Exit the Labyrinth: A Memoir of Early Childhood Depression — Its Onset and Aftermath

By Stephanie Kay Bendel

For more than forty years, Margo Witz has been troubled by the effects of an early childhood trauma she can’t remember. Despite years of therapy, she has experienced severe depression and recurrent nightmares. She knows that as an effect of the forgotten trauma, she has difficulty connecting to her own emotions and wants desperately to become normal. When her father needs emergency heart surgery, she travels to Wisconsin to be with her family despite her dread, for her depression usually deepens when she returns to her childhood home. That fact is particularly puzzling, since her energetic, boisterous family has always been loving and supportive. Being in her hometown brings back a lot of memories, many of them not-so-pleasant, but so much of her childhood is still a blank. Her therapist is convinced that discovering the root of her depression will help her unlock those memories. During hours of waiting at the hospital, Margo relives some of the unusual occurrences in her life. Why does she hear an old wooden screen door slam when no one else does? Why was she, as a child, terrified of the walls in her home?

Although this is a true story, it reads like a novel. For those who enjoy memoirs, it is a must-read. Those who have battled with depression may also find comfort in this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie Kay Bendel
• Release date: Feb 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311564054

Stephanie Kay Bendel

Stephanie Kay Bendel is the author of EXIT THE LABYRINTH: A Memoir of Early Childhood Depression – Its Onset and Aftermath, MAKING CRIME PAY: A Practical Guide to Mystery Writing, and A SCREAM AWAY, a romantic thriller published under the house name, Andrea Harris. She has also written numerous short stories and articles on writing.Stephanie has taught writing to college and adult education classes. She has run writing workshops for over thirty years. She lives in Westminster, CO, with her husband, Bill.

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Exit the Labyrinth

A Memoir of Early Childhood Depression –

Its Onset and Aftermath

by Stephanie Kay Bendel

Copyright 2014 by Stephanie Kay Bendel. All Rights Reserved.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Dedication

To the late Dr. Joseph E. Dreyfus and to Dr. Susan M. Oliver. Thank you for helping me find my pieces.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Which concerns the heart of the problem, although I didn’t understand it at the time.

Chapter 1

Which concerns Daddy’s medical condition and the absence of feelings, travel plans and childhood fears, the physics of hot air rising, a mysterious lump and a serial killer.

Chapter 2

Which concerns reflections on personal identity, building bicycles, Daddy’s greatest gift, and more on the mysterious lump.

Chapter 3

Which concerns January blues, meeting Daddy, and beginning the search for puzzle pieces.

Chapter 4

Which concerns coming to Grandfather Falls in the present and the past; snakes, imaginary and real; an architectural history of the Witz house; and an encounter with invisible paint blotches.

Chapter 5

Which concerns meeting siblings, the etiquette of eating in times of crisis, a visit before surgery, another of Daddy’s unwitting gifts, Ellie, and a haunted dormitory.

Chapter 6

Which concerns the concept of time, the right way of doing things, Andy and an unusual Easter Bunny, hospital chapels and a frightening memory, and beginning hypnotherapy.

Chapter 7

Which concerns Bogia, Uncle Allen, unanswered prayers, another mysterious lump, my problem with feelings, and Oliver’s plans.

Chapter 8

Which concerns problems of perception, the screen door’s ghost, and Daddy’s philosophy of productivity and its consequences.

Chapter 9

Which concerns the operation’s outcome, definitions of words, feelings that are out of sync, and some inexplicable early memories.

Chapter 10

Which concerns Daddy’s condition and more out-of sync feelings; memories of the nun, the meat grinder, and the Communists; Daddy’s secret life; and yet another obstacle to finding the truth.

Chapter 11

Which concerns religion and morality, including the ethics of piano disposal; an examination of conscience and the problem of making judgments; the mechanics of obsession; and the connections between logic, imagination, feelings, and intuition.

Chapter 12

Which concerns what happened to Harry, Momma’s childhood and her sacrificed dream, meeting Father Calloway, the rules for civilized peeing in fields, and seeing Daddy?

Chapter 13

Which is all about Daddy: logic and illogic, saving a leg, purchasing hard candy, hiding money from burglars, determining the quality of floor tile, and the etiquette of bill collecting.

Chapter 14

Which concerns the multiple effects of paint blotches, a second recur-ring dream, trying on shirts, a harried ride to the hospital, and the metaphysics of dowsing for water.

Chapter 15

Which concerns some experiences dealing with intuition, instinct, the unconscious mind and other inexplicable forces; my discovery of the ultimate principle of morality; a cheerful woman with out-of-sync feelings; and engraving messages on a baby brain.

Chapter 16

Which concerns being twins; Oliver’s taste in movies; a six-legged, two-headed calf; a haunting dream; and waiting.

Chapter 17

Which concerns a stillbirth and subsequent feelings, fears and obsessions.

Chapter 18

Which concerns decisions that disappointed Daddy; memories of Oliver, a lost child, and serial killers; and meeting my unconscious.

Chapter 19

Which concerns one of the lessons Daddy taught me, obelisks and pyramids, more about paint blotches, and the case of the headless bride.

Chapter 20

Which concerns the obsession of Nina Apollo, differing views of responsibility, the questionable value of experts, and another important puzzle piece.

Chapter 21

Which concerns Daddy’s improving condition, Momma learning to drive, obsessions that aren’t exactly obsessions, testing the treadmill, and the third recurring dream.

Chapter 22

Which concerns an odd breakfast, messages from Daddy’s friends, a financial revelation, Daddy’s philosophy of fun, meeting an inner child, and a pyromaniacal poltergeist.

Chapter 23

Which concerns beheadings, emotions and their consequences, and a discussion of universes and tuning personal radios.

Chapter 24

Which concerns some young houseguests, a mashed potato volcano, the strange circumstances of Lydia’s death, and a discussion as to whether logic is better than feelings.

Chapter 25

Which concerns the concept of screen memories, and Rob.

Chapter 26

Which concerns more mysterious lumps, more struggles between feelings and logic, lunch with limericks, and deciphering ownership of pain.

Chapter 27

Which concerns the symptoms of sociopathology, a discussion of parallax, Momma’s inner strength, a peek at some ancestors, and those infernal paint blotches again.

Chapter 28

Which concerns revelations — minor and major — a misplaced puzzle piece, goodbyes, and a new beginning.

Chapter 29

Which concerns life as seen through both eyes at once.

Author's Note

Further Reading

Acknowledgements

This book was written over a period of many years, and I wish to thank the following people for their helpful comments and suggestions: Catherine Adams, Coreen Bergstrom, Susan Bergstrom, Penny Berman, Joann Brothers, Carol Cail, Roger Clark, Karen Clancy Cribby, John Christensen, Diane Doe, Dr. Joseph E. Dreyfus, Judy Gilligan, Theresa Goldstrand, Doris Hayes, Dr. Bernice Hill, Joyce Jay, Bob Johnson, Carolyn Oakley, Eileen Ross, Barbara Shark, Dr. Susan Solomon, Don Stilson, Joe White, Alexandra Wolff. Finally I thank my husband, Bill. Without his patience, encouragement and support, this book would not exist.

Prologue

Which concerns the heart of the problem, although I didn’t understand it at the time.

Wednesday, April 11, 1984

I sat, eyes closed, in a comfortable reclining chair in a psychiatrist’s office in Wellesley, Massachusetts; at the same time, I stood, eyes open, in the doorway of my mother’s kitchen in Grandfather Falls, Wisconsin, almost three decades earlier. I was at once a budding teenager ignorant of the events of the future and a forty-one-year-old woman oddly ignorant of the past.

From the present came a gentle male voice. Okay, you’re entering the kitchen the next morning. Is anyone else there?

Yes. I heard my voice reply in the uncertain tones of an adolescent. Momma is at the stove. She’s making pancakes. At that moment, I actually smelled hot pancakes and fresh coffee and heard the sizzle of oil on the griddle, although I knew full well these perceptions were ghosts.

What’s happening now? Dr. Bonneau asked.

I watched my mother turn to me, tears in her eyes. In the chair in the doctor’s office, I felt all my muscles tense. From my lips came the cry of a thirteen year old. Momma says, `Margo, Honey, Lydia died.’ `No!’ I cry. Then I ask, `When?’ and Momma says, ‘Last night. At twenty after ten.’

There was silence and my heart clenched with pain, both then and now. I had forgotten it was possible to hurt so much.

Margo? Dr. Bonneau’s voice was soft with concern.

My child-self, trapped in time, struggled to find words. At last I whispered, It’s my fault.

Later, when the trance was over, I was entirely in the present again, surrounded by dark oak shelves filled with leather-bound books and small oil paintings of European street scenes. From behind his massive desk, Dr. Bonneau leaned forward and said gently, "You know now, of course, that it wasn’t your fault?"

I hesitated. He was absolving me. How could I explain that I couldn’t absolve myself? Even then, I said, nodding, "I told myself it wasn’t my fault. I’d behaved responsibly, logically. I knew I didn’t cause her death. He nodded and I added quickly, lest he should misunderstand, But I was connected to it somehow. I know that! It was no coincidence that she died at that very moment. What I don’t understand is what that connection was — and how much responsibility I bear for what happened."

He lifted his rimless glasses from his nose and rubbed his right eye for a moment. Margo, is it possible that this incident was the beginning of your depression?

I considered. No. Whatever went wrong in my mind definitely happened long before I was thirteen. I’ve had the nightmares since I was a small child — before I started school.

And did you have specific nightmares after Lydia died?

Oh, yes. His words triggered memories of haunted dreams in which the young woman who had been like an older sister to me pleaded silently with her lovely gray eyes, her china-fine arms outstretched, fresh blood staining the front of her dress. I dreamed about her for months.

And then?

Then I forgot.

And after you forgot, did you feel normal again?

No. There was the blackness — the depression.

Can you describe it?

I thought for a few moments, then said, It’s like walking in a pitch black tunnel—a labyrinth, really, because I keep running into walls. Sometimes I think I’ve found a door, but it’s always locked. There’s no way out.

He nodded and stared at me in silence, and I thought of another analogy. It’s like trying to swim in an ocean of black gelatin on a completely overcast night. I have to paddle as hard as I can just to keep from sinking, and no matter how hard I paddle and kick, I don’t get anywhere. Not that there’s anywhere to go, because the ocean is endless. There’s no way out — no hope. And I’m so tired — exhausted all the time.

When Dr. Bonneau spoke again, his voice was gentle, but his face was stone-hard. Do you ever think about suicide?

I nodded. "Sometimes it’s all I can think about. And the scary thing is that it seems so logical. It’s the only possible way out."

Do you remember the first time you thought about killing yourself?

Yes. I was nine.

And was there anything upsetting happening in your family at that time?

I shrugged. Nothing I can think of. Then I added, That was the year my brother Oliver was born.

And how did you feel about that?

Why is that important? Are you asking if I was jealous? I don’t think so. He was a cute little baby.

He frowned. "Is it possible that was when your depression began?"

No. I remember the blackness was there much earlier. As I said, before I began school, and I started when I was five.

Dr. Bonneau studied me for a long time. Have you ever tried to kill yourself?

No.

Why not?

It would devastate my family. I can’t do that to them. I love them.

His face softened. You’re going to be all right.

"But will I ever know why I’m like this?"

I think so. It takes time.

It’s been so long already.

That’s because you keep repressing your memories. What we have to concentrate on is getting you to remember them long enough to find a pattern.

Chapter 1

Which concerns Daddy’s medical condition and the absence of feelings, travel plans and childhood fears, the physics of hot air rising, a mysterious lump and a serial killer.

Boulder, Colorado

Tuesday, February 14, 1989

9:30 p.m.

I suspected something wrong as soon as I heard my mother’s voice on the phone. It was ten-thirty in Wisconsin, an hour at which Momma was usually asleep. When she addressed me as Pugsy, a childhood nickname I had disavowed on my fortieth birthday, I knew it was serious.

Is Daddy all right? I asked.

He has to have open-heart surgery, Momma said, her voice tense and higher than usual. They’ve scheduled it for Thursday morning.

My father had been in the hospital for the last five days, following a near-fatal episode of what the doctors thought was congestive heart failure. In the last fifteen months Daddy had experienced two other such episodes, and the doctors had attributed them to pulmonary embolisms. Amazingly, they were able to revive him each time, but now they were puzzled because Daddy had been taking an anti-coagulant since July; blood clots should not have been able to form.

I looked around my blue and white kitchen, so peaceful and homey, with familiar tendrils of philodendron and pothos trailing down the oak cabinets, and I tried to dispel the sense of unreality that overwhelmed me. I could feel Momma’s anxiety, sharp and suffocating, but I felt none of my own. As usual, I was out of sync. What I did feel was an odd elation, as though something wonderful had happened. It seemed logical to me. After all, the most frightening part of Daddy’s attacks had been that the doctors were unable to figure out what was causing them. If they were going to operate now, perhaps they’d finally diagnosed the problem and would be able to prevent future attacks. I didn’t say any of this to Momma, however, for my reasoning would sound unfeeling. And as always, a wave of guilt came over me. What kind of daughter was I, not to be worried about my father?

I checked my thoughts and silently recited the mantra Dr. Bonneau had given me years ago. "You’re not responsible for your feelings. They are what they are. No matter what you think or feel, it doesn’t make you a bad person. It’s what you do that counts! I never really believed that. I still wanted to have the same feelings other people did, but what I had to do now was to comfort Momma, and to do that I needed more information. Why did the doctors decide to operate? I thought all Daddy’s cardiac tests were negative."

They were, but because there’s so much heart trouble in his family, they did an angio- angio- some kind of test today. Momma’s voice cracked slightly and her Polish accent had thickened, her th’s hardening into d’s as they always did when she was tired or stressed.

Is that when they inject radioactive dye into the blood vessels of the heart?

Yes. One artery is 85 per cent blocked, and two others need to be bypassed. They don’t know why the problem didn’t show up earlier, but they said he can’t possibly go home in his condition.

Her words hung on an uncertain note, and I was sure that what was uppermost in Momma’s mind was Daddy’s sister, Aunt Marie, who had died during open-heart surgery only last September. Years earlier, two of his brothers had also died of heart attacks. Why, then, wasn’t I anxious? If only I had normal feelings! I shook the temptation to self-analyze and concentrated on Momma, who sighed deeply on the other end of the phone line.

Are you all right? I asked. She had suffered cardiac irregularities herself, and a lot of stress might precipitate major problems.

I’m fine, she replied, but she’d say that no matter how she felt.

I cleared my throat and tried to convey concern. I’m worried about you being home alone tonight. Was I? I felt like a liar, but the more I tried to assess my feelings, the more confused I became. I was worrying about the fact that I didn’t feel worried. It was easier not to think about what I was feeling, but simply to do what needed to be done.

Oliver was upset, too, Momma said. "He was going to drive up here from Milwaukee, but I told him to wait until morning. I didn’t want him driving at night — the roads are icy, and he’s got so much on his mind already.

The doctor gave me something to help me sleep, she continued, and if I need anything else, I’ll call Andy. He can be here in a few minutes, so don’t worry. As always, Momma was sensible and in control.

Brad’s in Washington. I glanced at the blue-framed photo of my husband that I kept above the kitchen desk. I’ll call him and let him know what’s going on. Then I’ll see about getting plane tickets.

I hung up the phone. If I had any apprehension, it was more about Momma’s reaction than about Daddy’s bypass. An excellent candidate for surgery, Daddy had always been vigorously active, with a physical strength that belied his seventy years. He enjoyed three brisk walks a day. He chopped wood with a fury. My parents heated their home primarily with wood, and several years’ supply was always stacked neatly in the side yard. And for the past two years, Daddy had been building a road to some property he owned outside of town. He’d set out at five in the morning and operate his bulldozer, haul rock, and cut down trees — mostly by himself. And now the doctors were saying he’d been doing all that with a severe blockage in his heart.

A familiar click somewhere in the back of my brain told me that I was beginning to dissociate, something that often occurred when I was faced with returning to my childhood home. In my therapy, I’d learned that dissociation was a psychological defense mechanism. I didn’t have much time. In minutes my mind would be foggy, I might be overwhelmingly sleepy, and despite my years of therapy there was a small chance I wouldn’t even remember half the details of tonight by tomorrow morning. I grabbed a pad of paper and a pen.

Call Brad. Call Rick. Plane tickets. Car rental. What else?

Though it was after midnight on the east coast when I called, Brad was awake as soon as I told him what had happened. I’d like to see him before the surgery, I said. Do you think I should fly into Chicago or Minneapolis? Brad did a lot of traveling in his work, and he knew airports, plane schedules and highways routes far better than I did.

Let me check my newspaper, he said. As I waited, I studied the blue-framed photo again. Brad’s image looked back at me with kind, intelligent hazel eyes. His full dark beard and neatly trimmed mustache gave him the look of a college professor, which he had actually been in the early years of our marriage. Though he was now an executive in a large computer company, he’d never lost the thoughtful air that the photo displayed. Just the sight of his face comforted me. After a moment he returned to the phone. They’re predicting snow for both Chicago and Minneapolis.

I had visions of driving a rental car on unfamiliar roads at night in a snowstorm. Maybe I shouldn’t go, I said. After all, my sister and brothers will be there for Momma, and there’s really nothing I can do for Daddy. In truth, I didn’t want to go, although I loved my family. It wasn’t the fear of icy roads or a winter storm that held me back. It was the fear of facing all my shortcomings that were so much more evident when I was around my boisterous, energetic family. That and the inexplicable dark feelings that tormented me whenever I returned to the house where I spent most of my childhood. It was as though I was eleven years old, or eight, or five or three. That house was haunted with the ghosts of memories and sensations.

Have you thought about how you’d feel if your dad doesn’t survive the operation? Brad asked.

Daddy will be fine, I insisted. I know that.

You can’t know that, Brad said gently. You want him to be fine, but if the worst happened, you’d feel bad the rest of your life because you weren’t with your family.

You’re right, I admitted, but I can’t think straight right now. Tell me what to do.

Okay. Got a paper and pencil? Fly into Chicago, he said. The drive is a little longer, but you’ll be on interstate highways, and they’ll be in better condition. Call the airport now and see what airlines have seats available. Set all the thermostats to 60 degrees.

Slow down. I can’t write that fast.

He took a breath and went on. Call Rick at his dorm and tell him what’s happening. Arrange for a car rental — waive the additional insurance; our policy covers that.

I wrote furiously as he continued. In my present state of mind, I wouldn’t have thought of half these details. Afterward I’d worry that I’d left something important undone because I couldn’t be sure of what I had actually done and what I had only thought of doing. If there was no opportunity to check, I’d agonize, unable to stop imagining disastrous results. Had I unplugged the iron? What if the house burned down? Had I remembered to lock the front door?

But now all I had to do was go down Brad’s list and draw a line through each task as it was accomplished. By the time I hung up the phone I felt the situation was manageable again. The fog was lifting.

I didn’t wake Jackie, our nine-year-old daughter. She was close to my parents and I worried that if she knew the situation, she’d have trouble sleeping the rest of the night. But as I came up from the basement lugging two suitcases, she stood at the top of the stairs, her long blonde hair rumpled from sleep. In a pink and white nightgown, one fist rubbing a drowsy eye, she stared at me. A tiny sparkly red heart — a reminder of that day’s school valentine party — adorned one cheekbone.

Mommy? What are you doing with the suitcases? Are we going somewhere?

I continued up the stairs and explained that we’d be going to Grandma’s the next morning. Tears came to her large green eyes. I don’t want to miss school, she said.

I hugged her. We’ll stop at school on the way to the airport and pick up your homework so you won’t get behind. Actually, you’ll only miss a day and a half, because Thursday’s a half-day and there’s no school Friday or Monday.

I thought that would cheer her up, but instead there were more tears. "You mean I’m going to miss a vacation?"

It’s necessary, Honey. Besides, I’m sure Jessie will be there, and you two girls always have a good time together.

I was surprised that Jackie was unhappy. She usually loved trips to Wisconsin and visiting with her cousins. What’s the matter, Sweetie? I asked.

I’m afraid to fly, she blubbered, burying her face in my breast.

I hugged her and ran my fingers through her long blonde hair. Honey, you’ve flown lots of times! Why are you afraid now?

I’ve never flown in winter. What if there’s a storm?

I started to say the weather would be fine, but remembered that Brad had said it was likely to be snowing when we landed. I knew all too well what it was like to be afraid when others weren’t — to have your fears taken lightly. I couldn’t lie to Jackie. Even though I had no misgivings about flying the next day, I didn’t know how to reassure her. The words, Don’t worry, everything will be fine, almost came to my lips and I bit them back. When I was a child, I’d hated it when people said that. Too often it wasn’t true.

I know you’re afraid, dear, I said gently, but we have to go. Grandma and Grandpa need us. And then, in spite of my good intentions, the words escaped my mouth: "Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.

Why don’t you get your tote bag and some books and things to keep you busy during the trip? I suggested. And if there’s anything special you want to wear, tell me and I’ll pack it. Like many girls her age, Jackie was intensely interested in clothes. The question of wardrobe would distract her for the time being.

When you’re finished, scoot back to bed, I said. We have to get up early.

As I started a load of whites in the wash machine, I found myself thinking about Daddy; I’d never truly understood him. On the one hand he was extremely honest and straightforward; on the other, communicating with him was sometimes peculiarly difficult; his replies were seldom direct, and his reasoning often inexplicable. Whenever I thought I’d finally figured him out, he’d do or say something that turned my theories upside down.

Although he’d had little formal education — he’d had to drop out of school after eighth grade to work on the family farm during the depression — he was easily one of the smartest men I’d ever met. Still, he often said the most preposterous things, and I never could figure out whether he actually believed what he said or whether he expected anyone else to believe him, or whether he was just playing some kind of game I didn’t know the rules to.

* * *

We are visiting my parents in Grandfather Falls. It is August of 1980. Jackie is eight months old. Our son, Rick, is going on twelve. My sister, Eleanor, her husband and their four children are here as well, along with our brother Andy, his wife and their son, and our brother Oliver.

The thermometer says 95 degrees, and the humidity is approximately that of a steam bath. My parents’ house has central air conditioning — which Daddy bought at a bargain and installed himself — but it has not been turned on. Instead, all the windows are open.

For thirty-four years, no one was able to open a window in this house; they were all painted or nailed or rotted shut. Earlier this year Momma and Daddy decided to install new windows. The woodwork around them is still unfinished and the wallpaper needs to be redone, but Daddy’s pride in his project is evident.

Isn’t this great? he asks in a booming voice. We can open every window in the house and have all the fresh air we want now!

That the fresh air is stifling and has the sulfurous odor of the nearby paper mill seems not to bother him — or anyone else for that matter, except baby Jackie and me. The men have taken off their shirts and are drinking cold beer, talking and laughing while sweat rolls down their chests in small beads. The older children are drinking iced pop and playing, seemingly oblivious to the heat. In the kitchen, Momma and Ellie move about, preparing food and talking animatedly.

Jackie is fussing. She needs a nap, but can’t fall asleep even though I’ve peeled her down to her diaper. Dad, I say in what I hope is a reasonable tone, it’s awfully hot in here, and the baby can’t sleep. Do you think we could close the windows and turn on the air conditioning?

Daddy jumps up, puzzlement in his blue eyes. Hot? he says, as if he doesn’t quite understand. Is anybody in here hot? Maybe somebody closed a window. Everybody get up and check all the windows!

Everyone gets up and dutifully checks all the windows. None are closed.

I stick to my guns. It’s awfully hot in here, Dad.

He frowns and scratches his head for a moment. I know, he says. Then he disappears down the basement stairs, only to reappear a minute later, carrying a rusty twelve-inch fan. Just the thing, he burbles with enthusiasm. I’ll have it cool in here in no time!

He scurries up to the second floor. I look around. There are sixteen people on the first floor. No one is on the second. I follow him upstairs. He’s in the middle bedroom — the one that was mine for one summer. What are you going to do? I ask.

He looks at me, his eyes twinkling. Well, you see, he says solemnly, hot air rises. Everybody knows that! So all the hot air in this house is coming right up these stairs. I’m going to put this fan in the window and blow it all out of the house! In just a few minutes it’ll be a lot cooler in here.

I stare at him. Daddy, it’s ninety-five degrees outside!

He chuckles. You’ll see! He plugs the fan in, sets it on the desk by the window and adjusts it to exactly the right angle. There, he says. The subject is closed.

I follow him down the stairs. Does it make any sense to have central air conditioning if you don’t use it when it’s ninety-five and humid and you have a house full of people? Maybe Daddy doesn’t want to turn the air conditioning on because of the cost. He often complains how expensive things are and will go to great lengths to save a few dollars. Maybe I should offer him a twenty to turn on the air. No, Daddy never accepts money from me.

There seems to be no way out — we’ll have to roast. Perhaps if I sponge Jackie off with a cool washcloth, she’ll be able to fall asleep, but still, isn’t all this a bit crazy?

* * *

I sorted through clothes that needed pressing before packing, and my thoughts turned to Oliver. As Momma said, he had a lot on his mind lately. At thirty-seven, he was nine years younger than I, and the software company he’d founded was going out of business. For ten years he’d worked seven days a week, twelve or fourteen hours a day, trying to hold on. He was painfully loyal to his employees and it was hard for him to accept the idea that not only he, but they too, would be out of a job. Now he’d be worrying about Daddy as well. I wondered how Oliver was feeling.

A sharp pain shot through my right hand as I picked up the steam iron. At the base of my middle finger was a tender pea-sized lump that hurt whenever I tried to grip an object; I’d first noticed it about a week or two earlier.

I stared at my hand. Was the lump real? I pressed it gingerly. The tenderness was real, no question about that. I decided that if it hadn’t gone away by the time we returned from Wisconsin, I’d have a doctor look at it.

I didn’t like