Mackenna on the Edge Page 3

  The pain and memories of them and us, from the beginning to the end, leave me to wonder, will the pain ever go away and the memories fade? Or am I simply cursed to suffer to the end of my days? I’ve always been suspicious of the possibility that there is a miniature replica of myself out there, somewhere, sitting on some someone’s mantel with a dozen hat pins piercing through my waxen, misshapen body. Sometimes, however farfetched, it’s my only explanation for the intense and piercing pain I so often feel.

  Since my parents’ demise, I have spent an inordinate amount of time trying to erase the memories, but I am continually drawn—as if by some mystical power that beckons to me with its long, seductive finger—to remember every detail of my life. To somehow sort through every aspect of my relationships with the very same people who have left me to sift through all of this pain—by myself. How exactly did it come about that there would be so much animosity between us and I would be left on this planet carrying the incredible weight of it all on my shoulders? But why should I feel so guilty—and so sad? Why have I been left with the burden of remembering?

  These are only a few of the questions I have been asking myself for the past six months, and perhaps even longer, it seems. I have been fighting an inner battle with myself to keep from looking at the past for fear I would remember what I crave most to forget. Whenever I do allow myself the freedom to remember, and even when I willingly seek the memories out, I always seem to arrive at the same juncture when everything changed: the day I willfully defied my parents with vigor and purpose.

  Prior to that day, that redefining event, my defiance was fueled by antagonism and raging adolescence and had no purpose, at least none of which I had control. On that day, with no malice intended, I managed to shatter whatever illusions and plans my parents might have made and expected for my future by merely taking control of my own destiny. I realized their illusions and plans were more about their place in life than mine, but little did I know my stand for independence would train a glaring spotlight on our ever-strained relationship and damage it nearly beyond repair.

  FOUR

  Icicle from Hell

  It was on the occasion of my eighteenth birthday, precisely two days before our annual departure for the Alps, when I announced to my parents I would not be joining them. From the age of twelve I had complained bitterly about my lack of independence, and on that day, with quiet defiance, I claimed it. Unfortunately, I was incapable of acting on my feelings of constraint until then, mostly because of my tender age, but also because of a glaring absence of courage. Living a sheltered and privileged life can rob you of your courage. I also had a healthy respect for my parents and their expectations of me.

  On that auspicious day, however, I proclaimed my independence. Always on the rather shy and quiet side, I managed to make my proclamation without fanfare amidst our normal dinner conversation. I simply and quietly laid my fork down and informed my parents of my intention to graduate from high school mid-term and then enlist in the military.

  It was a bold plan and went against every convention in my life; but, at the time, it seemed to be the best and only way I knew to flee from what I perceived as their suffocating clutches. I also always had a thing for uniforms and a penchant for non-conformance, which I’ll be the first to admit was a precarious contradiction, but at the time the general concept worked for me.

  My timing left much to be desired, and my parents, who were not known for their shy or quiet sides, nearly raised the roof off the house. Dinner was, understandably and unavoidably, spoiled, and things between us never felt the same after that. Our ever-strained relationship became more so on that day, to the point of being non-existent for most of the rest of their lives.

  Prior to my parents departing for their final Swiss sojourn, I’d only seen them a grand total of six times: once for a disastrous Christmas—my last with them in 1974; one miserable, terse dinner in 1981 and another in 1987; one strained family reunion in Boston in the summer of 1989; and one surprisingly pleasant dinner two years ago following their surprise attendance of opening night for my latest play, Velvet Gifts. The last and final time I ever saw my parents was not alive, but at their funerals, which is not to say I actually saw them as much as I saw their coffins.

  In some ways, I have to admit I was relieved not to have seen them in their final state; in other ways, well, I’d have given anything for that blessed opportunity for closure. The finality of actually seeing my parents in their ultimate resting places, knowing they were really inside those boxes, would free me from this constant stream of irrational wondering that resides in my brain like a tumor. On the other hand, I’m afraid I’d feel much more guilty and sad than I do now if I had seen their dead faces, knowing for sure I’d never be able to tell them how much I really do love them—and still love them.

  Worse still, the opportunity to share my anger at my abandonment when I was young, all at the hands of their wealth, obligations and what I perceived as indifference, was robbed from me when they died too soon. And now it’s all mine—at least the wealth is. I have so far refused to acknowledge any obligations that might have come with this monstrous gift of my inheritance. The indifference lurks in the corners of this fortress but hasn’t found me—at least not yet.

  The evening of the Velvet Gifts premiere we seemed headed toward a complete reconciliation—a healing of past wrongs. Yet, after having been estranged from them for half of my life, I was bothered by enormous waves of unease washing over me just from the very idea of rapidly and radically changing the dynamics of our relationship I’d become used to. As a result, I withdrew and remained cool and aloof, launching myself into my infamous self-preservation mode. On a philosophical level, my success allowed me the freedom to feel comfortable seeking some semblance of a relationship with them; on an emotional level, I experienced anything but comfort.

  Driving home that evening of the premiere, I was filled with guarded optimism. I remember thinking it was perfectly fine not to rush things; we’d have plenty more opportunities to spend together, other chances for a complete, adult reconciliation. Of course, those opportunities never materialized. Schedules conflicted, and our lives, separate from each other, seemed to hold more importance than our lives together. We did, however, manage to speak to each other several times by phone following the premiere, but at a certain point, whether talking to my mother or my father, each conversation, without fail, seemed to quickly deteriorate into the same old argument—the argument that drove me from their home in the first place. At least that’s what I thought back then.

  Once on the road to reconciliation, my parents never wasted an opportunity to subtly suggest a suitable marriage prospect for me—someone who might bring important ties and additional wealth into our family.

  ”You need to carry on our traditions,” they would say.

  “What about love?” I would ask. “And what about me?”

  Was money and respectability more important than my happiness? How much more money did they need? How much more respectability should one family expect? It was the basis for every argument and nearly drove me mad.

  Their intense desire for respectability and tradition and their inability, rather, their unwillingness to acknowledge that I was the living, breathing dichotomy of those two goals was what drove us apart from as early as I can remember. I almost think I was born rejecting their way of life. Every fight we had revolved around Papá’s family wealth, obligations, and the importance of the Martín name. And then there were Mother’s family connections and expectations to consider, and what a disgrace I would be—was—am to them if I didn’t marry properly. It was expected. They bucked tradition, I always complained, so why couldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I?

  But it didn’t really matter anyway. I always felt I would never measure up to those expectations. I couldn’t. I was an only child with the obligations and responsibilities of the several children that were expected after me but never came. All the children who never came because
of me—or so I came to believe from as far back as I can remember.

  My Irish mother and my Spaniard father, with sixteen siblings and a strong Catholic upbringing between them, ended up with me, and only me—the culprit—the lone destroyer of my mother’s treasured and long missing womb. Ultimately, I grew up believing their disappointment manifested itself as anger that all too often I perceived was directed at me in the form of impossible demands, or outright rejection of me as an individual.

  I felt it young when I found myself in a Catholic boarding school in Boston at the tender age of seven. I felt it as a teenager when I was finally allowed to attend public high school, but only after I was thrown out of Catholic school for publicly denouncing Catholicism as a patriarchal mumbo-jumbo cult, proudly declaring myself an Atheist. Papá was outraged at my blasphemy, so much so I nearly found myself back in another Catholic boarding school. I, however, refused to change my so-called evil ways, promising to continue with my quiet revolution. I begged them to let me stay and attend the local high school.

  The very thought of me and my immoral beliefs running amok at another Catholic school nearly made my parents apoplectic with panic. I eventually got my way; however, my marginal victory did not come without a hefty price. Papá retaliated by demanding I take the toughest courses available, expecting nothing but A’s from me, or else! Mother was responsible for eliminating any extra-curricular activities I might enjoy for I had committed sacrilege. They were both mortified and made me swear not to breathe a word of my disgrace to anyone else in the family; because, after all, Granda MacKenna knew the Pope—personally.

  So I paid for my religious freedom with difficult courses and a nun’s life, but only whenever Mother and Papá were home, which they rarely were. It was a fact of which I took every advantage, and as a result, my limited social life suffered little, if at all. I did manage to achieve high grades in spite of every effort not to; but in the end, Mother and Papá didn’t really care. At least not as far as I was concerned. In my mind, I was being raised by nuns; and in the end, household servants who were there for me on a consistent basis when my parents weren’t.

  And now, a year after their deaths, I wander around in my childhood home, this manse where I’ve come to realize my rebuff of my parents and their lives was more than a rejection of their dismissal of me and my birth. It was a resentment of the wealth that took them away from me, a child who loved them and needed them. And now, the very wealth I despised as a child and a young adult has somehow become all mine. I never expected it. To say I was shocked at the reading of the will would be a mild understatement. But, as my father’s will carefully explained, despite our differences, my parents’ and mine, his portion of the Martín wealth is my birthright and I was entitled to have it—all of it—should anything happen to my father and my mother. Well, it did. That “anything” happened. And now it’s mine. All of it.

  Regretfully, my very place in life as I’ve made it was bought by the highest bidder, so to speak. Since my eighteenth birthday, I’ve worked and worked to find my own destiny, my own independence, and my own identity, separate from them and their money and everything that went with it. For years I eked out a living doing odd jobs while I shopped my writing around, searching for an agent, collecting rejection notices by the truck full and eating criticism by the shovelful. All because I craved and sought self-reliance from my parents and the Martín fortune? No, I don’t think so—not completely.

  In addition to the coveted independence, I sought my own fame and fortune. I eventually found it, but to what end? One icicle from Hell and overnight I became one of the wealthier human beings on this planet. All of my adult years—twenty to be exact—I’ve run from their riches, proclaiming my financial sovereignty; but now, my own personal contribution to this new fortune of mine cannot match just one day of interest the Martín empire generates. Not one day. So much for my plan for independence and the search for love. In a moment, I lost my parents and my personal war against their wealth as well.

  Yes, in the blink of an eye, I lost what I think I wanted more than anything in this world. All I ever wanted was my parents’ love; and instead, I got what I wanted the least—their money. The irony of it all is compelling at the very least, and heartbreaking at the most.

  Ah, yes, heartbreaking. What an interesting and tragic metaphor. So often I’ve heard people say they’ve had their hearts broken more than once. How many times can a heart be broken, I’ve wondered? I also wonder if they’ve really, truly experienced that mental anguish that sits on your chest like a ton of sorrow, and takes your breath away until you want to absolutely die—or if they’re just blithely tossing it around as a mere figure of speech. Like a simple cliché. I wonder.

  I can say with absolute certainty my heart has been broken more than once. I’ve known the unbearable pain that wraps the heart in a blanket of despondency and tightens so tight the rhythm is smothered right out of it. I’ve felt it. I know it well. Every beat is painful and labored as the heart stumbles and wails with sadness and moans with grief and wants to stop and never start again like some abused and forgotten clock. Yes, I know that feeling very well.

  When my parents died, rather, when I read Papá’s letter, I know my heart broke because I literally felt it break. It’s a feeling with which I am painfully familiar because years ago my heart was shattered nearly beyond repair. The memory of it surprised me—shocked me, really. It’s not a feeling that’s easily forgotten, but mercifully, I had. I had allowed myself to forget because I didn’t want to remember. I couldn’t and wouldn’t—not until six months ago. Now, I battle against reminders everywhere—newspapers, magazines, television, movies—a clear conspiracy. An absolutely devastating time in my life, conveniently obscured by the passing of time, has rudely surfaced with a devious combination of 90’s progress, 70’s nostalgia and my parents’ untimely demise.

  I’ve found myself reluctantly reliving the past and experiencing so much pain I thought was far behind me. I feel as if I’ve been drowning in my own angst. I’ve not been able to confront these feelings that have boiled to the surface after so many years, finding myself, more times than not, lost in a swirling funnel of emotions that move so fast and furious I can’t identify them. I can’t even address them. I’ve begun to hate myself for succumbing so passively to self-pity, or at least the appearance of it. I loathe it in others and I despise it in myself.

  Yet, I honestly feel as if I am on the brink of insanity, slowly slipping into what could very well be a deeper, darker depression than I have ever known. I’ve been there before, and I fear it. The idea of surpassing the depths of despair I’ve experienced in my life terrifies me beyond reason. I’m afraid I will go mad. What does one do to avoid insanity? I don’t know if it’s possible to avoid it, and I don’t know what others have done to keep themselves from going down the rabbit hole.

  For me, in defense of my fragile sanity, I am going on the offense by turning to my comfort, my writing. My goal is to try and record the thoughts and feelings that are torturing me mercilessly. I am desperate to look at and examine them in a two-dimensional state and scrutinize them in a stationery, un-swirling condition.

  All the while, as I continually build my resolve of self-examination, I’m deeply uncomfortable with the notion that my process may be misconstrued or perceived as me wallowing in self-pity. Naturally, my own suspicion of what is my true motivation—to wallow or discover—is the source of my discomfort. In spite of my discomfort, I’ve already accomplished one thing; I’m writing again, and that alone has made me feel just barely alive.

  FIVE

  Mi Familia

  And in the early morn of a fresh new year, before the light of day reached the sleeping coast of the west, and barely having gently laid its long fingers across the coast of the east, the earth raised up a mighty groan. Churning, rocking and moaning with a sudden violence, the earth lurched, spilling the sleeping creatures from their warm and fuzzy beds. Yanked from dreams and smug
satisfaction, the coastal creatures were heaved from safe and secure lives onto the cold, hard, shaking ground and hurled into the startling reality of wretched fear, their continuing existence questionable. They floundered under a blanket of absolute darkness and confusion, with nothing but their own beating hearts and fright-filled shrieks to guide them to safety.

  ~/~/~/~/~

  In the midst of mess and chaos, Mackenna and the Aldamas worked alongside each other in the expansive family room in complete and loving harmony. Laughing and joking as they worked, they were grateful they were together and still alive after the enormous earthquake that had struck in the dark of the winter morning. They were a family, of sorts, and although they had been working tirelessly since before dawn, clearing away debris and systematically securing undamaged fragile and valuable objects, no one complained.

  Technically in charge and the mistress of the house, Mackenna Martín was considerably less boisterous than her cousins by marriage—the housekeeper and her husband, their son and grandson—and directed the clean-up in a subdued manner, deferring to the older couple in most instances. It was a rare occasion for her to participate in any type of “family” activity since her return to the house. The others knew she was in a fragile emotional state, so it was unusual to have her working among them and even smiling from time to time. For the older woman who mostly felt like Mackenna’s proxy mother, it was a relief and a sign of hope.