Paradise Park

  A woman answered the door. I didn’t recognize her at first, but then I saw it was my stepmother. I said, “Joanne! Wow, you look great!” She must have had some kind of surgery. Her whole face looked thinner and tighter, and her nose was delicately pinched. Gone was that original eagle beak. And she was blond now, and probably twenty pounds thinner.

  She said, “I’m not Joanne; I’m Cathy.”

  That threw me for a second. I said, “Is this the home of Professor Milton Spiegelman?”

  She said, “Yes.” She looked at me funny. She said, “May I help you?” I said, “I’m his daughter, Sharon.” She looked a little bit afraid.

  “I’ve been out of touch for a while. Are you his wife?”

  She nodded. She looked like she really wanted to close the door.

  “Huh,” I said. “What happened to Joanne?”

  But she wasn’t inclined to answer that question.

  I said, “Is my dad home?”

  “He’s in back,” she told me.

  “Oh,” I said. “Could I see him? Don’t worry. Please. Don’t be alarmed. I’m not here to stay with you guys or anything. There’s just a question I want to ask.”

  She took me around the side of the house. She wasn’t going to let me in, so I couldn’t see whether Dad had redecorated in addition to remarrying, or if he still had his pipe collection in the den. He used to have all these polished wooden pipes on little wooden stands, and little boxes of loose tobacco, all organized in rows. My friends always thought it was a waste, the way Dad had those pipes standing there so pristine—he barely ever used them. So then we did. I wondered if he still had satin sheets on his bed—we thought they were wasted on him too. Sheets so smooth were wasted on the old. A couple of times my erstwhile high school boyfriend and I screwed around on them. And Dad never knew, except I got no pleasure from it. I never told anyone, but I was afraid of his bedroom, and of the pictures he had there of my brother, Andrew. In one of the pictures Andrew wore overalls. He must have been about one year old. I didn’t remember him then because I hadn’t been born. In the picture he wore pinstriped overalls and a matching engineer’s cap, and he was smiling, and he had huge dark eyes. You felt a little sick looking at him. You could practically get an ice cream headache.

  So now we turned the corner, and there was my dad raking leaves in the backyard. His hair was almost gone, and he’d lost so much weight I thought for a moment my eyes were fooling me again, and it wasn’t really he, but some newer model like Cathy. Yet looking closer I could see it was Dad, all right. Same slightly round-shouldered frame; same paunch, although so much smaller. Behind his glasses his eyes were brown and weak, molelike, which was deceptive, they appeared so gentle in that mild-mannered professorial way. I said, “Hey, Dad, how’ve you been?”

  His hand sort of drifted up, involuntarily. His fingers drifted to the base of his throat.

  “The place looks great,” I said. There was a new Japanese maple, with drifting wine-colored leaves. There was the swimming pool, with its aqua pool cover on it, and new flagstones on the border.

  “Sharon.” He looked at me warily. I realized he was checking out my clothes. My denim skirt and long-sleeved blouse. On me my outfit must have looked like a nun’s habit. He said, “What brings you out to Brook-line?”

  I said, “Look, I’m not here to ask you for anything. Don’t worry. I’m not here to get anything from you. Honestly.” I felt like I had to reassure him like that, since we’d had so many misunderstandings. After my little drug-dealing incident in college, after my letter to him from Hawaii all those years ago. Now, God, I was so different, and he was so much older. The whole world was a different place.

  I said, “Dad, I’m not even going to mention the past, because, you know what? The past is past.” I said, “Dad, I just had to come here to ask you this vital question about the future. Dad, I am a frum Jew. Baruch Hashem, I’m Orthodox! I’ve grown and evolved, and come to a place where I believe Hashem is the one who controls my destiny. And my life is not about grudges or conflicts or getting things from you, or getting away from you—and it hasn’t been for a long time. It’s about Torah. Torah is my life now; my guide and my blueprint. Torah is my map of the whole universe, and the rebbe, he is the one who saw inside me all the way to where he said I should bring my question—I mean the question of my future—to you.

  “And it’s not about what you should have been as a father, and what you did to me—because, you know what? I don’t define myself as a victim—even if I was one. I would rather define myself as a frum, joyful, ascending spirit. So whatever abuse and trauma I underwent, that’s all in the past, which is not where I’m living; I’m not dwelling on that. And right now, this visit is about where I’m heading, and who I should marry, because I have a proposal right now being offered to me, and I’m figuring out what I should do.”

  So my dad was pretty stunned by that speech, somewhat agape, almost fearful—like who was this woman claiming to be his daughter? And what new kind of weirdo had she become? At his side Cathy looked even more baffled, since, naturally, she had never met me before, but she was bravely dragging over lawn chairs, and bringing out iced tea. So we sat down together, and I chugged on. I explained my whole situation; how I was in the process of becoming a Bialystoker Hasid and learning my tradition, entering, so to speak, the novitiate of Jewish life, and how the crowning glory of the Jewish woman’s experience was marriage and creating a Torah-true household, and how this was what I wanted, too, I was pretty sure, and I had a chance to do this, and a suitor, but since I barely knew the guy, I was struggling with the decision whether to say yes to his offer, which was why the rebbe—who was my spiritual leader and the prime candidate to being the Messiah as soon as the world had prepared itself—had advised me to return to my origins, or rather, my parental roots, and do my father and mother and myself the honor of asking their advice. And that was all I wanted from him as my dad. Just his opinion.

  After all this my dad looked at me, and he said, “You’re asking me whether you should marry this Russian Orthodox … ?”

  “Jewish Orthodox Russian,” I corrected.

  My dad said, “I have no opinion at all.”

  It was funny, I thought I’d gotten to a point where he couldn’t wound me anymore. Still tears came to my eyes; my voice broke. “But you’re my father,” I said. “Can’t you see how different I’ve become?”

  “Sharon, I can see you’re different. I’m happy for you. But you can’t expect to come here to me after, what, twenty years? and pick up—”

  “Nineteen years,” I said. “But, see, that’s not the point. I don’t want to pick up the shreds of our relationship! I want to start over!”

  “Well … Sharon …” He told me ours was a relationship severely damaged. Ours was a relationship where his trust in me had been utterly destroyed. And even after he had got me admission to BU—gone out on a limb for me, given me that chance—which had been probably his biggest mistake—then, what with my drug use, and my partying, during which, he reminded me, I’d trespassed on his property while he’d been away, and trashed his house; what with me and my so-called friends being arrested for dealing, and my breaking every rule he’d established …

  “Dad! You’re still talking about freshman year! Dad! Give it a rest! This is my whole point, I’m talking about letting go.”

  He told me that as usual I was interrupting him. He told me it had always been about control. He said I had no idea what he and Joanne had put themselves through with me. He said, in fact, I had contributed to the stresses in their marriage.

  “What you put yourselves through with me?”

  He told me to stop interrupting. He reminded me that they had tried everything. That they had tried counseling. That they had thought about sending me to a residential home. That they had tried tough love.

  “No,” I said, “you never tried any kind of love.”

  He stiffened.

  Cathy said, “Milt, ple
ase.”

  Deliberately my dad said, “I guess the thing that I couldn’t take anymore was being lied to. Over and over and over again. The lying.”

  “I only lied because I had to,” I burst out. “I only lied when it was absolutely necessary.” I felt myself drawn in, somehow, sucked in closer to his heat. Still, I tried to stave the feeling off. “I’m here to tell you I’m past all that; I’ve been past it for a long while, that whole sick power struggle we had going. That’s not who I am anymore, and I hope that’s not you. Because, see, I forgive you, Dad. I want you to know that. I forgive you.”

  But he looked at me, like How dare you say that, he being in such denial he couldn’t even see what I would forgive him for. “I’m sorry, Dad,” I said, “I’m sorry you’ve held on to all that anger. But could we get back to my question, I mean, about the future?”

  “Sharon,” he told me again, “I have nothing to say about your question.”

  “Oh, Daddy.” I knelt in front of his lawn chair. “Daddy, Hashem can heal anything. The Moshiach is going to transform the world. All the dead will rise, all the wrongs will be righted. If I get married, I want you and Mom to walk me down the aisle, one on each side. I’m not that kid you remember anymore. I’ve worked so hard on myself, you don’t even know. Actually, it turns out I have a goldene neshama. I have a twenty-four-karat golden soul! I don’t want to cause you pain anymore. I want to cause you joy. I’ve been clean for years, and I’ve been climbing upward even longer. The only thing I’m interested in now is goodness, and your blessing.”

  He didn’t push me away. Actually, he held me there a moment. He told me he wished me well. He said, look, he wished me luck. He hoped I really was getting my life together.

  “Thank you,” I said, and we stood up. I told him I would go now; I wasn’t going to intrude on his life. I smiled through my tears. I hugged him good-bye. Then I said, “Oh, and just one more thing? Could I have a thousand bucks?”

  He froze.

  “Just kidding!” I let him go. “Cathy,” I said, “it was great meeting you.”

  I could feel their enormous relief as I headed back around the side of the house to the street. They ushered me along. I said, “Dad, by the way,

  where’s Mom?”

  He hesitated a moment. “I think she’s still up in Provincetown.”

  TO get out to the Cape I went to Rent-a-Wreck and got a car and drove. I’d kept up my driver’s license all those years, but I’d hardly ever driven a car, since of course, I’d never been able to afford one of my own. So now there I was behind the wheel again, which at first was a little frightening. I had a couple of near misses in the burbs, not remembering some of the niceties of driving, like yielding before left turns and things like that. But it all came back to me pretty quick. Pretty soon I was blasting rock ‘n’ roll, just speeding along the open road.

  There wasn’t much traffic so I skimmed right on over the Sagamore Bridge, high above the boats and barges, the canal underneath. And I drove up the snaky two-lane highway, up the Cape past Hyannis and Chatham and Wellfleet. Past a large Polynesian-themed motel with fake Hawaiian sculptures out front, pairs of imitation war gods. Past restaurants decked out with nets and lobster traps draped over the roofs. Past pottery showrooms and strip malls, all the way up to P-Town.

  The bright afternoon was turning cold. After parking my wreck I dug a sweatshirt out of my backpack and started walking up and down Commercial Street, looking for Shambala Books, where Dad thought my mother was now working. I could have asked for directions, but instead I walked along looking in the windows of the stores. Everything there was so expensive. There was a store that sold these miniature Japanese fountains where water bubbled over smooth black river stones; they cost about a million bucks. I mean, what price tranquility? There were a few stores selling S & M tchotchkes: chains, collars, whips, and leather. There were bars, and ice cream parlors, and several bookstores, including one for kids. There were little huts down by the wharf that sold crafts, like stained-glass suncatchers, and leatherwork. There was one that sold seashells, all different kinds, that you could pick out from bins.

  After asking around, I found out Shambala no longer existed, but the old owner had opened up a new place a couple blocks down, a store called Gamalan that sold crystals, games, and books. By this time it was almost five o’clock, and I was worried everything was going to close, so I ran over to Gamalan, which was a place I can only describe as tinkly, it was so cluttered with crystals, and miniature wind chimes, as well as games of chance and strategy, like Go.

  The saleslady said, “May I help you?”

  And I said tentatively, “Yeah, I’m looking for Estelle.”

  The saleslady said, “I’m sorry, we don’t have an Estelle.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Was there ever one? Estelle Spiegelman?”

  And the saleslady said, “Not that I can think of.”

  I turned to go, but out from the back came this other saleslady, rather fragile looking, with bright blue eyes, and long straight hair, white and brown mixed.

  “Mom!”

  “Sharon!” She recognized me right away. “Hi, sweetie!” She opened up her arms and hugged me. We were both talking at once. “Did you change your name?”

  “Oh, let me look at you. Sweetie! Baby! Yeah, years ago.”

  “So what’s your name now, Mom?”

  “I go by Stella, and that’s it. No last name.” And right there with the other saleslady behind the cash register, and the occasional customer coming in and going out, Mom hugged me, and I cried. I loved it.

  Mom never stinted in showing her affection when she was in the mood. Even though she was, like me, in general a bony, thin person, her spirit could be fat and soft and bosomy. She was wonderful at lying on couches. When it came to motherhood, it was more the outdoor stuff she hadn’t kept up with—like buying food and taking trash out, and remembering to register me for school. Kids thought I was cool in sixth grade or so, because at my mom’s house there were no rules. They knew that being a poet, Mom didn’t work outside the home, but unlike their mothers, my mom was laissez-faire. She never picked me up, or expected me home or anything, so she was a legend in my middle school. She was this invisible supernatural anarchist homemaker. Of course, even when I was ten, I knew that actually it was her alcoholism, not her altruism, that kept Mom so thoroughly off my case. I just didn’t let on—I just burnished up that myth people had of her and me. Then Mom took off and left me sleeping alone in the empty house. She blew her legend status, and no one envied me anymore.

  Still, I stood there in that New Age store on the Cape, and I said, “Mom, I want you to know, I haven’t come here to dwell on the past. I’m not here just to go over and over again all the damage that was done. I just came to find out how you are and—”

  “I’m good,” she said, “I’m doing pretty well. This place is real good for me. It’s a sanctuary for me.” And she told me about the store, and how she’d worked there the last five years, and lived in an old house with her cat, Sappho, and she was affiliated with a Wellfleet-based coven of witches, with whom she practiced magic and womyn’s rituals. She had just had her croning ceremony.

  “Oh, Mom,” I said, hushed. What would my community think of this? “Oh, Mom. You’re pagan.”

  “Yes, I am,” she told me. “And sober.”

  “Mazel tov!” I said. “Baruch Hashem,” and I meant it, but the words were a little bit painful coming out. I wondered if she was remembering the same things I remembered. The times she’d been sober before.

  “Three and a half years,” she said. “I wrote you a letter.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “I didn’t have your address, so I couldn’t mail it. Do you want me to find it for you? How long are you in town? I could find it for you and give it to you.”

  “No, that’s okay, Mom.”

  “It’s about the steps I’ve taken in my sobriety.”

  I really didn’t want to tal
k about her sobriety, since it made her so serious, since the whole subject was so important and so painful and about the past, and I kept promising myself we didn’t have to go back into the past. That was not what my visit was about! The past was just not a happy place for me. Growing up in my family had not been altogether hunky dory, which was maybe why later on I’d had to go through growing up again extra times.

  “There’s a big thank-you to you in it,” she said, referring to the letter.

  “Really? For what?”

  “For being my daughter,” Mom said. “I wanted to thank you in the letter, since I realized I’d never thanked you for that before.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Why did you need to thank me? I couldn’t help being your daughter, could I?”

  She looked hurt. “I just wanted to thank you for supporting me. You know, when you were a little girl, you were a great support to me,” she said.

  What choice did I have? I thought, but I kept my mouth shut.

  “You always tried to cheer me up,” she said. “And you did. Did you know that? You did cheer me up. Do you remember when you used to make those puppets for me?”

  “No, I don’t remember,” I said.

  “You don’t remember Madeline and Pepito? And you tried to make the horse, but you couldn’t get the mane to stick to the sock.”

  “No.” I shook my head, even though of course I did remember. It was second grade. The yarn wouldn’t stick, because I didn’t have fabric glue, so the horse looked somewhat bald, but the show went on anyway. I didn’t really think it was fair for her to bring it up. It seemed self-serving of her to remind me of when I was her little girl.