looked ready. What a shape-shifter. Her mother could switch positions on a dime. Jules tried once more.
“Mother, I want to help, to be a good daughter. But I don’t want to be like you. I just want to do the right thing.”
“Ha, why don’t you want to be like me, I want to know! I’m your mother, and your father and I have done more than enough for you. Without us, there would be no Jules. You have absolutely nothing to complain about. We’re great parents.”
Her mother started pulling out all the compacts, pill containers, keys, and other junk from her enormous black alligator tote bag, dropping things on the floor and then picking them up again. Jules scooped up some of the paraphernalia, just as her mother must have done for her when she was a toddler, dropping food and bits of things while she teetered on her soft, almost boneless, feet. She had loved going through her mother’s purse as a child, laughing as she opened up her wallet, looking at all the pretty cards.
Her mother tap-tapped a bit of powder on her nose and smiled as she glanced at herself in the mirror before clicking shut the pearl-encrusted designer compact. She slipped it back into its black velvet carrying case, carefully pulled the silk drawstrings shut, and offered it to Jules.
“Here, try some of this. It’s perfectly good. This powder is a lifesaver. And at your age, it’s a must.” She yawned. “I feel a bit tired all of a sudden. Fatigue shows as you get older. Not good for a girl’s complexion, you know.”
Jules held out her hand for the velvet bag. She retrieved the compact and inspected it. The powder puff inside was dark brown and crusty, but the compact had a pretty blue stone inlaid in its surface—glamorous, like her mother once was. She wondered if her mother knew her diva days were over.
“And these debts are not my doing, darling. They’re your father’s. Family matters. We gave you life.” Her mother laughed.
Why did she feel stuck helping them out? Surrendering to their demands? A misplaced notion of obligation, of duty, perhaps? A desire to convince herself that she was a better person than they were? That’s what a good daughter is supposed to do—love her mother even if her mother doesn’t love her back.
There was no way the numbers added up. Their monthly fees were almost $70,000 per year. With its faux Southern antebellum appearance, SafeHarbour’s circular driveway simulated the plantation from Gone with the Wind. Or a stage setting for the classic Greta Garbo movie her mother was so fond of, Grand Hotel. SafeHarbour had once belonged to the Marriott Hotel corporation—that explained its tennis courts, swimming pools, exercise rooms, and expansive parklike gardens, amenities that the semiambulatory residents hardly ever used. So what, exactly, were her parents paying for? She thought about how they liked officiousness and recognition for being special and elite. It made Jules uncomfortable, like being around tenured professors who expected deference and obsequiousness.
She couldn’t get Mike’s words out of her head: “Think of your family.” But she had two families. Which one came first? Her tenure battle at Stanford had ended in termination. Her book, The Narcissistic Mother, was at risk. It would be more difficult to find a publisher now that she had lost her university affiliation. The Palo Alto school system paid such low wages that she couldn’t afford to take an unpaid leave to complete her book. But she was the eldest child. Mommy’s little helper. She had always liked doing the right thing, feeling needed. Maybe it was attributable to her Catholic upbringing and her Buddhist sense of karma and obligation.
Her parents had chosen SafeHarbour in Mukilteo—“good meeting place” in the Snohomish tribal language—themselves. Mukilteo had turned out to be a better place for the white settlers than for the Native Americans who had been cheated out of their land. Still circling the wagons. Her mother said she felt cheated, too.
Her mother dangled an unfiltered cigarette from her mouth, stained teeth exposed, lip curled. “Anyway, you haven’t been out here for years,” she said.
“What are you talking about, Mother? I fly out from Carmel almost every year in October, for your birthday or for Father’s Day. Don’t you remember?” Was her mother’s memory fading? Jules watched her rummage through her purse, taking everything out again. “Goddamn it. I can’t even find a cigarette in this thing. Maybe what I need is a drink instead.” Jules wondered if her mother really did forget where she placed things these days. As opposed to just pretending. This new mother frightened her even more than the one from her childhood.
Jules placed her tote bag on the floor next to the sofa. An hour’s worth of photocopied material from the library peeked out the top. Information on bankruptcy, consolidating debt, and credit counseling she had found for this visit. She had also gone online and discovered support groups for children of aging parents.
From inside his study, her father’s keyboard clicked slowly and methodically, like a military march for miniature plebes, required but tedious. She watched through the door as her father scanned a printout. She noticed a slight tremor in his right hand. Parkinson’s? She edged into the study.
“Dad, we need to talk about your stock portfolio,” she said, her voice sounding like a scared child’s.
Her father, smiling, gave her a kiss. “You’re my little researcher.” He passed her an Excel spreadsheet with his investments, including cost basis and return on investment. She pored through the figures.
“You two eggheads,” her mother interrupted, stepping abruptly into her father’s small office. Jules looked down at the graphs. “We’re going to be thrown out on the street, aren’t we?” her mother asked, lips tight. “Unless our Jules helps us. Those brainy types—they always know the right thing to do.”
Her father’s smile disappeared. “Andrew and Joanne have to pitch in, too. But I have a plan—to buy penny stocks with our Social Security. My broker warns me to avoid penny stocks, but I know better. Besides, Jules and Mike will have college tuition for Zoë soon.”
“Andrew has too many financial obligations of his own with three—or is it four?—kids,” her mother said, frowning. “So does Joanne, with her two daughters. Jules has only one child t
o think about.”
“Hmm. Uh, check the answering machine, Aida. I think Joanne called and left a message,” her father suggested, ignoring her mother’s comment.
“Guess she can’t get enough of me. Thinking of my birthday.” Her mother looked pleased.
“Yeah, yeah,” her dad said. “Birthdays just remind us that our lives are shorter than the year before. I think I’ll take a short nap. Sleep is practicing for death. Wake me up, if you can, in half an hour.”
Jules watched as her bent-over father, so curved in that he looked like a giant prawn, dragged himself off to the master bedroom with his file folders. A malodorous trace followed behind him, musty and dusty like their dogwood curtains. Jules sighed. She had hoped that on this trip, for once, they could have a good time.
“I got your text, Jules,” Mike said on the phone before dinner. “Our savings have almost run out. Soon we won’t be able to pay our mortgage. To say nothing of Zoë’s college fund. Those selfish sons of bitches!”
He always said things like this. Again and again. Jules didn’t like feeling defensive, but she did. “I know I enable them. What I really want to do is scream at them. Make them remember to take their pills. Report them to DMV for refusing to turn in their driver’s licenses. I feel like I may strangle my mother. But I need to help them. They’re my parents. After all they have done for me, they can’t be thrown out on the street. We can help Zoë later. Her whole life’s ahead of her.”
“After all they have done for you? Are you serious? Just listen to yourself! You have to let go,” Mike said as her head throbbed. “Be realistic. We are what matters now. Choose: our future or theirs.”
“Is it really possible to turn away from those who brought you into the world?” They had had this conversation—or was it an argument?—so many times. Normally they had it at night, in bed, and she would snuggle into Mike’s warm back, feeling how the muscles in his upper shoulders—between the blades—always and inevitably tightened. Jules now imagined him clenching his teeth, jaw set, on the other end of the phone.
Things Unsaid: A Novel Page 1