––––––––
After I pushed my way through the dogs into the kitchen, I noticed a note by the phone from Jeremy. “Dave Lerner called back. Here’s his number.” I recognized the Seattle area code. Lerner must have called before eight. I had left at seven to head out to Ed Hutchinson’s house, and Jeremy usually made it to the feed store by eight thirty.
I put down my purse and walked to the cupboard. My emotions had all drained out after such an intense morning, leaving me strangely empty and desensitized. I heated up a cup of water and made some mint tea, then realized I was starving. I composed some questions in my mind for Dave Lerner as I fried a couple of eggs and listened to the spattering as they cooked, the sound mingling with the songbirds raising a ruckus outside my open window. Summer seemed to concentrate so many smells into one—a rich aroma of earth and growing things. The roses, now responding to the late morning’s warmth, released subtle fragrances that permeated the air.
This would be the prominent scent in my memory—years from now, when I thought back to our time in this house we had built. Old roses in bloom, bursting with fragrance as if they couldn’t contain their potency within their fragile petal walls.
I clamped down on my heart as it tried to lead me to sadness, to the reminder that my days here were numbered. I told myself that wherever we moved to, I would plant roses first thing, close to whatever window faced south. Last night, someone had called asking to see Shayla, my lame Arab. The woman sounded kindhearted and eager to foster my mare. She even said she might take a goat or two. The thought of a good home for Shayla warmed my heart. Surely I could visit her from time to time. And maybe, one day, when Jeremy and I figured out our future, we’d get some more animals. It was inevitable.
I stuffed eggs in my mouth while I punched in Dave Lerner’s number. His secretary answered.
“Mr. Lerner wanted me to tell you he is en route to San Francisco on a consulting job. He should be landing shortly. He very much wants to meet with you and will call to arrange a time.”
“Did he say anything else? Any other message?”
“Only that he hoped you would make the time to see him.”
Would I ever! I thanked her and hung up, glad I would get to speak to Lerner in person and not just over the phone. Now I would find the key—the key that would open the door to all my answers. Lerner would know if my father had gone to San Diego. If he had participated in a dangerous experiment. He could tell me if he’d actually spoken to my mother years back and said the things she claimed he had.
I didn’t care about catching my mother in yet another lie; I just wanted the truth. Maybe Lerner could shed invaluable light on my father’s state of mind at the time. Had Nathan Sitteroff confided all to his best friend? Did men do that in 1960? I thought how hesitant my father had sounded in his letter to my uncle, barely opening up his heart and letting his pain flow out. Would he have been more forthcoming with Dave Lerner, a man he saw and worked with daily?
Knowing I would be moving out of my house in short weeks made me hesitate as I threw open the back deck doors and picked up my clippers. I’d thought to do some weeding in the perennial beds, but why bother? Instead, I kept one ear listening for the phone while I cut stalks of roses to put in vases. By the time I was done, I had nearly denuded all the shrubs, leaving few buds left to bloom. But my arms overflowed with old roses, their fragrance so potent I could taste rose in my mouth. I laid the bundle next to the sink and trimmed leaves and stems, then arranged them in vases.
The phone rang, and I was almost disappointed when I heard Jeremy’s voice. But his enthusiasm perked me up as he told me of a beautiful property he’d found for rent on the east side of Sebastopol, off the Bodega Highway. He didn’t want to give me any details but said we could go look at it this evening, after he got off work. I agreed and we hung up. Sebastopol was only about a half hour north, not that far for Jeremy to commute. And it was in the opposite direction of where my family lived, so that had appeal. Already, I could feel resistance building in my heart, knowing that nothing we’d find could compare to this place. I doubted we’d ever have a home so beautiful again. Yet we still had years ahead of us.
The thought of starting over, of a new beginning for me and Jeremy, softened my anxiety. That’s what we needed. This would be good for us, I reminded myself. Everything here on this property carried a taint on it now. Tainted by my mother’s cruelty.
I placed the vases throughout the house, splashing color into every room, every corner, filling the house with the smell of beauty, a scent strong enough to mask the permeating pain, disappointment, and outraged that seeped from the walls as potent as the stench of a fleabag motel room.
As I worked on extricating my heart from my beloved home, the phone rang again. My heart pounded as I heard an unfamiliar male voice on the line.
“This is Dave Lerner. Is this Lisa Sitteroff?” Lerner’s voice carried emotion across the line, a soft, pressing voice. Eager yet hesitant.
“I’m Lisa. I’m so glad you called. Are you in San Francisco?”
“I am.” He hesitated. “I was so startled to hear from you—and you sound so grown-up. I mean, of course you would be, but the last time I saw you, you were just a little kid.” He cleared his throat. “My secretary said you’d been trying to reach me. That you had something important to talk about.”
All the carefully worded sentences I had composed in my head disintegrated. But Lerner’s voice was filled with kindness and an eagerness to talk, which encouraged me to continue.
“Well,” I began, “I’ve been doing some research into my father’s death . . . and uncovering some not-so-pleasant things about my family . . .” That familiar feeling grew in my throat, making it hard for words to come out.
Lerner filled in the awkward moment. “I can understand. You want to know what happened, your dad’s death—what caused it. That’s only natural.”
“I heard you were close to my father. I just thought maybe you had seen him before he died, talked to him—”
“Lisa, your dad and I were very close. And yes, he did confide in me, about many things. He was a great guy, and watching him die was . . . unbearable.” I sensed Lerner starting to choke up as well. My mind flashed on a documentary I had seen recently, interviews with World War II vets, reflecting on their experiences in the war some forty years ago, still breaking down and shedding tears from the memories of their painful losses in battle, reliving those horrific moments when their friends took on fire and fell at their sides. I supposed that pressing Lerner to share his memories would be like that, but my need for answers outweighed my concern for his discomfort.
“Do you have time to meet me—for lunch or even just coffee? What is your schedule like?” I asked.
Lerner let out a sigh and seemed to pull himself back from the past. “I’d love to see you, Lisa. It’s been so many years since your dad died, yet in some ways it feels like yesterday. And I’ve kept a lot bottled up inside. Things I never talked about. Things . . . I promised your dad I’d never tell anyone . . .”
My heart sped up. “Dave, I need you to tell me what you know, what he said. And I just can’t do this over the phone.”
“Okay, sure. I agree. I’m booked up for the afternoon. I have to go to Napa. Got a car picking me up in about ten minutes to drive me there. Where is that in relation to you?”
“Actually, pretty close. Not even an hour from where I live.”
“That’s great. Okay. If you don’t mind driving over, I’ll call you when I’m done for the day. I’d be delighted to take you out to dinner. I have to fly back to Seattle in the morning. Can you do that?”
“Sure. I’ll let my husband know. We’re supposed to go look at some property, but I think he’ll understand. I don’t want to miss this opportunity to talk with you.”
Lerner gave me his hotel information and local phone number as my heart raced. After I hung up, I called Jeremy at the store and explained the situation. He picked up on my excitement, and I think he would have tagged along with me had I asked. But he was concerned about viewing that rental property and expressed his worry that someone else might snatch it out from under him if he put off the appointment to see it. If the place held promise, he could take me there tomorrow for a follow-up visit. With that agreed, we told each other “I love you” and Jeremy rang off to help some customers.
I had about five hours to kill and felt at a loss what to do. My heart wasn’t into tackling chores, my usual routine of keeping up the property—weeding, mowing, pruning. And I kept mulling over in my mind what I would say to Dave, which made my excitement grow. I felt on the verge of finding out the real truth about my father’s death. The guard was about to fling open that door to enlightenment and reveal all. I still clung to the scant hope that there was one universal truth, one clear-cut explanation that would dispel all the murkiness and intrigue enveloping Nathan Sitteroff’s demise.
Lerner had sounded so burdened. What could he possibly know that he’d been keeping inside all these years? He’d promised my dad to keep something secret. Was it just the knowledge that Nathan Sitteroff’s marriage was a sham—or did it involve something to do with his contracting leukemia—and how that had happened? Maybe it was the truth of Neal’s parentage. I wished I could speed up time, and of course, that only made the afternoon drag by as I took Shayla and the dogs for a long walk in the oak-studded hills, the grass dry and crackly under my hiking boots.
As I walked, I thought about Neal and wondered what he must be feeling. Wondered what was transpiring at my mother’s house. Surely things there had to be tense, perhaps volatile. I thought about calling Neal and offering him to come stay with us but threw that idea out as fast as it came. Jeremy, although back to work, was still recovering from his accident, and he needed things quiet—at least that was my rationale. Plus, he and Neal had never been comfortable together, with Neal picking up on Jeremy’s unspoken disapproval of my brother’s “useless” lifestyle. I know Jeremy would be compassionate and give Neal some room, but I didn’t want to aggravate my present marital relationship, which was better than it had been in many years. Neal could always stay at a motel, if it came to that.
I really needed to see Neal. We had things to discuss, but knew it would have to be in his time, when he was ready. Part of me wanted to get to him before my mother did.
Far be it from me to underestimate the long reach of her arm of guilt. Neal had been under her thumb for so many years; she obviously knew how to push his buttons in a heartbeat. What would she say to him, to turn him against me again, to make it look like whatever crisis they were facing had to be my doing? Would he fall for her ruses as before, or had this new revelation of Ruth Sitteroff’s betrayal—his first personal betrayal at her hand—severed his trust in her for all time? Our mother had lied to him for twenty-seven years. Had withheld vital information about his identity, and why? All for the sake of family unity—and more likely, for protecting her image on all fronts. What reasonable excuse could she possibly give him for hiding this truth from him? Surely that had to create some roadblock in Neal’s heart.
I had this sudden spark of thought—that maybe my mother had found a way to kill my father—to prevent him from revealing the truth and ruining her life. I knew it was beyond absurd! But how convenient that my father had died shortly after learning Neal wasn’t his. Hadn’t he contracted this fatal disease shortly after Ruth’s admittance to the truth? A truth she would have hidden even from him, had it not been conclusive. Julie had said my father knew Neal wasn’t his because he and my mother hadn’t been sleeping together.
My mind jumped to the next outrageous thought—envisioning my mother trying to lure my father to bed after weeks—or months—of abstinence. Knowing she was pregnant and needing to cover her tracks. My mind skipped to Ann Boleyn and how she’d tried to convince her brother to impregnate her, to cover her miscarriage to King Henry, knowing that if her husband found out she’d lost the child, she’d be banished. Unfortunately, though, it was her plan B that got her and her brother beheaded—even without their following through on her insane idea.
I thought back to Shakespeare. Had my father suspected some deceit, an act characteristic of Lady Macbeth? “Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds to their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.” My mother had committed “an unnatural deed,” taking her secret pregnancy to her pillows. What would she have tried? Seduction, trickery? I imagined her doubling the vodka in his evening drink, cornering him in the bedroom, the shower. Using sappy words to make him think she was sorry, that all their problems were her fault, begging for forgiveness? I could just picture this playing out, and my father refusing to fall for her sudden change of heart. Seeing through her manipulation. Being disgusted by her fawning. Knowing she had an ulterior motive for her inconsistent behavior. Suspicion festering.
The idea of murder was outrageous—I knew that. My imagination was galloping off in the distance, a horse without a rider, a rider without a head. And surely, if Dave Lerner had even suspected my mother had caused my father harm, he would have gone to the police, right? Or maybe my father had no evidence, only a hunch. And just how would Ruth Sitteroff have inflicted leukemia on him? I shook all these ludicrous thoughts away and glanced at my watch. After returning a hot and sweaty horse to the pasture, I took a quick shower and changed—getting out just in time to answer Dave Lerner’s phone call.
The moment I entered the lobby of the hotel, I recognized Dave Lerner standing by the concierge counter, even despite his bald head. He still wore a goatee and the thick-rimmed glasses I’d seen in the Penwell brochure. He stood a little taller than me and had a fairly substantial beer gut that hung over his nicely pressed slacks. I knew he had no reference for recognizing me, but he caught my eye and saw me walking toward him, extending both his hands to me as I drew close.
“Lisa.” He pumped my hands and studied my face. “You sure look a lot like your dad. Wow.”
I felt my face flush a little as we walked over to two overstuffed chairs in a corner of the lobby near an open-air bar. I sat next to him, our knees nearly touching. “Thanks for meeting me, Mr. Lerner—”
“Just call me Dave.”
“Okay. I . . . don’t really know where to start.”
“Do you want a drink? Glass of wine, a Coke?” Without waiting for my response, he caught the eye of one of the waiters and signaled him over. I ordered a glass of Napa Valley merlot, thinking it was just what I needed. Maybe a whole bottle would be even better. My hands were clammy and my heart raced.
“Well, first,” he said, “why don’t you tell me how your family is doing. Your brothers, your mom?” I sensed more than polite questioning. Perhaps the last thing he knew, as my father lay dying, was that my mother was pregnant with another man’s child. Would he have known any of what was to follow?
I fumbled with a place to start. “My older brother, Raff, is bipolar. He’s struggling with depression, and it’s not pretty.”
Dave’s face fell, but he waited for me to continue. “To be honest, things are bad on the home front. I mean, I’m married and have a wonderful husband—Jeremy. But my mother and I—well, we’re estranged at the moment. I started researching my past, trying to figure out why my father died . . . I was hoping that maybe learning what happened might help Raff with his depression. Instead, it caused more trouble . . . well, things are pretty ugly right now.”
Dave nodded, listening hard, listening between the lines. “So . . . what have you learned so far?”
I felt no compunction to hold anything back. Why should I have? I didn’t know Dave Lerner, and the more I told him, the better he’d be able to fill in my blanks. “I know my younger brother, Neal, is Ed Hutchinson’s son—not my father’s—”
Dave’s eyes widened, and he let out a big exhale. “How in the world did you find that out?” I knew instantly that Dave was privy to that secret. Perhaps it was one of the “secrets” he’d though he would have to dump on my head.
“Long story. I searched out Ed, went to see him. He’s dying of lung cancer. I met his daughter, Julie. She told me. Apparently her mother, Shirley, and my father had had an affair.”
“Right. Wow, sorry to hear about Ed.”
I sensed he said those words because they were the appropriate response, but I didn’t get the feeling Dave Lerner was at all torn up over the news. And so far, what I’d said to Dave was nothing he hadn’t known. He urged me to go on.
“I only just learned last week about Neal. And Neal met Ed—this morning—for the first time.”
“Wow,” was all Dave said.
I sighed. “It was pretty intense. And I don’t know if the two of them talked much after I left. Ed is almost too sick to speak. But it was certainly a shock for Ed to meet Neal and to realize he had a son, after all this time—”
Dave straightened in his chair, his eyes wide with surprise. “So he didn’t know about Neal? Not until today? All these years . . .” He shook his head, processing this information.
“My mother kept this under wraps. And Shirley didn’t tell her daughter until three years ago, right before she died. Julie had been carrying this fact around, trying to find her only brother, and then I showed up on her father’s doorstep. Her mother had only told her the name Nathan. She didn’t know his last name, or that he’d been a Penwell employee.”
“And that must have been a shock for her as well.” Dave scrunched his eyebrows, remembering. “I didn’t know Shirley Hutchinson. Only by sight at a company event here or there. Ed kept her on a pretty tight leash. But then, she left him, divorced him, got custody of their daughter.”
“But you knew about my dad’s affair with her, right?”
“Yeah. I did. Your dad wasn’t proud of it. Felt a lot of guilt over the whole thing. But personally, I think it was what he needed. Some consolation in his last months. Someone to care for him, help him through the rough spots.”
“And what about San Diego? My mother said she had run into you years after my father died and you told her others had contracted leukemia too.”
Dave’s jaw dropped open. “Others? What others?”
“You know, from volunteering for that experiment. I just need to know—was it really dangerous? Had Penwell recruited employees to volunteer? Or had something gone wrong there that exposed people to radiation? That’s what my mother told me.”
Dave shook his head, his mouth still hanging open. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. And I never saw your mother after the funeral.”
“Really?” I sat back in my chair and took a deep breath and mulled his words. “So . . . I don’t get it. Did my dad go to San Diego?”
“He did. There was some research opportunity down there. That’s why he went. After he found out your mother was pregnant, he signed up for the research team—a two- or three-month stint. It gave him some breathing room away from your mother. But an experiment? Something dangerous? Why would Penwell be involved in something like that? We were engineers, scientists—not guinea pigs.”
“Ed Hutchinson seemed to think my dad had volunteered for that experiment too. Although, he didn’t recall anything about it.”
“Maybe a story he and your mother invented.”
“Well, if so, why?”
“Maybe to . . . well, frankly, I don’t know. Maybe your mother wanted a reason for your dad’s illness. So she assumed he had been exposed to radiation . . . down there.”
A change in Dave’s voice made me look deeper into his face. A rush of emotion overcame his features, and he closed his mouth, thinking. I stared at him, wanting him to keep talking. The waiter brought our glasses of wine, and I sipped mine while Dave signed the bar tab. Dave watched the waiter walk away, and then looked keenly into my face.
“After he came back from San Diego, he was a changed man. He had been to see you kids, and that broke his heart. You have to know, Lisa, that he loved you kids so much. He had wanted to make his marriage work, but . . . he just couldn’t stay. He came home to Ruth’s growing pregnancy—something that glared at him in judgment. Ruth wanted your dad to go along with the lie—that the baby was his—but it broke his heart. Even after Neal was born, even knowing Neal wasn’t his, he still loved that baby. Loved all of you. Your dad had a heart of gold. One of the most honorable and gentle men I’ve ever known. It killed me to see him so unhappy, so hopeless.
“He went into a spiral, into a deep depression. He showed up to work each day, and I tried hard to cheer him up, but the closer Ruth’s due date approached, the more distraught he grew. And he started drinking too. I tried to get him to take time off. He had already moved out of the house, was living in an apartment in Hollywood with Shirley Hutchinson. And when Ruth went into labor, he dutifully went to the hospital and paced the floor, playing the role everyone had expected of him, faking his joy when the nurse came out with the good news of a son. Handing out cigars at work, fielding all the handshakes and congratulations, all the while under the eyes of his boss, Ed Hutchinson, the father of ‘his’ child. It ate at him, piece by piece.”
Dave stopped and tilted his head. “So, from what you told me, Ed didn’t have a clue. All that time, your dad working in his office, dealing day in and out with Ed, knowing he was looking at the father of his wife’s new baby, and Ed didn’t have a clue.” He paused, his face displaying what I could only interpret as astonishment. “You’d think Ed might have suspected. I mean, wouldn’t he have been able to do the math? Even guess there was a possibility he was the father? I never saw him act differently—but, come to think of it, maybe he did.”
Dave finished off his glass of wine and got the waiter’s attention. I knew I had to drive back home, but one more glass was called for. Dave ordered another round, and I waited for him to continue talking. My mind whirled with all these images of my father at work, facing Ed Hutchinson, knowing Ed was the father of his newborn child. What a drama!
“I was just thinking,” Dave said,” that Ed did seem to treat your dad differently after Neal was born. Maybe he did know and just kept it inside.”
“I don’t think so. I saw his face this morning, when Neal told him. He was beyond shock.”
“Or maybe he had forgotten.” Then Dave shrugged. That wasn’t something you’d easily forget—that you had a bastard son who was now being raised by your coworker. “Okay, so let’s say Ed really didn’t know. Maybe your mother reassured him, told him she was sure the baby was Nathan’s. Let him off the hook. Protecting her reputation and all that. Their affair had been short. It wasn’t like your mother and he had anything going. Ed slept around—with more than one employee’s wife,” he said with some cynicism. “But that’s another story for another time.”
Dave’s thoughts ran along the lines of mine—that Ruth would have kept her secret forever—and wished she could have kept it from my father as well.
“You said Ed treated my father differently after Neal was born. How do you mean?”
“It wasn’t anything blatant. But at Penwell we all met together many times during a day, your dad and I working on some problem and Ed checking in with us. So, I was often in the room when Ed would face your dad. There was something there. Obviously, your dad was feeling some pretty intense emotion. And it was getting in the way of his concentration. Ed would have words with him about the quality of his work, his deadlines getting behind, stuff like that. Which got your father upset, compounding the tension.
“But I sensed something else. Not just Ed being annoyed with your father. Ed, for the most part, was a fairly understanding, easygoing guy for a boss. Never clamped down hard with deadline threats or criticizing his team. We had a fairly small department—the engineers and mathematicians. We all got along; it wasn’t a competitive environment at all. So, Ed’s treatment of your dad was . . . out of place. That’s why I wondered if he suspected the baby was his. Maybe Ed had always wanted a son. Or maybe Ed resented your dad out of guilt.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe more like he was furious at my father for sleeping with his wife—although it didn’t seem to count that Ed had slept with Ruth. Julie said her dad was jealous and possessive of Shirley. Maybe my dad living with Shirley was a slap in his face each day, reminding him he’d lost his own wife, and reminding him it was his fault for having had the affair with Ruth, which triggered it.”
I thought over all these possibilities as I finished the second glass of wine. “I really don’t think he had a clue about Neal. And from what Julie tells me about her father, he probably couldn’t have cared less that he had fathered a child. Julie even thinks there could be other kids out there, from Ed’s many affairs. She painted him as completely uncaring, and a lousy, abusive father and husband. So I’m thinking it’s something else.”
Dave nodded. “Yeah, maybe. But you’re probably right. It was more like Ed to be furious that Nathan had whisked Shirley away from him. Male conquest and all that. We’ll never know, I guess.” He upended his glass of wine. I got the feeling Dave was more a beer drinker from the way he plowed through those two glasses of merlot. “You are staying to have dinner with me, right? They have a pretty decent restaurant here, or so I’m told.”
“Sure, I’d planned to.”
“Are you hungry?”
I nodded. “But I know you have more to tell me. And, I have to be honest—I’ve been digging for weeks now to get to the bottom of all this. It’s cost me a lot—emotionally, even financially. I keep thinking I’ll never really know the truth—”
“Well,” Dave said, standing and gesturing at the restaurant I could see through double glass doors, “I often say truth is a matter of perspective. Sometimes it’s completely subjective, sometimes not. But truth is always subject to interpretation, regardless. Like Einstein proved—it’s all relative. You may think you’re standing still, looking out a window at another train that appears to be stationary, only to find you are both racing along at the same speed, and it only looks like you’re standing still.”
I got up and followed Dave into the plushly decorated restaurant, reflecting on his words, which neatly echoed my own observations about truth. The truth is relative. Funny, I thought. Maybe among relatives the truth was especially relative.
Some quiet music played from hidden speakers. We wove through tables, the restaurant about half full, and sat at a booth in a far, secluded corner, with windows all around. Outside the window, a Japanese garden looked serene in the evening twilight, featuring a small waterfall emptying into a koi pond. We barely spoke as we looked over the menus, then ordered. With that business done with, Dave laid a hand on mine, a simple, uncomplicated gesture of friendship.
“I remember one day your father didn’t show up for work. I knew he’d been sick lately, weak, his face pale. He said he’d gotten the flu and was getting over it. This was about, oh, three months after he’d returned from San Diego. I called his apartment, to see how he was, but no one answered. For some reason I panicked. Something told me your dad was in trouble—I don’t know why or how. I clocked out and left work and raced over to Hollywood. I’d been to his apartment a few times since he moved out.” He paused while our waiter returned with warm bread and dipping oil. I realized I’d been holding my breath, and let it out. Dave continued.
“I found him unconscious on the kitchen floor. Shirley was out somewhere and the door had been left unlocked, so when no one answered, I just went in—something I wouldn’t normally do. But seeing him there, lying on the linoleum . . . I called for an ambulance and waited. Then I drove over to the hospital, where they got him on fluids and started a battery of tests. At first they thought it was anemia, but when the blood tests came back and they saw his white cell count, the doctors realized he had leukemia.” Dave looked through the window at the garden and took a deep breath.
“After that, he was in and out of the hospital . . . until, near the end, he was admitted and he stayed there until . . . it was over. I often sat by his bedside and kept him company. Sometimes we talked, but he eventually got so bad he just rambled. Dwelt on pieces of memories that floated into his mind, things I couldn’t understand.”
“Did my mother ever visit him? Did she bring us kids?”
Dave looked back at me, and I could tell he wanted to give me some consolation, but his eyes were apologetic. “I only know of one time, near the end. I had just arrived as your mother was leaving. I waited by the stairwell because I didn’t want her to see me and feel she had to be friendly, make small talk. She had you and your older brother in tow. I imagine she’d left the baby with a sitter. I’ll never forget your brother’s distraught face—”
“Raff. He recently told me how he’d seen Dad in the hospital before he died.” I recalled Raff’s bitter words—the curse, he called it. How our father had told him he was now the man of the house. Maybe this was the same instance Dave was speaking about. “The memory of that last conversation with our father had upset him a lot.”
“Sure, I can imagine. And your dad was very upset she had brought you kids. He didn’t want you to see him sick like that. He had told her to stay away, so as she was heading out, he yelled at her, told her never to come back. I can only guess what message that sent to your brother, hearing that. It must have broken his little heart.”
Dave suddenly grew quiet, then a change came over his features, a hardening, as if resisting things aching to pour out. “Right before your dad died—maybe a week, maybe less—I arrived at the hospital and headed up the stairs to your dad’s room. He was now in a private room, more or less in hospice care at this hospital. I was down the hall when I heard your dad talking. He was terribly upset, nearly hysterical. I hurried to go in to him, then stopped in my tracks. Ed Hutchinson was in there, with him. That completely surprised me. I thought, What’s he doing here? I didn’t want to intrude, so stood back . . .” He took a deep breath and composed himself, as emotion was starting to get the better of him. “I couldn’t make out their conversation. And then Ed stormed out, and I scooted around the corner so he wouldn’t see me. I went in to your father . . . and heard something I’ve never forgotten to this day. Not a word of it. Like it was branded on my heart.
“Lisa, what I’m about to tell you I’ve told no one. Nobody in these, what, twenty-five years. I’ll try to explain it as best as I can, but there’s one thing you need to think about. Your dad was very sick. Often delusional. They had him on experimental treatments, chemo, radiation. It wasn’t like today. Leukemia was a mystery. Well, it still is now, in many ways. But back then, they were trying all kinds of treatments and dosages. Sometimes your father was so drugged he was nearly incoherent, ranting, mumbling about strange things I couldn’t make sense of. So, I had to piece together much of what he told me.”
He paused, then met my eyes with another apologetic expression. “So you’ll just have to come to your own conclusions, okay?”
I reached for my water glass and took a long sip. Although the room was air conditioned, I felt sweaty in anticipation. As Dave spoke, I listened carefully. Then, I closed my eyes and let the scene unfold as his words entered my ears and painted a picture of what transpired twenty-five years ago. I could only imagine . . .