Read More: A Brief Q&A with Susan Knox
Family secrets are swords that cut to the quick.
On the morning of June 30, 1969, Maxwell Morris sent his seventh child, a newborn daughter, to a home in Portland, Oregon, that accepted Down syndrome children. The nuns who ran the maternity hospital recommended institutionalizing the Mongoloid child, a practice common at that time. Maxwell’s priest agreed. The infant’s twin brother went home with his parents. Maxwell swore his wife, Maeve, to secrecy about the hidden daughter. She’s kept this secret for the last thirty years.
It is a cool, cloudy spring day in 1999 in Eugene, Oregon, and seventy-year-old Maeve Morris is driving to the Oregon coast after she picks up her youngest son at his condo. Maeve climbs into her raven-black Cadillac Escalade with the retractable running board. She is a petite woman, too small for the SUV, but her husband, Maxwell, insisted on this vehicle, one of the first in Eugene. The Morris family always drives black cars. Maxwell thinks black is classy and exhibits a certain station in life. Maeve’s Escalade has ebony leather seats, heated, and cooled, and embroidered with the gold wreath and crest of the Cadillac insignia, an olive ash and burled walnut dash, a heated steering wheel, heated and cooled cup holders, a Bose cabin surround-sound system currently playing “The Sound of Music,” a rearview camera, and ebony carpet and floor mats.
Maeve sits behind the burled walnut steering wheel, stretches to look in the rearview mirror to ensure her jet-black hair is secure in its French-twist, purses her lips painted with Clinique’s Plum Brandy, and straightens the sapphire neck scarf that matches her eyes. Her eyes are troubled.
Maeve’s thirty-year-old son, Mark, is uppermost in her mind this morning. Maxwell, true to form, has made a unilateral decision that, in Maeve’s opinion, will adversely affect Mark. As Maeve puts it, Mark likes his wine. He likes his scotch. Maxwell says Mark is an alcoholic and it’s high time he changed his ways. Maxwell has hired a psychologist to conduct an intervention. The entire family—Maxwell, Maeve, Mark, his five siblings and psychologist, Dr. Lewis Strand—will convene at the family compound in Cannon Beach over the weekend to confront Mark and get him into treatment. Maxwell has already secured a reservation at a private sanatorium in Carmel. Maxwell, against the advice of the psychologist, insists on discretion. Mark is not to be informed of the intervention.
Maeve turns into Sloane Street and sees Mark sitting on his suitcase, like a schoolboy waiting for the bus. She pulls to the curb and puts the car in park. He waves to her, walks to the rear of the Escalade, and stows his suitcase in the rear of the cabin. Maeve has packed provisions for the coastal home: crystal vases filled with white calla lilies, blue hydrangea, and pink dendrobrium orchids secured in a cardboard box, a cooler filled with Waygu rib eye steaks, smoked salmon, three dozen farm-raised eggs, whole wheat bread from Great Harvest Bakery, and hidden under a blanket in the back seat, a bottle of Courvoisier brandy. Mark walks to the driver’s side, knowing his mother will want him to drive, opens her door, helps her out and gives her a kiss on the cheek.
If you saw Mark on the street, you’d pass him by without a thought. You wouldn’t think, what a handsome guy, or, what’s wrong with his nose, or, isn’t that an Armani suit, or, what a well-toned body. Mark’s an ordinary-looking guy, a little on the short side, a little on the pudgy side with thick black hair that spirals out from the crown of his head cut in a Nero style, small brown eyes, small hands, small feet, a clear, pale complexion that doesn’t tan. He wears pastel polo shirts, khakis, and Cole Haan loafers. His cell phone is clipped to his belt. His pockets contain a black calfskin Italian wallet, a Coach key ring, and a clean linen handkerchief. He’s a lapsed Catholic, devoted uncle to his many nieces and nephews, loner, stock market whiz, wealthy, alcoholic.
Maeve tried to explain to Dr. Strand that Mark is a sensitive person, that springing an intervention on him with no warning might push him away, that she really doesn’t think he needs treatment. He gets along fine, he supports himself (Maxwell harrumphed at this), he is simply different, a quiet man, solitary. What’s wrong with that? Maeve’s concerns were dismissed. Mark is to be confronted and conveyed to Carmel to dry out and reform. Against Maxwell’s admonitions, Maeve has decided to warn Mark, prepare him for the weekend.
Maeve attends Mass every morning, carries herself like a ballet dancer, reads romance novels, and allows herself one piece of Godiva chocolate every day. She is of ordinary intelligence, but she can decipher people like a savant. She’s always slim, well-groomed, and impeccably dressed. Maxwell insists on this.
Maeve loves being a mother and grandmother. When her children were still at home, she always arranged private time with each child once a week. She took her daughters shopping or to an art museum or to the ballet. She took her older sons to the movies or roller-skating or on hikes. She took Mark to their stockbroker’s office where he could watch the ticker and talk to the brokers about investments.
Maeve was forty and the mother of five when she had twins, Mark, and Jessica. Maeve has been counseled by her priest, absolved of guilt, and told to acquiesce to her husband’s greater wisdom, but every day she remembers Mark’s twin sister, institutionalized at birth, and she prays for her. Hidden from view and on a long gold chain around her neck, Maeve always wears a gold cross and Jessie’s gold baby ring engraved with the letter “J”.
Mark was her most demanding child, colicky, fussy, not wanting to be left alone. He resisted kindergarten, broke out in hives on his first day at St. Ignatius Loyola Academy, refused to go to college. Mark didn’t belong in the big world; he needed a construct of his own. Maeve has often wondered if Mark’s personality was shaped by his sister’s absence. Surely he didn’t remember her, but maybe on some level he does, and he misses her.
The Morris friends cluck over the other five Morris children: Maura, Monica, Melissa, Michael, and Matthew—clean-cut, classy, capable, charming, well-married, successful, benevolent, devout. They tut-tut over Mark. A nice boy, but what went wrong? He can barely carry on a conversation. He didn’t go to college. He’s never held a job. He’s never married. How does he support himself? Does Maeve slip him money?
The Morris friends don’t know that Mark is a stock market wizard, that he doubled his trust fund after he gained control of the money. Last year, Mark decided to tell his dad about his success. He waited for a quiet Sunday afternoon when he knew Maxwell would be in his study. Mark walked into the walnut paneled room and sat in a Queen Anne chair in front of the antique partner’s desk Maeve had found in Paris years ago. Maxwell was writing checks.
“Dad. Can I talk with you?” Maxwell grunted his approval. Maxwell is a tall, thin man with a white fringe of hair and a bald crown. His eyebrows are still black, and the barber clips the bushy brows every week when Maxwell gets his hair trimmed. He is wearing fine wool black slacks and a black cashmere turtleneck sweater. He favors black in cars and clothes. Maxwell is proud that he’s increased and expanded his late father’s legacy of business and investment holdings, and he’s training his two oldest sons to assume responsibilities when he decides to step aside. He has a deep voice and dark eyes that can drill into a subordinate’s confidence.
“I wanted to tell you about my investing, how I’m doing with the trust money.” Maxwell lifted his head from the checkbook in front of him and looked at Mark as though he was an annoying six-year-old demanding attention.
“I’ve done well.”
“Any idiot could have done well in this market.”
“I’ve doubled your money.” Mark leaned forward as if to drive his success home. Maxwell snorted and went back to his checkbook.
“I’ve doubled your money and now I want to give back the original trust. I can live off the money I’ve made.”
“Keep it. You’ll be needing it.” Maxwell closed his checkbook with a thud and left the room.
There was no pleasing Maxwell. Mark would never be worthy. Maxwell had seen to that. Nonetheless, Mark put $2 million, the original trust from Maxwell, into Treasury bonds and Certificates of Deposits, safe investments for his father’s money. Some day he would return the original trust fund to his father.
Mark had started drinking when he was twelve. His parents had a cocktail party before a big charity event and half-full glasses of wine, unfinished martinis, melting vodka on the rocks were sitting on the living room tables while the caterers cleaned up the kitchen. Mark drank everything in sight, stumbled up the stairs to his bedroom, and passed out. He loves the way alcohol makes him feel. Alcohol is soothing. Alcohol obliterates time.
Now Mark has his own place. He bought a small condo in Eugene’s south hills and lives a solitary life. His siblings are his only companions; he has no friends, no romantic interests, no professional pals. He works at his computer from 6 am until 1 pm while the New York Stock Exchange is open. Afternoons he reads financial publications and drinks a couple bottles of wine. He opens the scotch at 5 pm rationalizing the wine as food, quoting Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast to himself. Five o’clock is the legitimate start for serious drinking. He never drives in the evening; one of his siblings picks him up for the regular Thursday night family dinners. Mark is proud of his ability to safely manage his alcohol consumption.
Maeve usually obeys Maxwell. It is one of the basic tenants of their marriage. Maxwell said every relationship had to have a leader and in their marriage he would rule. Maeve has learned all the tricks of silence, obfuscation, and cajoling and she has used them all over the years, but she knows nothing will change Maxwell’s mind on the intervention. If she is to have any influence, it will have to be directly with Mark. She has no clear plan. She hopes God will provide one to her before the family arrives at the beach house tomorrow.
Mark takes Route 34, a narrow, winding road through the coastal mountains and the Suislaw National Forest. It’s a less traveled road, full of sharp turns, drop offs with no guardrails. Pacific madrone trees arch over the road creating dark tunnels. There is a fine mist of rain further darkening the journey. Mark manages the Escalade as though he is a professional driver. The SUV handles well on the challenging road in spite of its bulk. The headlights glisten on the road as they move toward the coast. There is little traffic.
Maxwell’s great-great grandfather, Earl Maxwell Morris, was an English immigrant to Canada who traveled west to the Northwest Territory, trekked into the Willamette Valley, and created one of the founding families of Eugene, Oregon. Maxwell is fond of pointing out that if Eugene Skinner had not established the first post office, the town might have been called Morrisville or Morris instead of Eugene. Maxwell still gets livid about the slight to his family—150 years after the event.
Maeve’s eyes are closed, but she is not asleep. She is thinking about how to tell Mark about the intervention, how best to inform him of the weekend plans, how to help him prepare for being the center of attention. If she waits until they reach the beach house, he may walk away, not let her explain why she wants him to be informed and meet with the family. It’s best to tell him now, while he’s in the car. He won’t be able to run away from her. She straightens up in her seat, pulls on the seatbelt crossing her chest.
“Mark, I need to talk with you about the weekend.” Mark glances over at her. “There’s something you need to know. It’s more than a family get together. There’s an agenda for Saturday afternoon, after all your siblings arrive.”
“Mysterious,” Mark jokes, not hearing the gravity in Maeve’s voice.
“This weekend is about you.”
“Me! What the ….” Mark grips the steering wheel more tightly and leans forward. “I don’t like the sound of this, Mom.”
“Mark, you know how the family worries about your drinking.”
“I know Dad doesn’t approve, but Dad doesn’t approve of anything when it comes to me.” Mark speaks sharply, his shoulders hunching up.
“Your siblings agree with him.”
“You’ve all been talking about me, planning behind my back?”
“Mark, please. I’m telling you now. I don’t want you to be taken by surprise.”
Mark’s face reddens and Maeve isn’t sure if he’s near tears or anger.
She plunges on. “There will be a psychologist there. A Dr. Louis Strand. Have you ever met him?” Mark says nothing, his eyes on the road, a vein at his temple visible. “He will run the intervention. Your siblings and your father will read letters they have written telling how your drinking has affected them, you, and your relationship with each of them.”
“You’re going to put me away.”
“It’s a beautiful facility on the ocean in Carmel. They’ve had great success treating alcoholism.”
Mark suddenly puts on the brakes and wrenches the car to the side of the road, the vehicle pointing down into the ditch, the back bumper sticking out on the road. He jumps out of the car as though it’s on fire and begins running down the road, howling.
What has she done? Maeve sits immobile in her seat as though she’s suffered a seizure.
She needs a drink; there’s brandy in the backseat; she thrusts her arm behind her; she grasps the Courvoisier; she twists the cap open; she takes a long drink.
She sees Mark walking back, hands in his pocket, head down. She slips the bottle into her coat pocket and gets out of the car with some difficulty, stepping over the stagnant water in the ditch. Mark is sitting on a large log by the side of the road his arms wrapped around his waist, his hands curled into tight fists.
Maeve walks up the road pulling her hood over her head. Please give me the wisdom to help him, she prays. Maeve sits on the log beside Mark. He puts his head in his hands. He doesn’t acknowledge her. Maeve is wishing she still smoked—something to do with her mouth and hands, something to soothe her, concentrate her mind. She pulls out the brandy and takes another swig.
Mark reaches over to take the bottle. Maeve draws back, thinking of the intervention. Mark cocks an eyebrow at her as if to say What? Holding out on me?
Maeve puts the bottle on the ground out of Mark’s reach, but he roughly reaches across her, and he grabs the bottle, and he drains it. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looks at his mother. “Will you be joining me in Carmel?” he asks.
Maeve is taken aback. “Me? Of course not. I’ll visit if you like, but they say it’s best to leave you on your own for a few weeks.”
“Maybe this intervention is for both of us.”
Maeve stares at Mark and the dance begins. The accusations, the explanations, the examples, the excuses, the signs, the denials, the family secrets. I am not an alcoholic. I can handle my liquor. Your grandfather drank but look how successful he was. Functioning alcoholic? That’s ridiculous. Yes, yes, my whole family drank—a lot, everyday. That doesn’t mean they were alcoholics. They never got into trouble because of alcohol and neither have I. Look at me. I’ve supported your father in his work, entertained his clients, served on every board in Eugene, raised piles of money for charity, been a pillar in our church, and reared six wonderful children. No one would call me an alcoholic. You, on the other hand . . . You don’t understand. I’m successful too. I’ve made money in the market, a lot of it. That doesn’t mean you don’t have a drinking problem. Right back at you.
Maeve’s head is buzzing. Is there another bottle under the blanket? She’s mortified to show Mark that she badly needs the brandy and she’s surprised at how desperately she wants a drink. Maeve shakes her head as if to clear it. A highly functioning alcoholic. That’s what Dr. Strand called Mark. And she badly needs a drink. Isn’t that a definition of an alcoholic? Has she done this to her son? She pulls out her gold cross and the gold ring and looks at them and weeps. Mark moves closer, puts his arm around his mother. He fumbles in his pants pocket for his handkerchief. As Maeve takes the handkerchief, the cross and ring fall onto her lap.
Mark picks up the ring. “What is this? It’s so small. What’s the “J” stand for?
Maeve makes a decision.
“The “J” is for Jessica.”
“Jessica?”
“Your twin sister.”
Mark looks at his mother, frowning, not comprehending. “I had a twin?”
“You have a twin. She’s in a very nice facility in Portland. Your father took her to the nuns after she was born.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She was a Mongoloid baby. She has Down syndrome. When you and she were born in the Sixties, Mongoloid babies were put into institutions. It was thought nothing could be done for them and they couldn’t lead normal lives. Your father didn’t want the older children upset so we never told anyone. And you know your father—he thought it was a stain on his character, a less than perfect child. He couldn’t bear to acknowledge her.”
“Is that the way he thinks of me—a less than perfect child? Never mind. I know the answer. Do you ever see her?” Mark is sitting tall now, leaning towards Maeve, looking intently at her.
“I go as often as I can slip away,” Maeve says as she continues to gaze at the ring. “I’ve fabricated a church committee that meets in Portland once a month. I spend the day with her. She’s a sweet girl. I named her after me, Jessica Maeve, but I call her Jessie.” Maeve has a sweet smile on her face, remembering Jessie.
“I suppose Dad doesn’t see her.”
“He’s never mentioned her since the day he sent her away.”
“Let’s go,” Mark calls as he heads for the Escalade.
Maeve hurries across the road and climbs into the SUV. Mark starts the car, backs it onto the road and violently turns the steering wheel to the left until the Escalade is headed back toward Eugene. Maeve clutches the armrest, her eyes wide, frightened.
“Mark! What are you doing? Where are you going?” Mark does not respond.
Maeve buckles her seat belt. Mark is driving dangerously fast on the slippery road. After a few miles, Mark eases up on the gas pedal and takes a deep breath. Maeve looks at him out of the corner of her eye, afraid to say anything for fear of setting him off again.
“Mom, this revelation about my twin changes everything. Everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t seem right, her in an institution. I feel like I should be near her. What’s she like? Can she talk? Is she a vegetable?”
“No, no, she’s functional. You will like her, and I think it’s time you two met. Let me drive.” Mark pulls into a turnout, and they change places. Maeve drives to I-5 and heads north to Portland. During the hour-long drive, Maeve talks about Jessie—what a lovable disposition she has, how she likes country music and how Maeve brought her a tape player and cassettes with her favorite songs, how she rocks side to side trying to stay with the beat of the music, how she needs to be cuddled, how she always kisses Maeve hello and goodbye, how they have simple conversations, how Maeve took her to the Oregon Coast Aquarium, Jessie’s blue eyes wide with wonder and a little fearful of the new surroundings, how she loves vanilla ice cream.
“How much longer till we get there?” says Mark.
“We’re here,” Maeve says as she turns into a curved gravel driveway landscaped with manicured green grass, graceful linden trees, trimmed boxwood bordering the grass. Mature rhododendrons droop to the ground lush with fuchsia and purple blooms—like 19th century Southern belles wearing their hooped-skirt ball gowns.
“Wow,” breathes Mark. “Beautiful.”
“Yes, your father chose a fine home for Jessie.” Maeve pulls up to a red brick three-story Federal style building and parks in a visitor’s parking space.
“I’m nervous about meeting her. Does she know she has a twin?”
“Not yet, but she will today. Don’t worry, I’ll take the lead.”
Maeve and Mark get out of the Escalade, straighten their clothes, and walk to the entrance. Maeve rings the doorbell and looks up to a camera. “Maeve Morris and her son Mark to see Jessie Morris,” she announces. The door opens and they step into a spacious marble-floored entry. “We’ll wait for someone to meet us and take us to Jessie,” she whispers to Mark.
Soon they’re greeted by an aide in a pale-yellow uniform who leads them to the craft room. They walk down a corridor to a spacious room with picture windows overlooking a garden.
Mark spots a black-haired woman seated at a table gluing multi-colored papers together. She’s intent on her task, her tongue thrust between her lips just like his mother does when she’s concentrating. He knows this is his twin. The woman turns around, surprised, sees Maeve. “Momma,” she squeals, jumping up and rushing to hug Maeve.
“Hello, darling. What are you making?”
“A rainbow,” Jessie says, “Jerry showed me a real one out the window.” She sees Mark, looks at him quizzically. “Hello, who are you?”
“I’m Mark,” he says walking tentatively toward the table. “May I see your rainbow?”
Mark will spend the afternoon with his sister that day, the person he has subconsciously mourned all these years. He will cancel the intervention with the family and check in to the sanatorium in Carmel. He will leave with resolve to change his life. Maeve will join Mark in Carmel and leave sober. She will never drink again. Mark will move to Portland, and he will visit his sister every afternoon after the New York Stock Exchange closes.
Mark will consult experts on adults with Down syndrome and talk with Jessie’s caretakers about her special needs. He will befriend one caretaker, Jerry, a slightly retarded aide because he notices the special relationship between the two. Mark will move Jessie and Jerry to his home in Portland. He will invite the family to meet her, and they will all come, all except Maxwell.
Maxwell will suffer a debilitating stroke, unable to walk, unable to speak, unable to move, and his older sons will take over the business. Maeve will put Maxwell in a fine institution where the staff will feed him, dress him, exercise him, clean him, massage him, talk over him. Maeve will visit him once a month for the rest of her life. If he could communicate, Maxwell would ask someone to help him die. Instead, he will outlive Maeve by five years and die at the age of ninety-two, twenty-one years after the stroke.
Maeve will move to Portland, and she will purchase a house around the corner from Mark and Jessie. Jessie and Jerry will marry and continue to live with Mark. They will not have children; Maxwell had ordered a tubal ligation when she became fertile. Mark will remain a bachelor the rest of his life, content to manage his investments and dote on his nieces and nephews and great-nieces and great-nephews.
Family secrets are like mementos concealed in attic corners and cubbies. The secrets reside there gathering dust and energy, and occasionally, a keeper of family secrets will return to the attic to gaze on the relic, to ruminate on the meaning, to judge the effects of seclusion, to ask for forgiveness. One day, a curious rummager exploring the attic will trip over the sequestered secret, pick it up, dust it off, and know. Family secrets are swords that cut to the quick.
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Susan Knox’s stories and essays have appeared in Barely South Review, CALYX, Cleaver, The MacGuffin, Matador Review, Sequestrum, Still Point Arts, Zone 3, and elsewhere. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and for Best of the Net. She and her husband live in Seattle, near Pike Place Market where she shops most days for the evening meal.
Read More: A Brief Q&A with Susan Knox