Haunting Memories: . . . with a True Ring

By B. W. Van Riper

Oh, no the anguished cry rang out. For a sister and her brothers, it was terrible newsof a death in the familythe death that left them dumbfounded. Broken hearted, here they were, a grand family suddenly bereft of a great part. It made no sense. Sorry to inform you, the awful words struck like a thunderbolt. Mom and dad had crashed on their vacation trip. So unfair, so unreal, so jarringso final.

All the siblings could think of was how much love was lost to them. Their parents were the linchpins; they were the finest; they were the most revered. At a loss due to a loss. So much love and affection was denied them in an unpredictable moment. What was to become of them?

Mom with her daily wisdom. Dad with his usual counsel. Mom with her laugh. Dad with his wry humor. Mom with her catering and caring. Dad with his hugs and counsel. What will they do without them?

The sister and her husband, the brothers and their wives, succumbed to the pain, weakening them. Where would the strength come from that was required to survive such a tragedy?

When ravaged by happenstance, What holds the family together when hope and promise lose some of their dash? In the moments of crisis, inevitably, people are hanging on by hanging tough. That courage comes from their heritage, which is the real force, the saving grace. Its not just what they have inherited in family lore, but the bond that ties endowment and legacy together in a triumvirate that can spark the spirit.

Haunting Memories says something about how desire can influence perception; by allowingor causingus to see what we want to see.

We wonder when theyre gone, Did we do enough for them? Did we express our love and affection often enough? Were we good to them? We arent going to be able to answer yes to all such questions without some reservation. Because were never going to think weve done all that we could have or should have done for our loved ones.

We cant get our minds off them. We cant let them go. We want them back. But we cant have them back. They are where they are. And we cant get there from here.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491826720

B. W. Van Riper

Originally from Chicago, he is a Michigan transplant, now of many decades. He graduated from Adrian College. Serving in the Korean Conflict, he returned to Michigan and attended the University of Michigan, acquiring an A.M. and a Ph.D. Human relations intrigued and moved him early on. His educational pursuits followed that interest into counseling, counseling psychology, and counselor education. The author went on to teach graduate students in counseling principles, practices and theory, as well as to supervise outreach counseling practicums—all of which prepared graduate students for licensing in careers in counseling and therapy. As a professor emeritus as well as when he was employed at Eastern Michigan University, he continued to prepare manuscripts for publication in professional journals. But gradually, and then completely, his attention turned to issues in which he had a vital and vested interest. Two manuscripts became books. This will be his third book, and a fourth is in process. Still, above all, he is devoted, not so much to scholarship or writing fiction, as to his family. This most recent book reflects on that love and affection, as well as on the influence family has on its members in terms of the bond embracing heritage, endowment, and legacy. He claims it to be ‘fiction with a heart.’ He enjoys writing, loves what he writes, but doesn’t always love what he’s written. Self-expression is a very powerful inspiration, and liberating, in his estimation. Consequently, it is inherently rewarding. One thing that becomes clear in his books is that issues more so than characters are integral. This is so, he asserts, because characters in a work of fiction are not real, no matter how much effort is put into making them so, whereas issues are likely to be both real and vital. Originally from Chicago, he is a Michigan transplant, now of many decades. He graduated from Adrian College. Serving in the Korean Conflict, he returned to Michigan and attended the University of Michigan, acquiring an A.M. and a Ph.D. Human relations intrigued and moved him early on. His educational pursuits followed that interest into counseling, counseling psychology, and counselor education. The author went on to teach graduate students in counseling principles, practices and theory, as well as to supervise outreach counseling practicums—all of which prepared graduate students for licensing in careers in counseling and therapy. As a professor emeritus as well as when he was employed at Eastern Michigan University, he continued to prepare manuscripts for publication in professional journals. But gradually, and then completely, his attention turned to issues in which he had a vital and vested interest. Two manuscripts became books. This will be his third book, and a fourth is in process. Still, above all, he is devoted, not so much to scholarship or writing fiction, as to his family. This most recent book reflects on that love and affection, as well as on the influence family has on its members in terms of the bond embracing heritage, endowment, and legacy. He claims it to be ‘fiction with a heart.’ He enjoys writing, loves what he writes, but doesn’t always love what he’s written. Self-expression is a very powerful inspiration, and liberating, in his estimation. Consequently, it is inherently rewarding. One thing that becomes clear in his books is that issues more so than characters are integral. This is so, he asserts, because characters in a work of fiction are not real, no matter how much effort is put into making them so, whereas issues are likely to be both real and vital.

Book preview

Haunting

Memories

. . . with a true ring

B. W. Van Riper

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© 2013 B. W. Van Riper. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/19/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2673-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2671-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2672-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013918455

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter Eternal       Ring Around the Rosie/A Legacy

TIME OUT/ Cause & Effect

Chapter 1       When Time Stands Still

Chapter 2       Flashback

Chapter 3       Fast Forward

TIMELESS/ Reminiscences

Chapter 4       Family Ties

Chapter 5       Brothers…

Chapter 6        . . . & Others

Chapter 7       Distinctions

Chapter 8       Innocence

Chapter 9       For the Last Time

PRESENT TENSE/ Trauma

Chapter 10       Witches Brew

Chapter 11       Beyond the Pale

Chapter 12       Portent

Chapter 13       Small Talk

Chapter 14       Now Is Not the Time

Chapter 15       Oh, No!

Chapter 16       Daunting Duty

Chapter 17       Game Time

Chapter 18       The Letters

Chapter 19       Time After Time

Chapter 20       Haunting Refrain

PAST TIME/ Blooming

Chapter 21       Once Upon a Time

Chapter 22       This Old House

Chapter 23       Trial by Fire

Chapter 24       Nature of the Species

Chapter 25       The Old College Try

Chapter 26       Almost on Their Own

Chapter 27       Vexing Vignettes

Chapter 28       Beliefs We Hold

PAST TENSE/ Groping

Chapter 29       Trying Times

Chapter 30       What’s Going On? . . .

Chapter 31       Long Ago and Far Away

Chapter 32       Rules of Order

Chapter 33       Warts and All

Chapter 34       The Men’s Room

Chapter 35       Greetings and Felicities

Chapter 36       Trial…

Chapter 37        . . . and Tribulation

Chapter 38       Wave of the Future

FUTURE TENSE/ Confusion

Chapter 39       One More Time

Chapter 40       Here We Go Again…

Chapter 41       Realities to Brutalities

Chapter 42       Alternating Current

Chapter 43       Time Marches On

Chapter 44       Waiting it Out

Chapter 45       Betwixt and Between

Chapter 46       This, too, Will (Not) Pass

FUTURE TIME/ Tide

Chapter 47       What’s Up?

Chapter 48       Where Things Stand

Chapter 49       Accommodation

Chapter 50       Memories Light the Way

Chapter 51       Thrilling Dilemma

Chapter 52       Changing Course

Chapter 53       The Old Homestead

Chapter 54       Terra Incognito

PRESENT TIME/ Essence

Chapter 55       Defining Experiences

Chapter 56       Bleak Hope

Chapter 57       Time Lapse

Chapter 58       Forever After

Chapter 59       Yet to Come

Chapter 60       Resilience

Chapter 61       Swing Time

Epilogue

Prologue

Truth does not have a color to it,

or a side to it, or a way to it,

or, a place for it,

—it has a ring to it.

Chapter Eternal

Ring Around the Rosie/A Legacy

Time was when little things meant something. And the longer the time, the more they meant. The more they meant, the bigger they became. That’s the way it is with some little things that grow.—And you never know what it takes to make little things grow.

Some little things grow big. Particularly little people. When little people become persons they acquire meaning, however they manage it. People that become persons are likely to grow into treasured family members who begin to contribute to the family legacy. Legacy has gravitas. It remains with a person, in and around a person all that person’s days. A vital thing: it’s gratifying; it’s sustaining; it’s comforting; it’s galvanizing; and, it’s transforming.

Heritage, endowment, and tradition provide sanctuary; they breed love and affection. They make for synchrony by giving direction, contributing order, donating wisdom, and holding promise. Life’s family legend is created, more often than not, from the little people that grow big.

When bearers of the family legacy, like parents, pass the scene, legacy suffers from the loss. Accordingly, the richer the legacy, the greater the loss. The surviving constituents bear the burden of maintaining the family legacy.

Remembrance preserves that legacy by creating the tears and laughter that sustain the treasured recollections. Eventually, the stand-ins for the real thing become the real thing; as beneficiaries of the family legacy, they become the inherent bearers of the heritage. Thus it is that kinship maintains and perpetuates the legacy. And, those who possess a grand family legacy diligently preserve, honor, and, understandably, cherish their vast treasure.

TIME OUT

Cause & Effect

Chapter 1

When Time Stands Still

. . . tragedy is often the cause of a body at rest to want to remain at rest—inert. To avoid the sorrow and pain of what has been lost. Nevertheless, the agony lingers and the grief lasts. But, ultimately, the spirit rises above the disaster to memorialize the persons destroyed by calamitous events—Death taxes the living as it costs reluctant victims to pay the final price . . .

It is often on those momentous occasions when loss has taken another victim that people take liberties with poetic license in euphemistic praise. They can’t help themselves. And they rue the fact they can’t find the right words.

Lost to the night.—You love them unconditionally. No matter what their faults, their foibles, their fetishes, your love and affection for them, of them, in them, reign, grow. To you, they’ll always be faultless if not flawless, and incomparable. When, in addition, you look and see warmth and kindness, compassion and understanding, you’re touched all the more by them. Then, it’s a vivid picture that you have and you hold/and hold. So it’s not what they seem, how they’re seen, who they’ve been/that matters. To you, they are.—Above and Beyond.

So when disaster strikes . . . it’s not just the tragedy. Of course, that’s ghastly. It’s the aftermath that’s so terrible, so enervating, so enduring. It has a grip, takes a bite, seizes and squeezes. And never fully lets go—

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Tortured thoughts dominated her. Demoralized by tragic memories, Adrian pulled over to the berm of the road. She felt the tires dig into the shoulder as she braked the van. Get a grip on yourself. A muted sigh escaped her lips as she glanced back in dismay at the empty space left by the removal of the van seats, grim reminders of her onerous mission; she could not imagine filling the back of her van with sundry valuable pieces, as well as files, papers, and documents/most of inestimable value/all for safe keeping/because the safe keepers were not, themselves, kept safe.

Tears welled up and inflamed the rim of her eyelids at the thought of them, of her duty, of her ordeal. What would she do without them? How could she endure? The loss. Of them? Why them? Those two. Of a kind. A tandem. Mom and Dad. Min & Bob. Center of the Woods’ family. The nucleus. The core. The essence. It always seemed so to family members.

Adrian couldn’t even think of them as separate entities. Not in this moment. Not at this time. Not in this memory capsule. They were a pair, a matched pair, a missed pair. Grieving more and finding less comfort on the side of the road than in the roll of it, Adrian pulled back onto the interstate distracted by painful reminiscences. Her grievous sighs were quickly displaced by grunts of consternation as she was startled by a cacophony of belligerence when cars whizzed by honking in annoyance at her abrupt and disrupting reentry into traffic.

Tears of anger and dismay were solace for her tears of grief as Adrian lashed out at perceived thoughtless and insensitive road runners who enraged her with looks that bristled with indignation. They had no respect, no right to their scorn; she anguished, then gunned her engine in defiance of the cross attitudes she encountered.

Finally absorbed into the traffic pattern and cruising along, Adrian finally calmed down some but only to return to her debilitating funk. Maybe it was better, after all, to have the irritation of road ragers to provoke her. No particular thanks to them, the car creeps did keep her mind from tragic preoccupation. But only for a short time. Then she was back to the ordeal/and forth to the misery. Whipsawed. Torn and twisted by a tragedy that gripped her fiercely and completely.

Finally, gratefully, she left the interstate for the exit and service drive. Only minutes away from her destination, Adrian felt her level of anxiety rise: a tension first palpable then crushing.

As she turned on to the familiar side road, she squirmed in anguish. Every familiar sight on the road shook her up and thrust her deeper into tormenting reverie. Every memory of her life at this familiar place seemed to flood her mind and overload it. Down the road of memories, wonderful memories. A bumpy road, now. Disturbing/disrupting/depressing.

All the glorious memories amplified the terrible loss. Memories of wonderful happenings, ghoulishly transformed, became disheartening reminders of the glory that now haunted her.

Adrian pulled into the driveway, shut off the engine, and sat transfixed, solemn, staring at the familiar homestead. She had never considered that one day she would look at this homestead with dread. But she did dread the look of it in the late afternoon. Ominous. In stark contrast to past fondness, it loomed eerily. To her, in that moment of angst, it was as if that abode before her should not be there without—them. No haven. The domicile failed in its duty to shelter.

Adrian sat for some time in morbid preoccupation. No thoughts of reconciliation with that house crossed her mind. It was not home anymore; it was just a house. As if the house had turned on her somehow, in some way, she could not approach it with warmth. Resentment was what she experienced. At a house. That had so recently been a home. Where is the sense of it? Hidden in plain sight? A house loses all its character when it loses its raison d’être.

Adrian opened the car door, but she didn’t get out. Riveted. She closed the door, started the engine, but she couldn’t leave the premises. All she could think of was that she had to go into that vacant house, and all she wanted to do was avoid it. Her feelings left her torn, her thoughts left her in disarray, and her actions were erratic and inconsequential. Inert but on the verge, ineluctably, emotion gradually succumbed to motion. But the motion was fitful as she alternately reached for the door handle of the car and pulled back in formidable and intimidating contemplation. Having first given in to her grief, Adrian then reacted to it. Finally, in awful frustration, she flung the car door open as she forced herself to act against the burden of her stultifying feelings.

Stepping out of the car provided a resolve that carried Adrian to the front door of the house, once homestead. She slid her key into the lock, gingerly. Then, as she opened the door, she was overcome with emotion. The smell. Reminiscently familiar. But musty. Emitting an ominous odor, invasive because it suddenly reminded her of those grim days spent at the funeral parlor.

She struggled with the sad reminder of her recent ordeal. Her head drooping, the tears poured out, the sobs barely controllable, Adrian stood in the vestibule and whispered a haunting, halting, melancholic, Good-bye—

Goodbye. Not hello. Everything was backward. Adrian was at the homestead, wishing she was leaving rather than arriving. And the place that she had loved so much was getting stranger instead of more familiar.

Adrian looked around in dismay. In the throes of gloom, her pangs of torment biting and bewildering, she heard—What? What she thought she heard turned her attention entirely away from what was lost to what she began to think was there. What was there? What?

Hello?—

Chapter 2

Flashback

Who are they that are sorely missed? The nurturers, that’s who. The glue. Those who provided the bond. No substitutes could hold things together as well as parental adhesive had . . . As well as they could . . . As well as they did. Glory to them who would. They were the wonders who unified the tribe without having to preside over it.

Love lighted the way. Eternal flame. No sparks. A glow.

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Adrian recalled the love stories told her in tactfully colored bits and pieces over the years. The real thing, though, had a truer ring, personal and complete, intimate and authentic, warm and romantic, joyous and celebratory/harmonious: with love as their lantern.

Her parents. Now relegated to fond memories. She reflected on what they were—

Her parents. Closer and closer as the years passed and the love and affection grew. Married for decades.

Adrian was immersed. She saw much of the love story unfold… in The Grand Times… when they were—

One… but still managed to retain their own identity. And even though they shared, they remained autonomous and spontaneous. They connected, but they respected difference and distinction. They romanced one another even when they sat apart/with looks and words.

Adrian recalled an example of the bond told her by her father:

Have you ever sat across from a loved one in a contemplative moment and seen yourself in that other person? Without a mirror. Magic. But no tricks. For a few moments you’re embedded in that other person. Some of us can find ourselves outside of ourselves in someone else. Some of us do.

—Adrian’s father did. In those precious moments, Adrian remembered her father, Bob, telling her that he saw himself reflected in his wife, Min. When it happened, Min would shake her head, because she could tell when Bob set the stage, created the spell, and then she would remonstrate with tolerance, You’re doing it, Bob. Stop it. You know it makes me uneasy.

As she sat musing, Adrian played the moving picture of how her parents responded to one another, recalling the way her parents were, when they were—

. . . When the spirit moves me, I love doing it/sort of becoming one with you. It’s very powerful to know I’m invested in you.

And you’re very corny, Bob, and a little annoying.

How can you say that?

Easy. I’ve reserved it for just this special occasion.

Bob grinned. It is a beautiful feeling, though. Seriously. I’m looking at you and seeing myself. It’s awesome.

It’s probably a control issue, Min maintained.

Bob smiled again. I’m capable of that, too. But this is different. This is—deep.

So is a pile of dung, Min declared.

Min was thinking about Bob: My husband is a nice, decent guy. And he’s kind and caring. Also, he’s loving and affectionate/very loving and affectionate. He’s funny, but he’s kind of hokey, too. And that’s fine. It’s even charming. Got lots of attributes, my husband. A great guy. Most people love him. His kids not only admire him, they adore him. And I love him with all my heart.—With all his faults, I still love him completely. WE all love him completely.—Not necessarily all of his in-laws. They love him—well, incompletely.

His faults are not real bad ones, but they can be distracting, and they can be disturbing, and they can be disappointing, and they can be rankling and annoying. They aren’t typically faults of omission, in which he forgets or ignores obligations and needs, or faults of commission, whereby he says or does things that irk or offend. They are more faults of obsession. With family pride. That’s his problem: propinquity. Bob goes overboard with family pride.

He is CRAZY about his family. Believe it or not that ardor for the clan, the tribe, the band can be a problem for me and mine. Obsession again. & compulsion. It’s not what he feels or thinks about his family that can be overbearing and embarrassing, it’s what he says and does. If he would just say that he is fond of his family, even that he loves us, takes great pride in us—but no. Bob has to say how much and how everlasting his love and affection are, how much pride and joy he takes in us.—Agonizingly, he is unaccountable for his unabashed bravado.

—Put a lid on it, Bob. That’s what I’d like to say, but it’s hard. Because the fact is that I know he means what he says. (He’s forever exhorting, ‘Say what you mean, mean what you say.’) It’s not the meaning, it’s the saying that Bob needs to curb/to cork. It isn’t the depth of his meaning, either, it’s the NOISE he makes spreading the gospel.

To tell the truth, I just can’t curb his enthusiasm without suffering pangs of conscience, myself. In a way, I envy him, that is, his genuine affection for us. It’s astounding and marvelous, but, it can be withering; just too much of a good thing.

I’d like to be able to say just how wild about the family that I am. I can’t. I don’t know what it is. Decorum. Maybe that’s it. So, in a sense, Bob says it for me. I’m more inclined to express myself in quiet, subtle ways.

Because of la différence, I believe we complement one another. And it works quite well, I THINK. And WE work quite well together. I KNOW that.—So, vive la différence!

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Getting to know them the way they were when they were—

You fix me soup and sandwich, and I fix you—

—supplements, Min claimed with a smile. I love the thought, Bob. I hate the supplements.

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Bob was thinking: Sometimes I think it isn’t fair, wasn’t fair. Min had great prospects. But she opted to stay home with the kids and do motherly things. While I went to the office and did lawyerly things. Min always insisted that we both had great careers that we were perfectly suited for and amenable to. I often wondered and even worried about her choice being free or forced.

Min was a very good student in college and law school. And, she is a very bright, astute person. Gifted. Personable. She’s got all the assets, all the tools. I know that. I’ve always known it. No one has to tell me. But there is one guy, Min’s brother who does—

Big brother. The authority! He is, was, and no doubt always will be my biggest pain in the butt. Still, he’s right about his sister’s talents and abilities. She had the aptitude for many things. Law. Medicine. I fully believed it, firmly believed it. I just resent Min’s brother shoving his opinions down my throat whenever we get together. He’s like a broken record.—He’s not LIKE a broken record; he IS one.

On more than a few occasions, I have fretted about Min fulfilling her human potential. She’s such a bright person/perceptive and intelligent. And I think about her being relegated. Sure, I feel guilty. I’m always going to feel guilty about agreeing to let her limit herself to homemaking. She’d deny it, of course. She’d take me off the hook by saying that raising our family was far and away the best use she could possibly have made of her abilities and education. She insists that it wasn’t a sacrifice, and she’s adamant about it. Still, it doesn’t relieve me much.

I worship the ground she walks on. I am so fortunate.—And so unappreciative. Not in my true feelings or my praise of her. It’s in my performance that I’m lacking. My actions just don’t speak louder than my words. In fact, my actions don’t speak loud enough to justify my mea culpas.

I’m content to let Min do things that I know I ought to be doing, or at least be helping with. I could help out a lot more, but I let her tell me to forget about doing this or that. And, then, for my sake, not hers, I conveniently forget. I manage to forget doing a lot of the things that would help her just so I can do the things that make me feel good. Of course, I feel bad about shirking my duties. I just don’t do anything to right the wrongs.

More guilt. I must like living with the guilt feelings, because I continue to duck out on small household tasks, and I neglect or shirk doing those little routine errands. The escape artist. Me. The guy who was always getting on the kids to do their chores.—I’ve probably done fewer chores than the kids have.

Bob rose from his easy chair with that look Min was so familiar with/and approached.

Min foresaw the reconciliation overture that was coming and stayed it with her usual cautionary proviso: Don’t try to soft soap me, buster.

Bob’s grin widened at Min’s response. Undaunted by Min’s wariness, Bob prepared to embrace Min. She yielded to his vagrant charm, as she usually did.

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I’m really pitiful. I have the greatest wife in the world, and I’m always giving her a hard time. I could make her life easier, but I don’t.—Don’t get me wrong. It’s not deliberate. It’s just that I’m selfish and self-serving and demanding. I’d work on it if I knew how to go about it. Well, I do try to work on it; it’s just that I’m a very poor worker at such matters. And I’m great at making excuses.

Min knows how much I love our kids (hate that term), but she thinks I ought to be more sensitive and responsive to our kids restlessness and anxiety. I promise to try, but I don’t try hard enough or often enough. I’m a narcissist. Like that’s an excuse. I’m very good at making excuses, but the excuses I make are not very good ones.

Why in the world does she love me so much? As some like to say, ‘Go figure.’ Truth be known, I don’t care why she loves me so much, as long as it’s a fact. And, it’s a fact. Nothing seems to discourage her from loving me. So, I figure anyone that good who loves me that much must see some good in me.—Where is it? I’m still looking.

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—France. I dunno. You know I didn’t enjoy our last trip to France when we were younger. I really disliked having to deal with those ill-tempered, ill-mannered waiters and shop people. I was aware there were a lot of Americans who were arrogant, but I wasn’t one of them.

What do you want me to say, Bob? You’re right? The French will be haughty and disrespectful? We won’t have a good time?—All that you said may be true. So what? You know what you’re so fond of saying—‘That was then, this is now.’

True, Bob had to admit in deliberating, and I have enjoyed our other trips to Europe.

There you go, Bob. So, buck up. Get us a beer and let’s go over our travel plans, Min suggested with a winsome smile.

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Trip’s comin’ up fast. We’ve got to be sure we’ve covered everything before we take off.

We’ve got people in place, Bob. The boys—

They are men now, Min, Bob tried to amend his wife’s descriptor.

To you, they’re men. To me, they’ll always be our boys—or my boys. Actually, we’ve never had a DNA test done, so I can’t say, for sure, that they are yours, Bob.

Bob Woods looked over the top of his glasses. With a wry smile, he acknowledged the possibility. I wondered why you called me Henry during some of our more fervent embraces.

Henry? Who’s Henry?—How about a real possibility? Joe, for instance. He would be better. Not a figment. You do remember Joe, don’t you?

Let’s not bring up old flames.

Why not? Getting a little uneasy?

Bob scoffed at the notion that he could be disturbed by the taunting repartee. He waved his hand in a defiant gesture and resumed reading.

Min smiled, walked over to where Bob sat, and patted his shoulder. He reached back and patted the hand on his shoulder. You know Mother’s Day is a week from Sunday. So try not to exclude our in-laws in your generous remarks about me and our daughter. It’s not tactful.

I know, I know. I’ll try to be tactful.—I’ll lie and say that our in-laws are wonderful, too.

That’s terrible, Bob.

I’m just kidding, Bob insisted, trying to squirm out of Min’s cross crosshairs.

The trouble is that you’re not just kidding.

Bob tried laughing his way out of his dilemma, but was rebuked—

When Bob tried laughing his way out of his dilemma, he was admonished, You’re the only one laughing, Bob. And you know what they say about people who laugh at their own jokes.

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—I roll over in the middle of the night just to touch you—It’s like touching base—home base, Bob tried to explain to Min.

I love you, Bob, but we’re not talking about us, Min said. We were talking about the difficulties Adrian and Ted are going through. It’s not like Adrian to express marital concerns.

"I happen to believe they’re capable of finding their own way out of their current problems. We always brag about how resourceful they are, don’t we?—Min, don’t we?"

Ignoring her husband’s rhetorical question, Min dictated, C’mon, Bob, let’s talk about what we need to pack for our trip.—Do you realize how soon we’ll be heading for Amsterdam?

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But before Amsterdam, England, France, and the whirlwind tour of Scandinavian countries, Min had her letter to write—just in case. Always a trial, but always a necessity when she and Bob traveled was the letter. Just in case.

Chapter 3

Fast Forward

No Time Like the Present . . . to choose to change . . . with purpose and commitment . . . decisions with a true ring . . . ebbing . . . flowing . . . ringing . . .

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Interesting that Adrian and her brothers were contemplating life changes. All of them within months of their parents’ death. Was there something portent in that? Were their parents in some way responsible: For having held them back? Or, for freeing them up? Not likely the former. Independence and resourcefulness had always been encouraged. Even so, Min and Bob weren’t the kind of people to encourage change simply for the sake of change.

Influence. Some of it was to urge their brood to try their wings. Some of it was to exhort their issue to keep their feet on solid ground. Sometimes the impetus was confounding… But, in the Aftermath—

Adrian was going back to work at her former job, which was going to be fresh if not novel. Sean, the second youngest brother, and Brig, the second oldest brother, were about to undertake new ventures. Pat, the oldest brother, was weighing options.

Gee, the youngest brother, was in transition… The contemplation of his excursion was exhilarating yet insufficient, because he knew from previous experience that contemplation was not execution. Gee had postponed gratification too long and too often. Adventure whispered . . .

—Louder and clearer than ever it had. Adrian learned from Pat who heard it from Sean that Gee was preparing to take a trip west. When Adrian called Gee, he confirmed that what she had heard from her brothers was true. He told his sister that she was the toughest one to tell, and he apologized for leaving her for last.

Adrian balked at the news; she wanted to know what purpose such a trip might serve; she wondered if it wouldn’t be better to take the trip some other time. Reservations. Concerns. Mother henning caused her to ask him to postpone his trip for a while.

Gee declined. I can’t do it, Adrian. I’ve been postponing this trip, or one like it, for most of my life. It’s time to get on with my life, Adrian.

Ever protective and possessive of her youngest brother—and selfish—Adrian gradually began to realize that she had been holding her brother back for her own comfort. She was finally forced to accept how important Gee’s plans were to him and, to her credit, she responded accordingly, and favorably, What are you thinking about Gee?

"A trip out west. I read Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas’s book, Of Men and Mountains, years ago. It was inspirational. He took this trip into the Cascades when he was not much more than a kid, and the experience did wonders for his self-esteem and confidence."

Adrian sensed the conviction. And she was convinced by the tone of his voice that Gee would not change his plans for any reasons.

It’ll only be for a couple of weeks or so. I’ve always wanted to do this, Adrian, but never had the courage to try it. You understand, don’t you?

I think I do, Adrian responded to the bald fact. Hoping to make amends for her self-serving demands, she told Gee she wanted him to have a good experience, and she claimed that she was pleased for him, in spite of her earlier reservations. Just make sure I’m not the last one to hear all the details when you get back.—And Gee, I want you to know that I’m very proud of you for undertaking this trip.

I haven’t quite done that yet, but I’m ready and eager to try. You know this wouldn’t be the first time I told someone in the family about the prospects of doing something adventurous and then letting it go at that.—Talk is cheap.

As she hung up the phone, she felt a gloominess suddenly overwhelm her. She tried to shake it off with dark humor, parting company leaves such a sour sense of insufficiency. She smiled mirthlessly at the irony of her mixed metaphor, because she didn’t really find much humor in it. Skip parting as sweet sorrow. There’s nothing sweet about sorrow (It’s just another bitter oxymoron).—So call me self-serving. I’m going to miss him.

(Going to miss him? She didn’t know how much.)

Gee felt a curious sense of relief when he snapped his cellphone shut. His conversation with his sister had been on his terms and he felt no guilt in failing to comply with his sister’s wishes. He was his own man and enjoying such distinction/all without hurting or upsetting his sister.

Go west young man. And I am. The Cascades. Just like Supreme Court Justice, William O. Douglas. Well, maybe more like Gee, George Woods. Yeh, like that.—No more talk. Action!

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Subsequent to her parent’s death, an incident of homestead apparitions commingled with haunting reverie caused Adrian to request of her brothers a demonstration of faith. Her brothers were skeptical of their sister’s odd request.

You think I’m obsessed, Adrian said, preempting her brother’s attempt to amend what he said. And let’s skip the euphemisms. I know what you’re thinking.

You can’t even imagine what I’m thinking, Adrian, Sean said without resorting to rancor.

The Ring. I just want us to try as a group to contact the apparitions/whatever they are. If it doesn’t work, then I can cope with that. I just can’t give up this idea yet, Sean. I have to give it a try, Adrian confided. I believe there was a bona fide purpose to the experience we shared.

And I believe that purpose has been served. So what more can you expect?

"I can’t answer that question, because I don’t know what more can be gained. But I believe there is more of something—indefinable/inconceivable/arcane/hidden."

"You mean you wish there were more. Wish fulfillment is a very powerful influence."

Adrian sighed, took her brother’s hand, and begged his indulgence. I want us all to go to the lake, stay for a weekend, read the letters, devote ourselves to an effort to make contact.

What you’re asking is that we all concede to your wishes in this matter. Try thinking of my wishes—not to go to the folks’ place for a seance, or whatever—and, instead, have a brief graveside ceremony.

We can do that any time. It’s not the same, Sean. And it’s not the right place. Adrian seemed to gather her thoughts. Then, with sublime sincerity, she rationalized, Our losses—I believe there’s something that comes from them. Not just pain and suffering and sorrow. And it’s not just change.—Or growth. It’s a connection, Sean, a connection between life and—limbo. And it’s preservation… of a reality in the mist—

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There was no plausible explanation for their experience, and no way to verify or discount it. While they knew they shouldn’t fully accept it as real, still, they knew they wouldn’t dismiss it as a figment of their imagination either; and, most certainly, they knew they couldn’t reject it as folly.

They wanted to believe. Faith. They tried to keep the faith. Promise/hope. They held them close. Dear but fragile.

Shadows or images. Illusions or specters. Spirits or figments. Something. Viable but diaphanous. Visible but amorphous.

Belief sustained them beyond the facts. That only.

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. . . I do wonder sometimes about hallucination—

—I hate that reference, Brig. It’s incriminating. Like we’re all mentally ill.

"You don’t have to be mentally ill to want to have something like the experience we all seem to think we had…"

. . . illusion, delusion, just what are you saying?

Whatever I’m trying to say, I’m probably not saying it very well. But why do these apparitions only appear to us when we’re alone at the lake house—and then only once? Give me an answer to that question, and I’ll be content, Adrian.

"No, you won’t. And I don’t have answers. I have questions. I’m looking for answers."

"But you’re the one making up the test," Brig scoffed.

Adrian’s rejoinder was a poignant reminder, "Not for the final exam."

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In posing her question for the elusive answer in her quest, Adrian wondered: Was it just an anomaly that moved us? Could it have been as Brig speculated, illusion or delusion that we experienced? But first, what’s illusion? And when is it delusion? And why does it have to be either? . . . just because Brig says so.

I don’t know if I could ever tell the difference. That’s the truth of the matter. The greater truth is that I don’t care what the difference is. What matters is that I have had what I have had, and I want to hold on to it.

Adrian’s musing was interrupted by Ted’s hand slipping over hers. She turned to him, apprehensively at first, and then gratefully as he made his troth, swore his oath, and pledged his love and understanding.

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Along with her yearning for a resolution of a vision she pursued, Adrian found her home life was becoming unsettled. But a part of those troubling matters was beginning to clear up for her.

One afternoon, particularly ebullient, Ted, Adrian’s husband, entered the baby’s bedroom with a ready smile. How’s my baby girl? he asked his daughter, who answered with a squeal of delight and a bright smile. She’s a doll, Adrian. Like her mother. Just like her mother.

Then in a sudden change of demeanor, Ted turned to Adrian, curiously serious and frank, —And I want you to know that I’m sorry, Adrian, so sorry, Ted avowed, surprising Adrian with his solemn apology. "You know I’ve really been out of sorts for a long, long time. But my problems are finally behind me. It wasn’t just that romantic interlude I confessed to. It was my tenuous position with the company that occupied most of my thoughts. My boss. The guy that made my life at work impossible/miserable—and belittled me."

Adrian listened attentively. She was eager to hear Ted’s explanation of a problem that had never quite been qualified, never properly aired, never fully resolved. Not the woman. Work. Ted hadn’t told Adrian that he thought his days as a manufacturing rep for his company were numbered. Then, just when the conflict in personalities and the differences of opinion on product allocation reached critical mass, Ted’s arch nemesis, theVP who oversaw his work and constantly criticized it, was dumped.

Still, Ted thought he might lose his job anyway, just because he was part of that sector of the company that was struggling. But, no. Ted told Adrian that they liked his work, liked it very much. Today, they told me the good news. I am a valued employee. For the past few months, I’ve been worried, and I didn’t want to worry you. Now, we can get our lives back on track.

Not so fast, Adrian replied. Is this your idea of being open and honest in our marriage?

Adrian, I didn’t want to worry you any more than I already had.

Well, you did worry me. And it was a terrible worry. So not informing me was a bad idea. It makes me think that you don’t trust me to handle the tough situations. I get the idea that for the things that really matter to you, you don’t need my help or want it.

I’m really stupid not to think you wouldn’t understand and help me through things.

Adrian went to Ted. She embraced him, and he responded in kind. Adrian implored, Never do this to me again. Promise?

Swear.

Was she into the truth, the whole truth, Adrian had to ask herself? Speak for yourself. And remember: What’s good for the goose—She wanted Ted to be open and honest, but she reserved White Lies for her own use. Dissembler. Pangs of conscience stabbed Adrian. The homestead intrigue.

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Molly, have you seen my putter? Sean asked as he rummaged around in the basement.

Sean, are you trying to make me laugh? What would I be doing with your putter? Sean’s wife, Molly, inquired.

Trying to keep me home so you can do evil things, Sean joked.

"I don’t do evil things. I do bad things.—And I do them very well."

Yes, you do.—Do bad things to me, Sean begged his wife.

Maybe after golf.—I know what’s most important to you.

Hey! Sean exclaimed in protest. He patted Molly’s distention with satisfaction. You’re growing.

We’re growing, Molly corrected