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How would you like that to be your reason for being born?
2 Tell Me Everything
. I turned from the window when I heard voices and laughter, and the squeals of delight from the twins below. I was sure my grandfather had swept them both up in his arms and was bouncing them about, pretending to decide which one weighed more and then playfully squeezing their biceps to see who looked to be stronger. Against my grandmother's wishes, he always teased them to make them competitive with each other. I knew he was afraid that Rachel was making them too docile; sometimes he went so far as to accuse them of being little spoiled princes without a castle or a kingdom.
"They'll be at a disadvantage if they're too soft," he said when Rachel complained.
"They need to compete with other people, not each other," Rachel countered. She wasn't afraid to challenge anyone, which was a strength I admired in her and wished for myself, but I once overheard my grandfather tell my grandmother, "That woman never shows any weakness, never cries. She has no tear ducts."
"You train at home for the wars to come," Grandfather told Rachel. "And believe me, they will come." He never backed away from an argument either.
Rachel got along better with my grandmother, which I thought was odd since both Rachel and my grandfather were attorneys. Anyone would think they w
ould have more in common, more to share. Lately, however, I began to suspect he was not happy with the way she treated me. He was far more protective of me than my own father was.
But then again, except for the biological reasons, he might as well be my father. The twins could go on believing it forever, for all I cared.
Of course, I knew they were all coining during the spring holiday break. Their visit had been planned for months. I just didn't know that there would be a bigger reason for their coming than just another family visit and that reason had to do with me. Although I heard them below, I didn't rush right down to greet them, I liked the twins, but because of Rachel, and because of my father, I was always on pins and needles, afraid I might say something to them or do something that would bring a cascading waterfall of criticism and reprimand.
I knew that the arrival of my father and his family was supposed to be a time to celebrate and do fun things, but the truth was that as soon as I had heard they were coming to visit, I went into a deeper withdrawal and spent more time in the attic. Whenever they were here, I sought every opportunity I could to avoid spending time with them. I could tell that my grandmother, who was always more nervous when they came, wasn't terribly unhappy about that, but my grandfather sensed it and usually insisted I was included in everything possible, sometimes when it wasn't even necessary, simply to make a point.
"She has just as much right to be here as any of us," he muttered.
To make sure further that I wasn't ignored, he usually paraded whatever of my achievements he could, starting with my report card and then going to the latest pictures I had painted. When I was twelve, and he was told by the art teacher in school about my artistic ability, he immediately went out and bought materials and easels and then, without my
grandmother's blessing, turned the attic into a makeshift art studio for me, even improving the lighting.
"She spends too much time up there as it is, Michael," my grandmother complained
"Why waste the space? Besides, up there she can have the privacy an artist needs to create," he insisted.
"Yes, we know too well about that sort of privacy and the creative things that went on up there," she replied.
She was far less forgiving, but my grandfather ignored her and went ahead anyway. He even bought me an artist's smock and a French artist's hat. Sometimes, I thought he was more excited about it all than I was. I know that often I tried harder because of him, because I wanted to please him. I knew that he wanted me to be good and successful in anything I attempted as a way to ease his own conscience. Good came from bad. Parents, no matter what, blame themselves for the actions of their children.
I began with simple watercolors of the scenery around us and then one day decided to try to do a painting of the Doral House itself. Early on, I understood the difference between a photograph and a painting. I never simply tried to put a picture on a canvas. I let whatever was at work in me at the time turn the lines, add the shadows and the light. In the picture I did of the Doral House, I had a shadow in the attic window that was unmistakably in the shape of a girl looking out. My grandmother was very unnerved by it. She made sure I didn't bring it down from the attic. She referred to the picture as proof as to why my grandfather shouldn't have made the attic my studio.
"There's just something about that attic," she insisted, making it sound truly supernatural.
He thought that was ridiculous. However, I couldn't help feeling my grandmother wasn't all wrong. Whatever connection I felt with my mother, I felt more vividly up here. Something lingered. Something lived on in these attic walls.
"Alice!" I heard my grandfather calling to me. "Come on down. Everyone's here."
I took a deep breath as if whenever I left the attic and went downstairs, I was going under water. It was only up here that I could breathe and think freely. Did that make me more like my mother, too?
Despite my attempts to make things easier for my father by trying to remain as indifferent to him as I could, I couldn't help but steal glances, wondering what it was of him I had inherited. My hair was more the light brown I saw in the pictures of my mother, but I had my father's blue eyes. We both had high cheekbones, too. And we had the same-shaped ears.
Actually, I was more interested in knowing if he was at all curious about me. Did he ask my grandfather questions about me when they could talk to each other without Rachel knowing? Had he kept up on my schoolwork, my interests? Was he at all worried about me? Would he ever, ever take me aside to tell me about my mother and him, especially how it had all begun? In short, would he ever, even for fifteen minutes, be my father?
Rachel was taking the twins to their bedroom for a nap as I came down the stairway. The drive up from the airport had tired them out, and when they were tired, they were usually cranky and restless. Putting them to sleep was always her method of reprimanding them. They hated taking naps and whined and shrieked all the way down the hall, pausing only to look up at me as I descended. I knew they were hoping that my entrance would somehow put off their banishment, but Rachel was relentless about something whenever she had made up her mind to do it. She practically lifted them off their feet as she dragged them by the hand. I imagined she was a formidable advocate in any courtroom. For me she was precisely the sort of person I admired and disliked simultaneously.
And I knew she knew it, too.
"Hello, Alice," she said. "I'll be out after I put the two terrors to sleep for a while."
I nodded and continued to the living room, where my father sat with my grandmother and my grandfather. For as long as I could remember, I was always shy about going to my father to give him a kiss, and he, especially in front of my grandmother, was as shy about kissing me as well. Our compromise was usually his hugging me hello and brushing my cheek with his lips. This time, he didn't even do that. He remained sitting, smiled and said, "How you doing, Alice?"
"Okay."
