––––––––
Ed Hutchinson had lung cancer. In between his incessant hacking and short gasps for breath, he managed to tell me he didn’t have long to live. Smoked three packs a day since he was twenty—Camels, no filters. When I called Penwell Corporation in Los Angeles, they told me he had taken early retirement, but the last division he had run was at their Mountain View branch, near San Jose. That put him only a two hours’ drive away, at most. I told him who I was—Nathan Sitteroff’s daughter—and it took a moment to register.
“Ah, Nathan, a good man, great mind.” His attempt at sounding cheerful set off another bout of coughing. The sound came from some deep, raw place in his chest and made me cringe to hear it. He sucked in air greedily. “One of my best boys. But you—what did you say your name was, honey?”
“Lisa.”
“Lisa, right. The last time I saw you, why, you must have been three or four. And you have a brother, right?”
“Two. Rafferty is four years older and Neal is three years younger.”
“Well, how about that? All grown up, you kids. How old are you now, honey?” More coughing. I pulled the phone away from my ear till the noise lessened.
“I’ll be thirty this year.”
He made a clucking sound with his tongue. “So fast. You kids grow up too fast. Where did the time go? So,” he said in short gasps, “how’s your lovely mother?”
“Fine. We live in Marin, not that far away.”
“Your mother’s living here too?” I sensed the hard strain in his words, which made me think I should end the conversation soon. The small talk seemed to debilitate him. But even through the cheerful tone, something about Ed Hutchinson’s voice irritated me. Something obsequious and phony.
“Well,” he said with some finality, “be sure to give her my regards. Such a shame, what she went through. But she was a tough one. Raised you kids right, I imagine. She ever remarry?”
“No.”
The line went quiet. Had Hutchinson keeled over? I waited a minute, then spoke. “Mr. Hutchinson, I was hoping you could tell me more about my father. About the work he did.”
I heard a loud intake of air. “Sorry,” he said. “Had to get some oxygen. Got a contraption I wheel around with me. Portable air. Started with emphysema. I had to get out of the smog in LA. That’s why they transferred me here. Long story.”
I doubted he could take much more talking on the phone. “Do you think I could come over, speak with you?”
“Well, sure, honey. But do it sometime before the century runs out. I’m on borrowed time, or so the doctors say.”
I thanked him and got his address. His coughing had quieted down, so I ventured one more question. “You know my father died of leukemia, right? I have a letter he wrote my uncle, saying the doctors claimed it was emotionally induced, that he willed himself to die. Did he seem . . . well, self-destructive to you? Depressed?” I didn’t know if this man would have noticed such things about my father. How close had they been? Had they worked in the same office? Shared confidences? I thought about the letter, the mention of shame and terrible things my father did. Would he have confided in Ed Hutchinson? Maybe Ed could tell me who my father’s closest friends had been. Maybe I could track them down. I hoped I could get answers when I visited him.
The line went silent for a long moment. “That could have been a factor. Why he volunteered for that experiment—”
“Wait.” A shiver raced across my neck. “What experiment?”
“Well, maybe my memory is failing me, sorry. A bunch of the fellows had volunteered to go to San Diego, around the time Penwell was working on a number of top-secret government projects. This was shortly after the war, and all the aerospace companies were vying for government contracts and dealing with Russia and the Cold War threat.” The coughing resumed, the barks deeper and drier.
He gasped again and spoke in short spurts. “Thought your dad went too. Let’s see, around fifty-nine. Some talk of exposure to radiation. I figured that’s why he got sick after he came back.”
My mind went numb. I couldn’t get questions to form. An experiment? Something dangerous? Why had I never heard about this? I listened to Ed Hutchinson cough and knew I had to let him off the phone—as much as I wanted to learn more.
I would just go see him. As soon as possible.
“I’m sorry I’ve caused you such distress, talking to me for so long. Can I come over, for a short visit? Tomorrow morning?”
He choked out the words. “Tomorrow? Yeah, sure, honey. Anytime. I’m not going anywhere. Well, except the great beyond.” He tried to laugh, and that set off another bout.
After getting his address and directions, I said good-bye and hung up the receiver. I stared at the phone, as if willing it to pour out the secrets I sought. Surely, if my father had gone on some secret mission, my mother would have known about it. Wouldn’t she? If the experiment took place in San Diego, he would have been away from home for a time. It’s not like she wouldn’t have noticed his absence.
Before heading out the door to pay my mother a visit, I made a quick call to my uncle and luckily got him instead of his service.
“An experiment? Nate never mentioned anything about that,” Samuel said. “I told you he was elusive and ashamed about something, but I’m guessing he had an affair. As far as I know, though, he worked at his office in Burbank until he got sick.”
“If the assignment had been top-secret, maybe he was sworn not to tell,” I said.
“Well, I still think he would have told me. Especially once he knew he was dying. I’m a doctor; I think he would have wanted me to understand the cause of his disease, if he knew what it was. He would have described the experiment or how he had been exposed—something.” He sounded frustrated. “We were close, Lisa. What point would there have been in keeping that a secret on his deathbed? Some sense of loyalty?”
“Maybe if he exposed the experiment, his survivor benefits would have been forfeited. Life insurance cancelled or something. Maybe the participants had been threatened somehow, sworn to secrecy. I mean, if the government really was using citizens to experiment on, putting them in danger, do you think they’d want that to leak out to the public or the press?”
My uncle grew quiet. He loosed a long breath. “I don’t know. It doesn’t sound right. I can see him doing something self-destructive, even suicidal, if he really had been bipolar. But I just don’t buy the idea that the United States government would go to a private corporation and look for volunteers to expose themselves to radiation.”
“And it’s not like I could look this up in a news article. Although, it’s been twenty-five years. Someone may have spilled the beans.”
“It’s possible.”
“Well, I’ll check, although I doubt I’ll find anything. Seems if a bunch of people all died of leukemia—people who worked for the same company at the same time—someone would notice. Don’t you think?”
“Lisa, I don’t know. And I’m not sure by following this lead you’ll find an answer. And if you do, what then? What does it prove? That your dad, maybe because of his supposed death wish, jumped at the chance to end his life in glory and service to his country? Or perhaps there were other circumstances you couldn’t know about, that maybe the experiment went wrong, there’d been an accident. Or maybe depression had nothing to do with it, and he just volunteered in ignorance along with a bunch of other unsuspecting employees.”
There was the whole scenario just as my father would have laid it out: and, or, not. His mathematical logic seemed to saturate every corner of my life. Was truth solely subjective and not something wholly apart from human perspective? Would I ever feel certain about anything ever again?
I thanked my uncle and hung up. It was late morning, a Thursday. My mother was probably at her office. As much as I dreaded seeing her, this topic was not one I wished to discuss with her over the phone. I called to see if she was free for lunch, and she said to swing by and pick her up. She’d found a new restaurant to die for. I just had to experience it.
After picking her up, we made small talk in the car, and I tried to relax, but the tension between us was electric. I needed to broach the topic about the legal papers and find out what had transpired between her and Jeremy while I was in New York. Yet, all I wanted to discuss was this secret experiment and learn if she had known about it.
The restaurant sat up against the bay, in Sausalito. We were led to a window table with a stunning view of the sailboats and ferries plying the water. Dozens of seagulls squawked and dove for fish in the blustery wind, but we were sheltered by thick glass, which muted the bird cries. Soft piano music played in the background, which I realized came from a pianist in the far corner. I rarely ate at such a posh restaurant, and certainly not for lunch. I felt conspicuous in my jeans and tank top, with everyone around me sporting business suits and expensive attire. The place was filled with young upwardly mobiles, many with their briefcases opened and scribbling on notepads. A vase of beautifully cut flowers—roses, carnations, and bearded irises—sat on our starched white tablecloth, and the silverware was so shiny the reflected sunlight hitting my eye made me squint.
I let my mother order for me, and once that business was finished, my mother assessed me—and found me wanting, no doubt.
“So, Lisa. What’s on your mind?” A gorgeous, slender waitress brought my mother a cup of coffee. Looking around, I gathered that only thin, attractive people were hired to work here. I stirred my iced tea, wondering where to start.
“And please,” my mother said as I opened my mouth to talk, “don’t start in about the past and your father’s childhood. I think we’ve spoken enough on that topic.”
Despite my mother’s pleasant smile, her tone of finality was enough to embolden me. “What can you tell me about a secret experiment Dad participated in? In San Diego, before he died?”
My mother nearly dropped her teaspoon into her coffee. “Who told—” She snorted. I’m sure she assumed it was my uncle who had provided that information, but I had no intention of telling her about my conversation with Ed Hutchinson. She would go ballistic if she knew I was pursuing this further. And I surely was not going to mention my planned visit to Mountain View. What struck me was the flicker of emotion that crossed her face in that short second. I knew without a doubt that my father had been involved in that project. And my mother knew I knew.
“Well, I don’t see why it matters at all. I never told you kids about it. Why should I have? It only would have driven home your father’s wish for self-destruction and cast him in a bad light. I didn’t want you to think badly of him.”
“So, it’s true, then? That he volunteered for some experiment, something dangerous.”
My mother sipped her coffee and splashed some on her crepe tan blouse. She deftly dipped her napkin in her water glass and attacked the stain before it had a chance to set. I wondered why she didn’t just bring a bib with her whenever she went out to eat.
For some bizarre reason my mind leapt to Macbeth’s wife, sleepwalking and muttering about the blood on her hands. “Out, damned spot! Out, I say!” There was something about the brusqueness with which she rubbed, and with a mindlessness, that reminded me of Lady Macbeth—unaware, disturbed, confused. “Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh! . . . What’s done cannot be undone.”
I reined in my imagination, but thoughts of conspiracy and concealment marshaled forces against my attempt to postpone judgment. Yet, the word pounded at me: cover-up.
“Lisa, I know this fact is shocking and unacceptable, but your father wanted to die. Like many bipolar people, he yearned to end his life but was too afraid to kill himself. They had none of the antidepressants we have today. When he heard about the program in San Diego, heard it was dangerous, well, there was his opportunity. His ticket out. I begged him not to go.”
My mother exhaled with finality. She reached for a warm roll in the basket positioned between us and sliced it open with her knife. I watched her slather whipped butter on it and bring it to her mouth, mesmerized by the butter dripping unnoticed onto her lap. At least her linen napkin had been returned to its place there and would catch the drips.
“How long was he gone, to San Diego?” I asked, careful not to emote.
“Something like three months.” She polished off the roll and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “He came home shortly before Neal was born, but it took a couple of months to show signs of the poisoning.” What’s done cannot be undone.
“Why didn’t you protest about this? Wasn’t it illegal, exposing people to high levels of radiation. Even if they did volunteer?”
The napkin dropped like a stone into her lap. “Heavens, Lisa. What kind of stupid person do you take me for? Once I learned your father had contracted leukemia, I went on a rampage. I investigated every angle—spoke to authorities, the heads of Penwell, even called the newspaper to see if they could uncover something, anything, that would expose this heinous project. Sure, they admitted they’d advertised a volunteer assignment in San Diego, but it had nothing to do with radiation. Nothing at all. Or so they said. I had no proof.”
My face flushed from my mother’s elevated voice, as nearby patrons cast us curious stares. Our food arrived. Sautéed sea bass with capers, rice pilaf, steamed asparagus. My mouth watered at the aroma and sight of such artfully prepared food on my plate. We ate in silence for a while, and then my mother continued in a measured and dulcet tone. “At the time, I couldn’t get the names of anyone else who had participated in the program, or even learn what it was called. But my hunches were all confirmed many years later when I ran into your father’s best friend.”
“Who?” I asked nonchalantly, between bites of fish that nearly melted on my tongue.
“Dave Lerner. He and your father had offices next door to each other. They often worked on projects together. Dave was an engineer, and your dad would get called in to help with the math. They designed machines for aircraft; I remember a riveting machine in particular, for airplane wings. He also worked on fuel components for the upcoming Gemini spacecraft.”
“So, what did he say? When you ran into him?”
My mother seemed to pull her attention back and dug into her rice. “He told me there were others that had contracted the disease and died shortly after Nathan had. I never did get any names, but it had been so many years ago, water under the bridge. Things clearly hushed up, records purged, whatever. It didn’t make any sense to sniff after cold leads. You children were growing up, I had my career, life went on.” End of story.
I chewed and let my mind wander. My mother finished everything on her plate and ordered dessert for both of us, despite my protest. I’d already eaten way too much and knew I’d be fighting lethargy all afternoon as I dug holes and planted shrubs. I replayed in my head the scene with Lady Macbeth. The doctor and the lady-in-waiting, watching Macbeth’s evil wife as she sleepwalked—with her eyes open but her senses shut, as Shakespeare so nicely put it. Listening to her mumble about her bloodied hands, and then, off she went to bed.
The doctor’s ominous words that followed struck a chord within me. “Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds to their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.” What an unnatural deed my father had engaged in—that deed without a name—submitting himself to danger, despite having three small children who depended upon him—not to mention his wife. But what secrets did my father carry to his pillow? A secret my mother had known about, that his letter hinted at? Did he despise my mother so much that he grabbed any chance to get away from her? Had she learned of an affair and sent him away?
Maybe my uncle was right. Maybe my father had no idea the project was dangerous. Maybe he saw the temporary reassignment as an opportunity to get away from my mother and their suffocating marriage, even if for just a few months.
I stole a glance at my mother as she signaled the waitress for more coffee. How much was my mother hiding from me? I could understand her wanting her children to believe theirs had been a happy, trouble-free marriage. Parents needn’t unnecessarily burden their kids with details of unrest and disharmony in an adult relationship. My mother’s claim that my father went headlong into danger to satisfy his death wish rested on the assumption that he knew the experiment was risky, hence the call for volunteers. Maybe he had embraced the danger, not wishing to die but merely wishing to escape his marriage. Either way, it looked as if he cared less for his physical safety than for his emotional relief. He needed distance and he took it.
I felt suddenly sad for my father, so pressed to escape, unable to stay with us kids and revel in his role as father and husband. I pictured Raff, at home with his three children, unable to delight in their company, unable to feel the simplest joy, to muster a genuine smile. How frustrating for Kendra, wondering why Raff couldn’t be happy with all he had. Such was the nature of manic depression—it was a heartless thief, stealing every wonder, every beauty found in this world, and leaving an empty, lifeless tomb. “Out, out brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.”
This stark contemplation of my father’s wasted, too-short life brought on a hollow feeling inside me. My parents had been married about ten years at that point—the length of time Jeremy and I had now been married. Was Jeremy secretly as miserable with me, but, like my father, unable to confess his feelings? Would I someday learn of a letter he had written his brother, telling how unhappy he was, how—to put it in my father’s words—for over ten years it’s been an ever increasingly difficult married life, exceedingly difficult to endure. There is no point in trying to fix blame.
The horror of that thought came out in an audible sound, causing my mother to turn to me.
“What is it?” she asked.
I gulped some water and avoided my mother’s scrutiny. Was Anne right? Was my mother trying to sabotage my marriage, driving a wedge between me and Jeremy? Maybe Anne saw the obvious while I buried my head in the sand.
Snippets of conversation came to my mind. My mother berating Kendra to Raff, harping on her failings, her lack of intelligence and compassion, her sternness with their children. My mother, so congenial and appreciative toward Kendra when she was in the room, but tearing her apart behind her back. Casting aspersions—is that what it was called?—like drops of acid that slowly ate their way through the fabric of their relationship. Were her actions calculated or perhaps unconscious? Maybe she meant well; did that absolve her, though?
I thought of her countless rants about Jeremy over the years: he was insensitive, treated my brothers with contempt, whined about money, was never satisfied—and so much more. But her words were always sweetened with honey; her loving attempt to point out his faults was for my own good, the good of our family. We Sitteroffs needed to band together and protect the inner circle from attack and invasion. I saw how she had done this with my aunt and uncle, shutting them out. Protecting us—she said. Yet, after meeting my uncle and hearing his side, Sam Sitteroff hardly seemed a bad person who mistreated others. But I hadn’t been privy to their conversations twenty-five years ago. Maybe my uncle had exchanged harsh words with my mother. Maybe, back then, he had been a different man, one guilty of the attitudes and manner my mother claimed defined my uncle.
Well, I needed to protect my inner circle from attack too. I loved Jeremy too much to let my marriage become a spoil of war, even if my mother hadn’t intended to engage me as the enemy.
“What’s going on between you and Jeremy?” I steeled my nerve and looked my mother in the eyes. “Did you have a fight while I was gone?”
As if by divine revelation, in confirmation of my fears, my mother began her automated litany. I listened, still as stone, as she listed Jeremy’s faults—not so much in scathing but with a sprinkling of pity and condescension. When oh when was I ever going to see that Jeremy was a loser? That he had emotional problems, that he was so ungrateful for all she had done for us. Yes, she and Jeremy had exchanged “words” while I was gone, but my mother preferred spouting generalizations rather than elaborate on specifics.
I let her toxic words crash against the seawall I built around my heart, and although over time the force of water wears down even the hardest concrete, I determined at that moment to shut the sea gates and keep her out. I had listened too long over too many years to her lulling statements, catching myself often in agreement and ignoring the raging in my heart that yelled “traitor.”
There was Lady Macbeth, through logical argument and persuasive wiles, convincing her husband to murder Duncan—in his sleep no less. They would perpetrate a ruse, setting up Duncan’s guards for the fall, and taking no blame themselves. “Away, and mock the time with fairest show: false face must hide what the false heart doth know.” Was that a false face I was looking at across the beautifully laid-out table—hiding a false heart? I couldn’t be sure, but could I chance discounting the possibility?
After my mother let slip out, “I’m surprised your marriage has lasted this long,” I placed my napkin on the table and stood. My mother had already paid for lunch and finished off my half-eaten slice of raspberry cheesecake. When I made no comment, she tried a different tack to rattle me somehow. Clearly, she wasn’t getting the response she’d hoped for.
“I’ve been putting this off, Lisa, but cash flow is tight. I’m going to have to ask you and Jeremy to start making house payments.”
My jaw dropped enough for a sound to escape. I kept my voice low as we walked toward the front of the restaurant, the friendly wait staff and hostess nodding good-bye as we passed. “We pay the property tax. And we’re still paying on our construction loan. Those are our house payments.”
“Well, yes, of sorts. But they’re not payments to me. I paid for your property in cash, ten years ago—”
“I know that!” My words came out snappier than I’d have liked, and the tone only served to amp up my mother’s ire.
“And all this time, you’ve never made any attempt at paying me back—”
“How, pay you back? You own the property—and our house. If you would turn the title over to us, we’d be glad to set up a payment schedule, so you’d get all your investment back.” I sounded just like Jeremy.
My mother spun around as we exited the restaurant. The warm sea-drenched wind slapped me, as did my mother’s words. “How dare you?” She shook her head in consternation. “You’ve been letting Jeremy’s pathetic arguments brainwash you. Can’t you see what he’s doing—turning you against me, against our family—”
“Jeremy is my family.”
“No he’s not. He’s just someone you married. Someone you bumped into at the county fair and decided to live with. You don’t have a family. He hasn’t even given you any children—”
My heart clenched in pain, and bile rose like molten lava in my throat. I literally stamped my foot on the sidewalk where we stood waiting for the valet parking attendant to return with my car.
“That’s enough! I don’t want to hear another word.”
From the corner of my eye, I noticed a taxi at the curb three cars back. I strode over to the car and asked the driver if she was available to take my mother home. I rummaged through my purse for my wallet, my hands fumbling, and handed her a twenty, knowing that would more than cover the scant miles to my mother’s house. As the taxi pulled up to the loading zone, I gestured to my mother.
“There’s your ride home. I’ve already paid. Thank you for the lunch, but I’m late for work. And I better not miss out, seeing as I now have to come up with money to keep you in the lifestyle to which you’ve grown accustomed.”
For once, I didn’t regret the words that blurted from my mouth. I meant every one of them.
I turned my back while my mother huffed and got into the taxi and shut her door. As the car drove off and mine appeared at the curb, my body shook, every inch of it. Tears poured down my cheeks, but I wiped them away as I tipped the attendant. An ominous feeling came over me, as if I’d crossed some invisible line.
I was switching camps. The loyal daughter was now the adversary. I hadn’t even known there were sides until that moment. But it was too late for regrets or apologies. Here’s the smell of blood. What’s done cannot be undone.