Mackenna on the Edge Read online

  As Mother chewed my ear off with her words, I would daydream about all the secrets those books held. Sometimes I would imagine Degas actually painting his painting, wondering what he was thinking as he laid down every stroke of his brush. I had so many scenarios for that one painting. I remember Papá would suddenly say, his voice loud and commanding in Spanish, “Mary-Mackenna! Your mother is speaking to you. Pay attention! Look at her when she speaks.” And then, as if I didn’t understand him, and knowing Mother disapproved, he would repeat his admonishment in English with only the slightest accent. Each time I would jump a little, shocked out of my dreaming, and stare at Mother with wide and innocent eyes for as long as I could manage before succumbing to my wandering mind.

  No matter how I tried, I just could not seem to pay attention to her for very long before I would begin to lose my focus and plunge helplessly into my wonderment. Then, Papá’s big voice would once again boom in Spanish and I would jump, and so it would go. I suppose my inability to stay focused during my parents’ castigating is why I only remember nearly every instance when my presence was demanded in the library, and almost nothing of why I was summoned in the first place. I now know that I was extraordinarily fortunate that sound reprimands and “restrictions” were the absolute worst purposeful punishments I ever received in my childhood. But as a child, why my beloved parents had stopped loving me was bewildering to me. Because that’s what I thought, that they had stopped loving me.

  It wasn’t always that way. Until I was seven, my life was as sweet and wonderful as a child’s life could ever be, and I remember it well. When I was naughty, as Mother used to call my misbehavior, she would gently scold me and Papá would just laugh, gathering me up in his arms to cover me with big strong hugs. I would kiss his smooth shaven cheeks and bury my face in his neck and the smell of English Leather that was him. To this day, that scent can bring memories flooding back as if it were only yesterday. I would say “Papá smells pretty” to which he’d respond by tickling me gently, saying, “Papás don’t smell pretty, mi hija, they smell good,” until I’d start to giggle and tickle him back on his neck until he was laughing as well. Then Mother, who would try to maintain a stern demeanor for my sake, would finally break down and join us. It was practically a routine. We were so happy then.

  They were both around me all the time, never leaving me behind when Papá needed to go somewhere on business. We all just went with him and always had a wonderful time. Mother seemed so different then, and Papá, too. I felt so loved. Mi hija or simply mija, meaning daughter in Spanish, was Papá’s pet name for me when I was small. Only on rare occasions would he call me mija after I grew up, but when he did, I was always filled with deep feelings of warmth and security. I believed for a long time, even now to a degree, I felt more loved by my parents then because I was. Looking back, it’s more likely I only thought so because until I was seven years old, nothing had ever challenged my feelings, the feelings of immense love I felt from my parents. Until I was seven.

  ~/~/~/~/~

  When I was born on the fifth of January in nineteen fifty-five, my parents lived in Beverly Hills at the time in a mansion my father purchased before he and my mother met. I was actually born there, in the house, in my parents’ bed. That was how it was done in both their families; but sadly, their choice to eschew modern American birthing customs and follow their family traditions proved nearly fatal for my mother.

  There were horrible complications during the delivery for which my mother’s Irish midwife wasn’t prepared. Mother began hemorrhaging horribly shortly before I emerged which probably saved her life, because the midwife, reacting to the crisis, instructed my father to call an ambulance, which he did. The ambulance arrived just as I appeared and we were whisked to Cedars Sinai hospital where, for the next several days, my mother just barely hung onto life as they tried in vain to stop the bleeding.

  As a last resort, they informed her they would have to remove her uterus or she would die. Mother actually chose death over losing her womb, but Papá wouldn’t hear of it—he couldn’t live without her he said, and ordered the surgery against her wishes. After my birth, Mother went into a horrible depression that lasted many months, so long that everyone began to worry that she might not live after all. Meanwhile, my Papá and my Granny took care of me until Mother got better.

  This is the story—our family lore, if you will—my aunts and uncles, Granny and Granda retell to each other and me to testify to my father’s undying love for my mother, never understanding I could never see it that way. That I would always take it as testament to her disregard for me, her first and only child, who waited alone in a nursery for a mother to hold me and love me. Of course, at the time this was all occurring I hadn’t a clue as to what was going on, but as I grew up, I began to suspect it as the reason I was sent away at the least provocation.

  ~/~/~/~/~

  I entered school at the age of five, contrary to my father’s protestations. In his country, children often did not begin school until they turned at least seven, but my mother argued for sending me at the same time as American children. At the time, I was so happy she fought for sending me at five rather than waiting two years because I was ready to discover the world. Not until I was much older did I begin to harbor suspicions, however unsubstantiated, that she may have been lobbying more to be rid of me than over concern that I would be so much older than my peers. Whatever the reasons, four months before my sixth birthday, I was off to discover the world at the Loyola Catholic School of Beverly Hills.

  Every day held a new adventure for me. Each morning Xavien, my father’s Cuban chauffeur, would drive me to school in Papá’s big black Cadillac limousine where I would sit in the monstrous back seat like a little princess. Xavien would ask me all about school the day before and praise me endlessly for anything new I happened to learn. It didn’t matter what it was, he was always thrilled.

  Once we pulled up to the school, Xavien would come around to the passenger side of the car, open the door for me as if I were a visiting dignitary, and graciously and elegantly help me out of the car. His big hand would fold over my small child hand as he guided me onto the sidewalk. Then he would bow very deeply and whisper to me in Spanish; and then, remembering my mother’s edict to speak to me in English outside of our home, he would say in a strong Cuban accent, “Learn much today, little one. Remember, I want to hear everything in the afternoon when you get home.” His voice had such a warm kindness to it that to this day, when I hear him speak I am reminded of our early days together in the limousine. Then he would straighten my clothing, which would invariably get mussed during the short ride, give me a gentle kiss on my cheek and send me off on my discoveries.

  Each afternoon, our housekeeper Izzy, who was all of twenty at the time, would pick me up in front of the school. On our way home, I would share every detail of my day with her, to which she would reply with an assortment of Oohs, Ayes and Ahhhs, thick with Irish brogue. Eventually, my day’s experiences would be repeated a minimum of four times to members of my household, including Mother and Papá, all with varying interpretations depending on the level of enthusiasm and praise I received from the given recipient. My biggest fan, though, was always Papá. Mother was usually very busy running the household or planning some sort of charity event or another, so I would only occasionally get sparing grunts of approval from her.

  That was my life for my first year of school and part of the second, and I was probably the happiest child on earth. It seemed that I was born to learn and study. When I brought home my report card from first grade cluttered with A’s and handwritten accolades from the Sisters, everyone was so very proud of me. That was during the time I simply refer to as “B.A.”—Before Abigail. At seven years old I was halfway through the first grade when I fell in love with someone outside my household for the very first time.

  I was so in love with Xavien and told him on many occasions I wanted to marry him when I grew up (that was only after Papá told me
I couldn’t marry him, Mother sternly said I surely couldn’t marry her because it wasn’t right for girls to marry each other, and Izzy laughed and said I couldn’t marry her—why, she was already married to Estevan!). So I settled on Xavien and was content that someday he and I would marry, despite his laughing protestations that I would never be big enough to marry him. I knew I’d be big enough someday. I wasn’t exactly sure at the age of seven what marriage entailed, but I had been to enough weddings to know I would like being married, or at least getting married. I really loved all the pomp and circumstance that weddings held, but more than anything I loved wedding cake!

  Having decided Xavien would be my intended husband, I would spend hours every day planning our wedding. I would practice walking-down-the-aisle that began with just the main staircase but eventually included the whole house. Ever so seriously I would march through the house with my beautiful veil (a potato sack kitchen towel Lyla the cook gave me) elegantly flowing down my back, singing my slaughtered version of Here Comes the Bride. Eventually, I would meet up with my big teddy bear Seamus at the end of the aisle. Seamus was Xavien’s official stand-in. I practiced tirelessly. I needed to practice so that by the time I was “big enough,” I would be the consummate bride—rehearsed to perfection. I hadn’t a clue how long it would take for me to grow “big enough,” but I was confident it would take only a year or so at the most—and even that seemed a terribly long time to me.

  My stint as a professional bride-in-training and wedding planner extraordinaire was patiently humored in my house, and there were no attempts that I can recall to halt my complete absorption in my wedding fantasy. I still smile when I think how indulgent my family was in my little fantasy world and how they must have laughed amongst themselves at my veil obsession. But they never discouraged me and always played along.

  As it turned out, there was no need for any outside interference. I can’t recall exactly how long I engaged in my daily ritual, but in one blinding moment I was over Xavien, the wedding was off, and my days of dedicated devotion to bridedom were officially over. In a flash of grade school fickleness, my poor Xavien was unceremoniously dumped for someone else. Some would call it a crush, but I knew it was true love, and a new era in my life had begun. I refer to that era as A.A.—After Abigail.

  ~/~/~/~/~

  Abigail Hennessey was a sixth-grader who had begun coming to our class after the Christmas break every Thursday to help Sister Mary Gabriel with arts and crafts activities. I thought Abigail was so pretty in her school uniform with her long blonde hair perfectly braided down her back—I nearly fainted dead away the first time I saw her. Time for me seemed to stop the minute she walked into our classroom; and, but for nearly perfect memories of Abigail herself, I have absolutely no recollection of anything else that went on in that room from that moment forward. Though I was hopelessly in love with her, I was also petrified of her, and at first would blush myself silly if she even looked my way. I was so smitten I could barely utter intelligible words whenever she spoke to me. For some inexplicable reason that was completely fine with me, Abigail had taken a special interest in helping me with my projects. There is no other way to describe how I felt—I was over the moon for her.

  I absolutely lived and breathed Abigail Hennessey. In the mornings, the car would barely have stopped before I would throw open the back door, jump out of the car and race inside the school. Poor Xavien wouldn’t even be out of the driver’s seat before I dashed off. The urgency was that I wanted to get a glimpse of Abigail before I had to report to the classroom that had become my cage on every day but Thursdays. Needless to say, I excelled in Arts and Crafts. Every project I made was made with one purpose—to impress Abigail. Hence, every project became bigger and more elaborate, requiring more and more assistance from my beloved.

  Academically, however, my grades shamefully plummeted from my glorious debut in the first semester of first grade. Naturally, my parents grew concerned and began to put pressure on me by requiring more homework time, and less playtime after school. It didn’t help. Nothing could distract me because every waking hour I was consumed with thoughts of the amazing and beautiful Abigail Hennessey.

  Although I could barely complete a sentence without some reference to Abigail, at first I didn’t share my true feelings about her with anyone in my household, even though I wanted to tell everyone who had ears how much I loved her. I’m still not sure why, whether I wanted to keep it a secret in case I found someone else and dumped her as I had with Xavien, or whether I knew, at the age of seven, my amorous feelings toward Abigail would be met with vigorous opposition. Instinctively, I think I just knew, whatever the reason, I should keep my feelings to myself. It didn’t stop me from begging Izzy to braid my hair like Abigail’s or insist my perfect eyesight had suddenly taken a turn for the worse and that I needed glasses just like Abigail (she wore adorable fifties-style cat-eye glasses).

  In the sanctuary of my room and under the pretense of studying, I’d fill many pages of binder paper with lines and lines of Mary-Mackenna loves Abigail, and lop-sided hearts with the initials A.H. + M-M.M. squeezed within, written in timid but neat first-grader scrawl. I was emulating the third graders who shared my three grade classroom who would quickly cover the chalkboard with such writings before Sister Mary Gabriel entered the room each morning. Their intent was to either advertise the latest exchange of St. Christopher medals between sixth-graders signifying a newly going-steady couple, or merely embarrass someone else with horrendous combinations. Although I might have added my own proclamations to the chalkboard, I instead kept my papers to myself, hidden at the bottom of my toy box.

  Sometime in the Spring I found out Abigail was a member of the after-school drama program. I immediately lobbied my parents and Sister Mary Gabriel to become a participant. I decided I wanted to be an actress. Being that I was such a creative and imaginative child, Sister Mary Gabriel graciously took my side and suggested an after school activity might be the key to raising my poor second semester grades. Rather than deny me an extracurricular activity in favor of more studying, she persuaded my parents to allow me to participate in the program. My parents, being very traditional regarding education matters, and most matters in general, were understandably leery, but eventually gave in to Sister’s counsel. Each night I thankfully included Sister in my prayers for being such a strong advocate and taking my side. I promised God I would study harder despite my personal distractions. Unfortunately, I didn’t keep my promises and God eventually, of course, exacted His revenge.

  Drama class was exciting for me, even beyond Abigail’s presence—I loved the words and the very idea of structured imagination and play acting. We immediately began working on a play that would be performed during Summer Day Camp; it was an adaptation of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs written by our drama teacher, Miss Ellen Michaels. She was an honest-to-goodness, out-of-work, professional actress. I went to school with many children of working actors and actresses—famous and not so famous—but the mere presence of a non-nun teacher at my school, who also happened to be an actress, had a mystique of its own.

  There were try-outs, naturally, and Abigail won the part of Snow White (obvious choice as far as I was concerned). I was given the inappropriate part of Doc, who as it turned out, was the most sought after Dwarf role. I was merely trying out for any part just to be in the play and would have played the part of the apple just to be close to Abigail if asked. Interestingly enough, as written by Miss Michaels, Doc had more lines than any of the other Dwarfs, and more lines with Snow White, too. So there I was, a mere novice, and a first-grader at that, winning the part that, aside from Snow White, was the most coveted character by everyone from eighth-grade down. To this day I don’t know why I got it, but regretfully, I did.

  The runner-up, if you will, and ultimately my understudy, was Larry “The Toad” Eichenstoad, a short seventh-grader, not much taller than I, who was a veteran actor at Loyola. Larry was not at all pleased with the situation
. His father was a well-known director—Ernest Eichen—and his mom was a producer and writer for Days of Our Lives. As a result, Larry was accustomed to being catered to by the nuns and usually received all the starring roles. Unfortunately for me, Miss Michaels was a rebel and used me to break a long-time tradition. The reason, I believe, Larry hated me. But more to the point, I ended up hating him more than he could ever hate me because I believe “The Toad” was responsible for upending my life and changing the course of it immeasurably.

  TEN

  Gimme Shelter

  Lost, Eve Magnusson haphazardly pulled her BMW convertible, filled to overflowing with all that was left of her belongings, onto the side of the road.

  “Let’s see here,” she muttered to herself as she reviewed her notes. She peered out her windshield for any landmarks or street signs that might guide her and then back to her notes. “I was supposed to turn left on… Now wait a minute, that doesn’t look right.” She covered her face with her hands and suppressed the urge to scream. Or cry. Or remember.

  Earlier that day everyone who lived in her building was given a mere fifteen minutes, and not a minute more, to remove whatever they could grab of their former lives and run like hell before the building crumbled from another aftershock. Compared to her neighbors, she didn’t get much. All of her time was spent trying to retrieve the diaries and the photo albums from a collapsed closet. She wouldn’t have left without them. Eve would have died for them, because without them she might as well be dead. Rescuing her from imminent hysterics, two firefighters offered to help Eve gather far more crucial belongings such as clothes and important papers on a second unauthorized trip—far more than she could have managed on her own.