Sometimes, in the quiet of my dried up silent tears, I ask myself, are these emotions I’m feeling legitimate and heartfelt? Are they nothing more than ersatz affections, drenched in a subconscious pièce de résistance of superfluous guilt, perilously combined with a dewy-eyed nostalgic view of my parents? I yearn for the former—I am, however, resigned to the latter. It’s my cross to bear, but I do so in silent protest while I struggle with uninvited issues that have so rudely arrived at the doorstep of my soul. I’m at a loss as to who I and my parents were; still, I am drawn to discover, rather, rediscover my life with them, knowing that it cannot be avoided. I truly can’t avoid it, and I can no longer postpone it because, for all intents and purposes, I have lost control.
My life is rediscovering me, and I am its unwilling participant. I can’t stop the memories which force me to face my anger, regrets and fears; but as I confront my relationship with my parents, I know it’s inevitable that I will run head-on into unpleasant territories not considered for nearly twenty years. Painfully aware that no matter how hard I try, in my quest for understanding my damaged relationship with my now dead parents, I cannot—will not—be able to elude my relationship with Alice so many years ago and its heart-wrenching episodes and ultimate conclusion. Frankly, I’m afraid. I’ve been afraid of those memories for years; those tender, sweet, yet wretched memories. If I weren’t, I surely would not have buried them beneath years and years of too many unfulfilled relationships, self-negation and denial.
No longer sacrosanct and protected, my memories of Alice are now also demanding recognition in solidarity with other censored or neglected memories. Those memories that come with their own gut-wrenching questions; and I, as a reluctant participant, can feel their threatening pulse, welling from within, gathering strength to burst forcefully from my pores. It is an exchange I’m resigned to make in order to gain answers to any of my questions. I know the answers I seek will not be easy, but undeniably, it’s my destiny. Whether or not my mind can stand up to the examination is an entirely different question. I know my heart may not stand up to such intense investigation. There are no easy answers for me—none.
So now I am born again, pulled from the loving refuge and comfort of a dark, quiet, liquid womb; thrown naked into the bright, glaring and treacherous world, but without the benefit of the warmth and nourishment of my mother’s bosom, nor the love and protection of my father’s arms. I am all by myself. I am an orphan.
THREE
Fool on the Hill
My parents were killed twelve months ago in the middle of their return journey from an annual trip to the Swiss Alps where they’d been visiting with long-time friends and business associates. A significant social event for my parents, the rather large gathering of ambassadors, royal family members, dignitaries and their families from various countries is a tradition dating back to my paternal grandfather’s college days, long before my parents were married; and, of course, before I was born. It was practically a family reunion, of sorts, but it wasn’t, by any stretch of one’s imagination, strictly pleasure.
They were all very important people in the world, and the yearly gathering marked an opportunity to develop business and diplomatic strategies and, most important, to secure or strengthen financial and social alliances. Extremely understated, but a crucial aspect of the assembly, was the subtle, and sometimes not so subtle, matchmaking between wealthy or connected families of their unmarried, of-age children.
Last winter, for the first time in a very long time, I was invited to join my parents on their yearly sojourn. On one hand, I like to assume I was invited because we were in a reconciliation process, but the cynic in me fears it was because my spinster reputation was becoming a bit of an embarrassment to my family. Though I seriously pondered the prospect in order to continue the mending process, in the end, I respectfully declined. I felt it was too soon to make such a commitment. We’d have other opportunities that wouldn’t include me feeling, for lack of a better word, trapped. In turn, thanks to my cautious nature, I was spared sharing in my parents’ untimely demise. Kismet? Perhaps.
Tragically, my parents died when their small private jet slammed into the Italian Alps during a sudden snow storm. That’s all that is known. The details were sketchy at best. The authorities believe ice may have been a factor. “May have.” The lack of pertinent details and the particular passengers of significant import involved in the crash lend to moments of suspicious conjecture on my part; but then, I must always remind myself I have an overactive creative mind and a penchant for weaving stories where there are none. It’s an occupational hazard. A mystery to be solved or written, to be sure, but left to ponder and explore for another time.
So how and why they died, I cannot say for sure. I just know that they died; and, as a consequence, I am an orphan. There are those, of course, who would question my claim to orphanage at the advanced age of thirty-eight, but if my parents are dead and I am, rather, I was their child, aren’t I still a child without parents; hence, an orphan? I suppose perception is a relative thing. Sometimes I wonder, is it foolish to think of myself in such a way? Is it narcissistic? Self-absorption? These are just a few of the internal questions I wrestle with daily.
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Despite our troubles throughout the years, I often marveled at my parents’ pedigrees, and how blessed I was—or cursed, as I sometimes felt in my teenage years—to be, not just their child, but their only child. They had, dare I say, a greatness and incredible poise about them I never felt was remotely attainable by me. Oddly, even though I am a direct product of them, and what I would consider an even mixture of their genes, the older I get, the more I admire, and even sometimes envy their lineage.
My mother, the magnificently beautiful Kathleen Sinéad MacKenna, was born in Boston, the daughter of an Irish aristocrat. Her beauty—perfect, delicate features and thick, dark auburn hair that lay softly against her flawlessly white skin, accenting her flashing green eyes—was legendary in her family’s wide social circle. Her aunts and uncles would call her, “Our own Maureen O’Hara.” It cannot be overstated how very beautiful and elegant she was, in my opinion, and pretty much everyone else’s who had ever had the pleasure of meeting her.
Her father, my Granda Seamus Patrick MacKenna, was a devout Catholic and a strict, yet loving father with a fiery temper when provoked. It didn’t take much to provoke my Granda. According to Mother, his insistence that the whole family go to church every Sunday without fail was a small price to pay for being a MacKenna. Missing Mass in the MacKenna household, which consisted of Granda, my Granny, their six sons, four daughters and three of Granda’s siblings’ children from Ireland, meant a day of living hell.
Unless you were on your deathbed, in which case Mass would literally come to you, you did not miss Mass. Period. Granda was intolerant when it came to breaking his rules in all matters, but especially so in regard to The Church. My Granny, Mary-Delyth O’Bryon MacKenna, was essentially invisible whenever Granda was around and acquiesced to his every decree. My Gran was a beloved mother and a dutiful wife, supervising the household staff and attending to frequent MacKenna social affairs.
The MacKenna Christmas Ball, known far and wide, from Boston to Ireland, was the most important social event of the year to attend—if you could even get an invitation. The annual Christmas Ball in 1953 was where Mother first met my Papá.
As Mother told me on many occasions, my Papá, Antonio Reyes Figueroa Martín, was the most sought-after, debonair, bachelor of his time. Papá was a wealthy Spanish diplomat and businessman visiting from his home on the West Coast. As the story goes, from the moment they laid eyes on each other, Mother knew she was going to have a grand fight on her hands with her Da. Granda was nothing if he wasn’t Irish to the bone—being Irish was God-given as far as he was concerned—and none of his children would be allowed to marry outside their kind without God surely striking them all down. At least, that is, until Mother and Papá fell hopelessly in love.
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br /> First Granda said no to the marriage. Then he said absolutely no. Then, he flew into a rage, railing against the evils of a mixed marriage. If not for my Papá’s skills of diplomacy and Mother’s threats of throwing herself off the nearest bridge or running away with Papá without Granda’s blessing, Granda would never have even entertained the notion of his daughter marrying anyone not Irish, let alone a Spaniard. Nor would he have ever thought he would consent to such blasphemy. But he loved his daughter dearly and had the utmost respect for my Papá. It certainly didn’t hurt that Papá, too, was a devout Catholic. Mother always seemed filled with awe whenever she described how Granda finally gave his blessing to Mother and Papá—it was the first and the last time anyone in the family could remember Granda ever giving in to anything that wasn’t his idea.
Their wedding ceremony was held in a Catholic church in Boston, followed by a society pages reception attended by royalty from all over the world. After what was always described to me as a storybook honeymoon in Spain, my parents returned to California and moved into Papá’s mansion in Beverly Hills. Nine miserable months later, I was born. My birth was a difficult one. I nearly killed my mother in the process and ruined her womb for future siblings. Perhaps it was a foreshadowing of my reluctance to be part of the world of wealth and privilege into which I was born. I entered this world as Mary-Mackenna Martín—the first and last child born to Kathleen and Antonio.
Today I am known as Mackenna Martín to the world and my newer friends. My surviving family members still insist on calling me Mary-Mackenna, which I dislike but tolerate; and somewhere in the world, I am simply known as Em. Em was my nickname in the military. For a time, I loved it. It made me feel ordinary and accepted by my peers; but today, the name evokes too many sad memories, so I try my utmost to forget it.
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What was my parents’ California home is now my home. It sits high on a hill on the edge of Beverly Hills, California, in the exclusive area known as The Bel Air Estates, or simply, Bel Air. I was born there, so for me, even though I’ve lived in other places, it’s truly the only real home I’ve ever known. The house is actually a mini-estate at the end of a long, private, gated and guarded road, covering roughly ten acres of prime real estate atop a dramatic ridge that looks out over all of Los Angeles.
On a crystal clear day, I can literally see as far as Santa Catalina Island and beyond—more than fifty miles away—surrounded by the shimmering blue-green of the Pacific Ocean. And in-between, from here to Catalina, nearly every detail of the L.A. Basin is magnified with such a brilliant and dazzling pallet of colors and light, shapes, patterns and angles it sometimes makes me swoon.
On days like those, there’s not a doubt why I and all the other Los Angelenos live here. Completely smog-free days are worshiped here in Los Angeles, especially in the winter, and are treated with the reverence afforded an early spring day in the Midwest, the turning of the leaves in New England, or the first snow at any popular ski resort throughout the world. On those days—those blue-sky, crystalline days when Southern California rises above and beyond our petty disappointments in her, as breathtaking as a golden phoenix in flight would surely be, and becomes the epitome of the “Golden State”—on those days we celebrate our surroundings with wanton abandon.
In the year since my parents died, however, only a few of those smog-free days and glorious opportunities to bask in my not-exactly-chosen lifestyle have occurred. Instead of joining the throngs of worshippers, I find myself perched on my parents’ balcony overlooking the pool and the city below, mesmerized by the view and virtually paralyzed by my own mental confinement, unable to leave. I feel safe and secure from the outside world—happy just to sit and look, but not touch, and certainly not to partake. As each day passes, I feel less and less inclined, or even able to join the world below, and have come to think of these grounds as my sanctuary, and the house my shield. I call it my fortress, and I suppose, by present circumstances, I am the fool on the hill.
3.2
The Bel Air Estates property has several buildings on it—the main house where I live, two guest houses and a caretaker’s house, all of which are occupied by the Aldama family, a substantial 12-car garage, and a few other miscellaneous utility buildings. The grounds are populated with all types of fruit trees, edible herbs and wild flowers, and rather elaborate overall landscaping. In addition to an olympic-sized swimming pool, there is also a tennis court and outdoor entertainment area.
The main house is very large, large enough to be considered a mansion in most circles—perhaps not in my parents’ circle, but certainly mine. When I was very young, my favorite game was to go from room to room making up visitors and stories for each room, and then going back and counting each and every one. I always lost track of the number, even as I got older, but depending on the length of each story, it could take me the better part of a whole day to get through the entire house. Even today, I couldn’t say for sure just how many rooms there are, though I would guess, between bedroom suites, bathrooms, the wine cellar, the library, and so forth, there are probably around twenty-five or thirty.
Built in the late Thirties by Helmer Rudolph, the wildly successful movie mogul of the time, the house is a stunning tribute to Italian architecture. It has the look and feel of an over-sized Tuscan Villa. Miraculously, the whole estate was untouched by the fires that swept through Bel Air in the early Sixties, and remains standing as a beautiful tribute to a truly wonderful period in design. I know I am extraordinarily lucky to have it, but to be honest, it was misfortune and not luck that gave it to me.
And then, as always, there’s the entire estate to consider. I inherited this unfathomable wealth from my parents less than a year ago, and the extent of it is simply mind-blowing. I always knew my family was well off, as my parents made sure to frequently remind me how blessed our family was; but I had no idea just how enormously well-to-do we actually were. Trying to wrap my mind around both the enormity of, and the responsibility that comes with such a sizeable inheritance is staggering at best. Beyond thinking about my parents’ enormous wealth and that I came to have it all, I am constantly thinking about them. Constantly. Or nearly so, it seems.
Except for the domestic staff—my extended family—I essentially live alone since I don’t have a lover or a partner, children or pets. It’s just me, my internal demon and my “family.” There are other properties in the portfolio in addition to this one that my parents also referred to as our homes, though I never considered them as such. There’s the villa in Spain, the flat in London, the penthouse in New York, the country estate outside Boston, the ranch in Paraguay, and many others around the world. My parents traveled the world extensively and preferred staying in their own residences rather than hotels, so they purchased properties where they frequently visited.
In addition to the real estate, there’s also the “Katie Mac.” Docked in Marina del Rey, it is a mega yacht built especially for my father by Feadship in 1970, and named after my mother. At 102 feet long, the yacht is large enough to comfortably house a sizable family, but it’s somewhat of a stretch for me to actually consider it a home. This is the only place I’ve ever called home. Everywhere else my parents housed us meant little or nothing to me.
Despite my indifference to it and the other myriad properties, they’re all mine now. I honestly don’t give them much thought, though. I know they’re there and right now, that’s all I care to know. Yes, one could say I’m quite comfortable money-wise. Actually, my accountant is quick to tell me repeatedly that I’m “filthy rich”—rich beyond even his comprehension, let alone mine. I don’t even want to begin to comprehend it. Frankly, I let the lawyers and accountants handle all of it—the properties, the investments, the charities, the businesses—because I don’t yet quite understand what it’s all about, nor do I care to understand. Perhaps I will, someday, but right now it’s much too much. I have simply chosen to ignore it all—as much as I am allowed, that is. From time to time I’ll
receive a general accounting from my accountant, or will be asked to sign various papers, but that is the extent of my involvement or, frankly, my current interest.
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Before tragedy befell my parents, I was a mildly successful writer of novels, short stories, screen and stage plays. Not a Pulitzer Prize winner or even a household name by any means, but I was paying my bills. For a writer, that’s considered prosperous. Whether I would still consider myself successful today, I can’t say for certain. Until recently, I’ve not written a word in six months; and since self-doubt is always a pushy, uninvited guest in my life, I’m doubtful I still qualify—as a writer, that is.
Having been idle for so long, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to write ever again. It’s not that I haven’t had the desire or the energy to write, it’s just that there’s been so much to think about, so much to remember, to mourn—it’s difficult to find words of appropriate depth.
When I first heard the news of my parents’ fatal crash, the best way I can describe how I felt was that it was as if a light flickered. That was all. For days after, I was in a strange, unfeeling, state that was more than once replaced by self-recrimination for not having those feelings one would expect to have when unexpectedly losing one parent, let alone two. Just when I had come to accept that I was somehow dead inside, incapable of feeling or expressing grief, or any other emotion of sadness for that matter, everything changed. In the course of one small event, I was plunged into an ocean of despair so deep, I felt certain I would drown in it.
The event that began my down spiral was the reading of my parents’ wills. In addition to the wills, my father had written a letter for me before he died. I received that letter at my parents’ attorney’s office, a letter which left me confused and sick with grief. I cannot seem to get out of my mind how much love was in it and how wrong I’d been—for too many years. I am left to wonder how I could have been so wrong. How could someone so loved feel so unloved? I’ve tried to remember how it all came about and why I have these enormous feelings of guilt and remorse about the deaths, and the feelings I have that have begun to loom large, but to no avail. And how is it I can still have such a strong sense of detachment, and even anger about them? Each of them?
Mackenna on the Edge Page 2