The Dark at the Bottom of the Stair

When we learned what "aggressive" meant, Maddy turned pale, and I thought for a moment I would pass out. She would have to undergo a mastectomy and the removal of her lymph nodes, followed by both chemotherapy and radiation. We both cried when we got home from the doctor's office, and I cried again when I had to call Terry and tell him.

The next act in our little drama featured scenes of darkness and light. The light came from the support groups we joined and the encouragement of our friends. They helped sustain us and keep our spirits up with their sympathy and understanding.

But the surgery and follow-up treatments were very dark indeed. Losing her breast hit Maddy especially hard. She was a beautiful woman, and had always been especially proud of her breasts. They were one of her best features.

Although I tried to hide it, her surgery hit me equally hard. I'd always loved her breasts, and the idea of her being disfigured was difficult for me to accept. But I told myself to grow up and quit feeling sorry for myself. I wasn't the one fighting for my life, and I wasn't going to do anything but be positive and upbeat around her. "Once we get this thing licked," I promised her, "you can get reconstructive surgery. They can do wonders now; you'll be the envy of all your friends."

But when the gods become angry at mortals, they are not to be appeased by acts of courage and displays of optimism. When we learned that the cancer had metastasized aggressively to other organs, Maddy lost the will to fight. "I don't want to go through any more surgeries," she told me. "I don't want any more chemo or radiation. I've had enough."

I begged and pleaded with her not to give up, but she was adamant, and I really couldn't blame her. I'd seen how weak she'd been after the surgery, how sick the toxic chemicals they'd injected into her body had made her. No one could fault her for not wanting to keep going through that with very little likelihood of success.

I thought there might also be another factor, though I didn't want to mention it. I feared that Maddy viewed her cancer as some sort of punishment for what had happened with Grace. Maddy never said anything like that, but I couldn't help but wonder if that was part of the reason she declined further treatment.

Once we stopped all treatment, things began to change very quickly. Maddy would have good days when she would seem almost normal. I remember taking her to a flower show and rejoicing in the pleasure she took in seeing array of blooms. Other days, she would scarcely be able to lift her head, and I could tell that her strength was draining like water from a cracked glass.

In the last days, I moved her to hospice care. Most of the time she simply slept, an uneasy, unrestful sleep. When she was awake, she had things she wanted to say, but she didn't have the energy for long conversations. "Raleigh, you know that I've always loved you," she told me on more than one occasion. That made me sad, because I had always known that; there was no reason for her to feel she had to keep reassuring me. But I only replied that I knew she did and that I had always loved her equally as much.

On her last day, she roused herself again to take my hand. "Grace?" was all she said, but I knew what she was asking. I could do nothing but shake my head. "Tell her I'm sorry for everything," she murmured before slipping back into sleep. She would not awake.

Later that night, she went into Cheyne-Stokes breathing, and then she was gone. The gods had had their vengeance.

I shook myself from my reverie and looked around our quiet home. Now that she was safely buried, there was nothing more I could do for her. It was time for me to go on with my life.

Those were brave words, but they didn't match my mood. There had been times when I wondered how I could go on after losing the two most important women in my life. But that was just self-pity talking; I had a son with a wife and a son of their own. I knew they loved and needed me, just as I needed them. Life might have lost its zest, but I had no right to think about giving up.

The next few weeks were filled with a new set of hurts and indignities. The pain came from the need to clean out Maddy's things, especially her clothes, cosmetics and other personal effects. I knew I had to do it – I didn't want them to become some pathetic, dusty shrine – but every item I packed had its own set of memories, and the relatively simple task took me days to complete.

The indignities were inflicted both actively and passively by the friends, acquaintances and colleagues I interacted with over the next few weeks. The museum where she had worked sent a delegation over to express their condolences, and while I appreciated the gesture, I hardly knew any of the people. The signed calligraphic memorial they presented me with was an embarrassment. What was I to do with it -- hang it over the fireplace?

Many of our friends stopped by to check on me, but they had no idea what to say to me beyond the clichéd phrases everyone uses. Likewise, I had no idea what to say in return other than to employ the equally tired responses.

Worst of all were the people who couldn't think of anything to say and, in their embarrassment, would avoid me. I'd see them shaking their head or casting worried glances in my direction when they thought I wouldn't notice. I didn't fault them; sometimes there's just nothing that can be said.

I'd taken to visiting our minister at church during Maddy's illness, and now that she was gone, I found I needed to keep going. Our minister was a wise and lovely woman who let me pour out my grief in her little office over a cup of tea. In addition to spiritual comfort, she proved to have great insight into human nature. It was she more than anyone else who helped me get past my self-pity.

But when I went to see her this Friday, I had a new problem to deal with, one that both troubled and shamed me. After she had poured me a cup and settled back in her swivel chair, I began to make my informal confession.

"I had a nightmare last night. I dreamed that Maddy was alive, but she wouldn't come to me. I was lying in my bed, but I was helpless and couldn't get up. Maddy just laughed at me and went out the door, never even looking back. I was so angry at her that I felt like I hated her at that moment."

I looked up at the reverend's thoughtful face. "What's wrong with me? How can I be having feelings like that?"

She took a sip of from her cup and looked at me intently. "Raleigh, what you're feeling is entirely normal. Nobody likes to talk about it, but I daresay most of the people who lose loved ones experience feelings of resentment and anger toward them at one time or another."

"But how can that be?" I demanded. "She's dead, for God's sake, while I'm still alive. She should be resenting me, not the other way around."

"But don't you see," she said quietly, "she left you alone in all your pain and sorrow. The more you loved her, the more you miss her, and the more it hurts. And the source of all that pain is Maddy.Iis it any wonder you feel some resentment toward the person who's causing you to grieve and suffer so terribly?"

What she said made sense in a twisted sort of way, but I still wasn't happy about it. "What can I do to make it go away? I don't want to spend the rest of my life hating my dead wife."

The minister gave me a little smile. "You don't need to worry about that, Raleigh. The reason you feel anger now is that you still haven't accepted the fact that Maddy is gone. It's all still too fresh and raw. Once you get to the point of acceptance, you'll find that the anger is gone too, and you'll be able to focus on the good memories."

When I left her office, I hoped that she was right. It was very disconcerting to find myself hating the woman I'd cherished for so many years.

I was glad I'd had the appointment with our minister that day because I was invited to have dinner with Terry and his family that night. The last thing I wanted to do was visit them with all that anger unresolved in my heart. Little did I know the next scene in my drama was just getting started.

After dinner, Terry and I sat out in the den. Sally made a point of leaving us alone, saying she needed to put their son Lance to bed. "What is it, Terry?" I asked him. "I can see there's something you want to tell me."

He shifted nervously in his chair and cleared his throat. "It's Grace," he said, "I've heard from her."

Instantly, all the anger that the minister had managed to ease that afternoon came flooding back, but this time it had a new target.

"Did you tell her?" I demanded. "Did you tell that her mother is dead?"

He looked at me uneasily. "Yeah, Dad, I told her."

"Well, what did she have to say?" I said, more loudly than I had intended. "She knew Maddy was dying. Couldn't she have even come to her mother's funeral?"

"She cried when I told her," Terry answered.

I looked at him expectantly. "There's more, isn't there?" I prompted.

His face took on a guilty appearance. "She made me swear not to tell you, Dad, but I just can't keep that promise. I know where she is."

I sat there dumbfounded. After five long years . . .

Terry went on. "When I told her about Mom's death, she asked me to send her something of Mom's she could keep. I got one of Mom's crosses from the stuff you gave Sally and sent it to her. Dad, she's living in Chicago; I've got her address." He handed me a slip of paper. "Oh, and she's living under Mom's maiden name; she's Grace Campbell now."

I took the paper with her name and address and saw that Grace' was actually living in Skokie, just north of Chicago. I put the address in my pocket and stood up.

"Dad, what are you going to do?" Terry asked in alarm.

"There's only one thing I can do," I told him. "I have to go and see her."

He looked at me in resignation. "I knew you'd say that."

He walked me to the door. "Dad, don't do anything crazy."

I looked at him solemnly. "I promise, son."

As soon as I got home, I booked a motel near Grace's address. Then I headed for bed. It's about a three-hour drive from our house to Chicago, and I wanted to get an early start. I had no idea how long I'd be staying, so I wasn't sure how much to pack.

During the drive up, I kept thinking about what I wanted to say to her. After five years and all the things that had happened in that time, I didn't know where to start. I went through various scenarios in my mind. None of them seemed right -- there were just too many things I didn't know.

It was after noon when I reached Skokie, so I decided to grab a bite to eat before going to her address. I wasn't really that hungry, but I knew that the acid building up in my stomach would eat a hole in the lining if I didn't put something down there to soak it up.

When I reached her address, I was surprised. I'd been expecting a slum; instead, I found myself parked in front of a pleasant complex filled with what appeared to be upscale townhomes. I was so bemused that when I got to the door and rang the bell, I had forgotten the speech I had intended to make to her.

I could see an eye peering at me through the peephole of the door, and there was a long pause before it opened. There in the doorway stood my long-lost daughter. From a gawky teenager, she had grown into a lovely young woman, every bit as beautiful as her mother.

She stood there eying me with a sour expression on her face. "I should have known better than to trust Terry," was all she said.

At that, the temper I'd tried to suppress began to boil, and it was all I could do not to yell at her. Striving for control, I asked rather testily, "Is that any way to greet your father after disappearing for five years?"

She heaved a sigh. "You're right, Daddy. I'm sorry, please come in." She stepped back, pulling the door open wider, and I walked into her place. It was tastefully decorated, and the furniture appeared to be pretty new.

The appearance of her lifestyle raised even more questions for me. What did she do for a living? How could she afford such a nice place? What had she been doing for the five long years she'd been gone?

She motioned me to the sofa, and seated herself in an armchair across from me. As I gazed at her, it struck me again how much she looked like her mother, and with that memory, all my hurt and anger came bubbling up again. "Why didn't you come home for your mother's funeral?" I demanded.

She looked at me helplessly. "Daddy, I just couldn't. It was all so complicated -- I just couldn't do it."

"That's not acceptable," I said. "She was your mother, for God's sake!"

Grace just sat there, her eyes downcast.

I tried to regain my composure. "She wanted to see you so badly," I said more gently. "Do you know what the last words she ever said were? She said, 'Tell Grace I'm sorry.'" Angrily, I brushed the tears that seemed to have appeared on my cheeks. "I don't know what you two were fighting about, but it can't have been so bad that you wouldn't even come to see her laid to rest."

The tears were now running down her cheeks too. "But I couldn't," she said hopelessly. "If I had gone back, it would have meant I forgave her. How could I do that?"

"Forgave her for what?" I demanded.

"For the way she treated you," she snapped back at me.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said angrily. "Your mother loved me and cared for me every day of our thirty-five years together. Even when she was dying, she kept telling me that over and over again."

Now I could see anger rise in Grace's eyes, and it reminded me of the bad old days when she was a rebellious teenager. "Maybe she did, Daddy, but she sure had a funny way of showing it."

I could only shake my head. "I don't understand a word you're saying," I shot back.

She gulped and then the words came spewing out. "Daddy, she was cheating on you! Didn't you know that? Didn't you at least suspect?"

I sat back heavily in my seat. I found it hard to breathe.

"No, that can't be true. Maddy would never have done that. How can you say that?" But my words had no conviction behind them; doubt was building in me even as I protested.

"It's true, Daddy. I heard her talking to him on the phone. I ditched school one day, and when Mom came in, she didn't know I was home. I guess she had to change for some big event at the museum, but anyway her cellphone rang and it was him. I heard her talking to him while she walked around her bedroom pulling out the clothes she wanted to wear. She talked about what they were going to do that night, and then she started talking about what she was going to do to him." She sniffled. "Daddy, it turned into phone sex, and I heard every filthy word she said."

I was reeling at the scene Grace was recounting for me, and I grasped for any straws I could find. "Maybe it was a joke, sweetheart. Maybe she was just teasing him."

But Grace had broken her self-imposed oath of silence, and now it was all going to come out. She interrupted my rationalization. "No, Daddy, it was no joke. I know because the next day when she reamed me out about something, I confronted her. She tried to deny it, but when I began repeating what she had said to him, she had to admit it. I don't know why – maybe she was tired of living with the guilt – but she told me all about it: who he was, how long it had been going on, how it had started."

Then the determined look on her face seemed to dissolve, and the tears began to flow again. "And when she was done, she told me I could never tell anyone, not Terry, not my friends, and especially not you. She told me you could never accept it, that you would divorce her and break up our home. I couldn't do that, Daddy. I couldn't be the one to split up our family."

With that she put her face in her hands and began to sob. Despite my own anguish, I went over and knelt beside her chair so I could hold her. But I couldn't keep silent; what she had told me raised so many more questions. "What happened after that?" I asked her gently.

"I tried to keep her secret, Daddy, and I did for a couple of months, I guess. I was about to graduate, and I just wanted to get through that." She looked up at me. "But it was so hard. Every time she kissed you, the only thing I could think of was what she'd told him she was going to do with her mouth. Whenever she had some event to go to at the museum, I'd wonder if it was just an excuse to see him again. And every time she came down on me for something I'd done, all I could think was, 'Who are you to judge me?'"

She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. "It got so bad I felt like I was going to explode. And then one day when she really got onto me, I did. That was the time you walked in on our big fight. I knew I couldn't stay there another day. I couldn't stay with Mom because I couldn't stand her lies and her 'I'm so superior' attitude. And I couldn't stay with you because I knew I couldn't keep everything from you, and that would have been the end of our family. The only way out was for me to leave and get as far away as I could."

She shrugged her shoulders. "And that's when I ran away to Chicago."

My mind was filled with more questions, but the first one that popped out of my mouth was, "Why did you go to Chicago?'

She looked at me like I was dumb. "Because that's where he lives."

"Who?" I said angrily, "Where who lives?"

"The guy she was sleeping with. You've heard of him, Daddy: Carleton Morrison."

And suddenly it all started to fall into place. I'd never met Carleton Morrison, but I knew who he was. He was the wealthy commodities trader who was as famous for the starlets he used to date as for his patronage of the arts. I remembered that his first multi-million-dollar donation to the museum had been one of Maddy's early coups that marked her as a rising star in the development office. Now I wondered what she'd had to do to get it.

Then another memory popped into my head. Back when we had been struggling financially, we'd had a stroke of good fortune that had really made the difference for us. Maddy came home one day to tell me that an aunt I'd never met had passed away and left her a nice sum of money. It was enough to let us get out of debt and get our heads above water financially. Now I had to wonder who was the real source of that money?

"But that can't be right," I thought. "That was so long ago." I tried to remember when all that had happened. "That would mean their affair started . . ."

But before I could remember, my recollection was interrupted by a stirring coming from the back of the house. Grace was up like a shot. "Oh, dear, we woke her up." Then she disappeared into the back hall.

When she reappeared, she was accompanied by a beautiful little girl who must have been between two and three years old. She had lustrous brown hair that hung in bangs over her forehead, and large brown eyes. But all I could focus on at that moment were those abnormally large elbows, the awkward angle of her lower limbs and feet, and the difficulty she had in walking, even with her mother's help.

I fell to my knees and reached out to her. "Hello," I said quietly, "I'm your Granddaddy. What's your name?"

Those big eyes looked at me for a moment. Then she said in a halting voice, "Soo-zee."

"Hello, Susie. Can I hold you?"

She looked back to see her mother's smile and nod, then stretched her arms out to me. I gently picked her up and stood there, holding my grand-daughter. Over her shoulder, I stared at Grace through brimming eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?"

It was time for Susie to eat, and I did the best I could to help Grace feed her. Afterwards, the little girl wanted to go outside, so Grace got her stroller and put her in it. Then we walked along the sun-dappled sidewalk under the trees until we reached a small park. Susie cooed and talked to herself most of the way.