CHAPTER 5
Standish Against the World
Traci struggles to kick-start her morning. She takes a second cup of drip coffee to an oak table that anchors her breakfast nook. She rounds up a couple of the usual suspects to blame for her smartwatch calculating a failing grade for sleep quality. Perhaps one-too-many glasses of wine with Karen the previous evening? Well, that probably did not help. But a rerun of a disturbing dream is the more likely possibility. As an adult, she can eventually escape the nightmare by willing herself to wake up. But there is an early memory that peeks through the fog of time. It was so frightening when she was very young. Five or six maybe? When those fearful visions arose from the delirious fever of childhood viruses: measles, chicken pox, mumps.
The dream sequence always begins in her parent’s house. She stands at the open doorway to her upstairs bedroom. The interior of the room is shapeless. It is painted darkest black, the shade that masks all contours. Her legs are no longer under her control. She cannot move. There is a growing sense of a malevolence. An evil . . . presence; it is the only way she can describe it. Even though she cannot see it, she knows it is closing in on her, heightening her fear. She screams . . . and finds herself in her mother’s soothing arms. It’s not real. Just a dream Traci, just a dream. But that was half a century ago. Now, she wakes alone.
That dream is no longer associated with an illness. It is a symptom of stress. Traci is sure of it. Because Karen is visiting in order to discuss their mother. Maybe if she had not been anxious about that, then last night’s text message would not have been so bothersome. She had seen it while getting undressed for bed. She re-reads the beginning of the errant transcription between sips of coffee. Hi Dr. Weber, I just arrived in New Orleans for the hay hay gee symposium and tomorrow I’m meeting with professor rar kesh. . .
Seeing that Traci is occupied with her phone, Karen brushes over the absence of a morning greeting as she enters the kitchen. She pours the remains of the carafe into a white mug that is decorated with jolly graphics. They speak to her pet hates about their state: a rocket ship (waste of the planet’s resources, she thinks), flipflops (plantar fasciitis), alligators (no explanation needed) and the Disney castle (meh!). She livens up her drink by stirring in a spoonful of Truvia, and walks from the kitchen into the nook.
Karen concludes that Traci is fresh out of a bed that she didn’t want to leave. Her sister’s short brown hair is much closer to being messy than tousled, more tangled than styled. Lopsided seams of her gray quarter-zip tattle that she has dressed in a hurry. Beneath its open-V, Karen catches a glimpse of a once-white cami that she supposes her sister has slept in. Traci’s sweatpants have ridden up her calves, as if to escape the humiliation of being associated with shapeless, discolored footwear – pink slippers gone bad. Karen decides on a suitable gift for her sister’s next birthday.
“What’s up, Tray?” Karen has also slept poorly, after she was woken by her sister crying out in the night.
Traci looks up from her phone. “Huh?”
Karen takes the seat opposite her sister, whose head disappears behind an oversized centerpiece of peach anemones. Karen pushes the tall vase to one side. She understands that Traci is unaccustomed to setting a table in a manner that promotes conversations at mealtimes.
The flowers have probably been grown in the yard, Karen guesses, courtesy of the landscape company that was hired last fall. Gardening used to be Traci’s hobby, but no longer. These days, she seems not to have any significant endeavors outside scientific research. During their infrequent phone conversations these days – almost always initiated by Karen – Traci’s side of the halting back-and-forth has primarily been work-related. Mostly concerning Traci’s preparations for her department’s quadrennial performance review. It is not scheduled until next year, but she has claimed it is “a huge undertaking” that has to begin well in advance.
It is painfully obvious to Karen that her sister is paying a heavy price for becoming a workaholic. Traci is only four-years older, but she looks and behaves like the age gap is much greater. She has the looser jowls, and her forehead creases are deeper. Pronounced wrinkles have developed under brown eyes that, Karen feels, have lost their sparkle. She sees the nature of their relationship drifting from camaraderie to awkwardness, as life’s currents pull them apart. It seems an age since the two of them laughed together. These days, even when her sister does manage a smile, it is thin and forced.
“Troubled waters?” Karen is fond of metaphors. Her rationalization is that it comes with the profession.
Military aircraft pass overhead. They are loud, fast and disturbingly close. A naval base is eight miles away, on the opposite side of the Saint Johns River. The interruption gives Traci a few moments of reflection. She is jealous of her sister's life. It seems so much simpler and easier. Choosing a career in relationship therapy has granted her with flexible working hours. Tom is a kind and loving husband. And Karen also enjoys the benefits of inheriting the more advantageous half of their parents' DNA. Her physiology is more resolute: she wears just a thin T-shirt and denim skirt, and is untroubled by bare feet in contact with the tiled floor. Even though Traci has set the thermostat to a comfortable seventy-one degrees, she must stave off cold-intolerance with her cozy clothes. She also views Karen as being prettier. Her shoulder-length, ash-brown hair is skillfully highlighted (helping her hairdresser pay his kid’s college fees!). She owns the more sculpted cheekbones, and the shapelier body. A vague recollection resurfaces. Traci brings home a college boyfriend. Seventeen-year-old sister flirts her cleavage. The boyfriend becomes an ex. It is not a fond memory.
The roar of the jet engines fades, along with Traci's excuse for evading her sister's enquiry. She is discouraged that the caffeine has not helped to soothe her apprehension. But now she sees another option. Discussing the text message will be far less tense than talking about their mother. “I’ve received a voicemail. It’s a follow up from a journalist. Lydia Goode. She left it last night. It’s the second time she’s tried to reach me. I didn’t return the first call. I’ve been far too busy to think about it. Lydia wants to set up an interview. To get information for a biography she is writing, about the life of Chuck Standish. I think she is trying to guilt me. She’s telling me that one of my colleagues has agreed to an interview, so why can’t I?”
Karen chews on her sister’s words. She would love to enjoy a weekend’s respite from counseling. It is a job that causes her to lurch between volatility and tedium. The emotional roller coaster can be exhausting. In one session she will actively referee outbursts and accusations, in another she will be bored by the same old disputes over lavish spending or infrequent sex. And the income is unreliable. Her client list shed two couples the previous week. They both had claimed their relationship was aggravated by Karen’s advice. Losing the Dumbfuck Browns over their homework assignment had been especially galling. Try this Japanese approach. It is called daily naikin. Set aside a few minutes each day to sit together. Take it in turns to reflect on what you have given and received from your partner. The absurd outcome had been a phone tirade from Mrs DFB: “the sight of Roy waiting on microwaved PopTarts, flaunting his saggy boobs and jiggly muffin top. . . it killed my appetite and any thought of chit-chat.” They had thought the exercise was called daily naked.
And now, despite her need for downtime, Karen has to be on duty. She is armed with a diagnosis that Traci's new obsession with her job is an unhealthy distraction mechanism, that allows her to suppress the trauma of their mother's passing. Several times in recent months, Karen has urged her sister to confront this problem, but all of the careful coaxing has been fruitless. Traci changes the subject, or clamps up completely.
Today Karen plans a different approach. She views the recent death of her sister's friend as a therapeutic opportunity. She hopes that encouraging Traci to talk about that ordeal will unlock a gateway to weightier emotions. This is why she delves into this newcomer: the journalist. It could be a safe place to begin.
“So. . . why are you so reluctant to meet with Lydia?”
“I’m mighty cautious about on-line science reporters. It’s where failed postdocs are put out to pasture. Their scientific rigor - assuming they ever had it - yields to hyperbole and sensationalism. It's about site traffic, not education.”
Karen raises a skeptical eyebrow.
“You don’t buy it? Well now, my post-docs do. They discussed this topic in one of their journal clubs. Try Googling: ‘gardening reduces cancer risk’. You’ll get confirmatory hits from a whole bunch of health and wellness web sites. Supposedly it’s the extra exercise, the reduction in stress, and an incentive to eat more vegetables. But the postdocs couldn’t find a single research study that directly investigates if cancer and yardwork are connected. They concluded that it’s all wild speculation. A case of science writers milkin’ it. Like I said.”
“Is Lydia’s site like that? Have you looked at her posts?”
“Well, I’ve. . .” Traci finds herself stung by the question. “I’ve been too busy for that. Anyways, I got kinda put off meeting with her, when I attended a symposium at Gunn University last month.”
Karen offers a salacious smirk. “You saw the Gunn tower? They do say everything is bigger in Texas. Is it really that phallic?”
“If you were looking for a big dick,” responds Traci, with a sarcastic tone, “you’d have found one much closer to the ground. Nick Robbins. Thinks the sun comes up just to hear him crow. It was Robbins who told me that Lydia had interviewed him already. He advised me not to bark up that tree. He claimed she is writing an exposé rather than a biography. He maintained she’s only interested in destroying Chuck’s name. Or words to that effect.”
As she speaks, Traci feels an all too familiar tightening of her back muscles. Damn! She knows about the amygdala, the area of the forebrain that subconsciously connects mental and physical stress. This is why she blames her discomfort on Lydia’s message. She tries to relieve a pressure point by leaning back in her chair, then she moves forwards again, crossing her arms on the table. “If that’s true, I won’t be part of it. I liked Chuck.”
Fidgeting does not bring Traci relief. She rises from the chair to walk to a partition between the nook and the kitchen. From the half-wall’s overhang, she takes two dishes and a bowl of fruit that she had taken out of the refrigerator earlier. She carries them back to the table and then fiddles with the ties that attach her seat cushion to the chair back. A little cautiously, she retakes her seat.
As Karen takes a generous helping, a red grape makes a bid for freedom. It falls from the serving spoon, rolls along the table and drops onto the floor. “What made Chuck Standish a good subject for a hit job?” asks Karen as she bends to recapture the fugitive, popping it into her mouth before the three second rule can expire. “After all, he wasn’t famous.”
She would never eat off the floor in her own home. It is impossible to maintain the required level of cleanliness in the company of two teenage boys – and a husband who frequently acts like one. She wonders to what extent keeping this 1990s ranch style house spotless for a single occupant might either be fulfilling or, more worryingly, obsessive.
“No, he wasn’t a famous public figure,” agrees Traci. “But even when a murder victim isn’t a celebrity, people love True Crime. And this one checks the right boxes to draw you in. It’s a whodunnit. As I’ve told you before, there was a prime suspect who was not indicted, so there's the added intrigue of Did He or Didn’t He? Why is the case unsolved? Did the police miss something? These are the elements that can be hyped into an overly dramatic webpage, or a podcast.”
Traci creates a headline with the assistance of air quotes. “Cancer researcher slain at San Diego symposium – family mourns without answers.” She keeps to herself the actual number of living relatives. Just two married sisters, two nieces, and one nephew.
“I can see how that would attract attention,” Karen agrees. "For sure. Roadkill for turkey vultures.” She is well aware that Chuck's family are not alone in suffering from the lack of closure. She remembers hearing the same complaint from Traci during the aftermath of the murder: the person who killed Chuck is not rotting behind bars.
“There are no legal constraints on Lydia.” Traci feels a brief pang of guilt at putting off the conversation she really needs to have. “She could write whatever she likes about Chuck. The dead can’t sue for defamation. Just like you can’t get slammed with a lawsuit for claiming Einstein was a complete asshole towards women.”
Karen recognizes the discussion is going off-piste. But she allows Traci to continue. The idea is to let her sister experience distress intermittently, between calmer and safer topics of conversation. It is another therapeutic ruse. “What did he do?”
“Einstein abandoned his daughter. He demanded that his wife devote her life to being his cook and cleaner, while he pursued an affair with a cousin. He once wrote that women could benefit from a bit of thrashing. Shocking, right? But now you want to keep reading.
“Another example is James Watson. We will have to wait until he dies before popular media will expose his ardent racism. He believes that the genetics of African Americans make them less intelligent.”
“The DNA guy? I did not know that.” Karen wonders if being unconventional and crazy are requirements to be a scientific genius. Or perhaps it is climbing the pinnacle of success that leads you to fall off the cliff.
“And having heard the teaser, don’t you want to know more?” Without waiting for an answer, Traci continues. “In Chuck’s case, think what the words cancer researcher conjure up. Archetypal good guy pursuing a noble profession? And then suppose Lydia is really out to sensationalize Chuck as being a villain. That contradiction will suck the public in.”
"I know about that." Karen recalls her training. Renewal of her State license requires she take continuing education courses in therapy and psychology. “Carl Jung’s ‘shadow sides’. The idea that we all have our demons. But we can get psychological relief through being subconsciously drawn to an anti-hero who acts out our own dark impulses. . . but surely that's not the case here. You knew Chuck. He was your friend.”
Traci abruptly leaps out of her seat. “Shall I make us omelets? It will only take a couple of minutes. I’ve already whisked the eggs.”
“Sure. Thanks.” Karen fears she might be pushing too hard. Damn! Have I blown it?
Traci switches on the range hood at full throttle. The fan unleashes a mating call to the nearby warbirds. It occurs to Karen to suggest that the fan bearings might be worn, but she shelves this thought for now. Instead, she watches her sister attentively as she darts between the refrigerator, the pan drawer and the range. A four-slice toaster is removed from a cupboard and loaded with bread. She chops a thick slice of ham, and softens butter for the toast with a short burst of microwaves. Karen observes much nervous energy being burned. As if her sister were a participant in the Great British Baking Show, and is racing against the omnipresent crescendo in the soundtrack.
There is a colleague at Karen’s practice who advocates cooking as being therapeutic. He has explained how it helps couples to communicate and cooperate. It boosts their self-esteem, manages emotions, and fosters a sense of control. Food preparation is cathartic in itself, because it engages all five senses. However, Karen has never had the courage to propose this to any of her own clients. She fears for the consequences of placing two angry people in an enclosed space with an abundance of knives.
But it does seem to Karen that a calmer, more self-controlled sister has returned to the breakfast table. Along with several slices of sourdough toast, a butter dish, and omelet halves. “Mmm. Looks great. Thanks, Tray.” It is the truth. She is a good chef.
The two of them scratch butter over crisp toast. “About Chuck. . .” Traci has gathered her thoughts, much to Karen’s relief. “Yes, he was a good friend to me. But not to everyone. He had some beef with a competitor. Roger Spinnit. His lab specialized in synthesizing chemicals that inhibit a group of enzymes known as kinases. He set up a shell company, while he worked with his university to get patent protection. Chuck had a low opinion of any scientist who was more interested in getting rich than in advancing scientific research. He used to say that Spinnit would see a commercial opportunity in an unflushable turd. He would patent it as a new material for lifejackets.”
Karen is caught with a forkful of egg hallway to her mouth. She does not want her meal to go cold, but she feels the need to maintain the momentum. To help Traci unburden. “Did Spinnit’s lab make a lot of drugs?”
Traci jabs tines in Karen’s direction, as if to pick her out from a crowd. “You have just proved a point that Chuck made to me. That Spinnit’s numbering was a ploy. The first chemical that his lab publicly disclosed was SP-51. The next one: SP-63. The numbering of subsequent molecules jumped in increments of about ten to twenty. To overstate their group’s synthetic capacity.
“But you were wrong to call them drugs. That only happens after the FDA approves them for use. What Spinnit made were lead compounds. Test samples. To learn how to optimize structure and function. To derive precise molecular information that helps chemists design actual drugs.”
Karen doesn’t appreciate Traci’s sudden use of exaggerated emphasis and falling intonation. It is her lecture voice. Like she needs to be the clever one. She avoids eye contact to help ease her irritation. She finds herself looking into the living room behind her sister. It brings a jolt of realization. She sees a room staged with callouts to a previous, happier life. The walls display a collection of watercolor prints of bucolic landscapes: river paths, forests, mountain sunsets. It reminds Karen that her sister used to be an active member of a walking group. But she hasn’t mentioned hiking during any of their recent phone calls. And, among the few ornaments on the shelves to the left of the fireplace, there is a rattan box from Anthropologie. Karen knows this is where the mahjong tiles are kept. When did she last play?
What happened to the photograph on the fireplace mantle? Banished to some rarely-opened drawer, perhaps? Karen accepts that relocating to the tropical South provides an excuse to hide possessions you want to forget you once needed. Like winter gloves and beanies. But, please, not our family photos.
The missing picture shows the three of them - Karen, Traci and their mother - huddled together in blue windbreakers. It is a reminder that Traci inherited their Dad’s genes for height. Karen and Mom are both four inches shorter.
The photo had been taken almost four years ago, a few months before Traci had returned to Florida to join the FIB. They were dolphin-spotting in the Gulf just off St. Pete Beach, close to their mother’s retirement community. The camera has captured them leaning on the rails of a fifty-person pontoon, laughing at the photographer’s forgotten wisecrack. Karen has two copies of this image in her family room. One is framed and on display, the other lurks in a worn album that used to be their mother’s. Karen had last flipped through it only a few days ago. It is an archive of prominent events in the sisters’ lives. The history lesson begins with their early days in Georgia. Their mother had landed there as a young child, along with her family. They had emigrated from Germany in 1949, as beneficiaries of The Displaced Persons Act. But Mom never took to the state, Karen remembers. She was unable to disassociate the Southern drawl from racial segregation. The album also records their move to central Florida, where migrants from the Northeast and Midwest had helped to dilute local accents. Traci and Karen's pronunciation followed suit.
Traci appears in fewer of the later album pages, after she returned to her birth state for college and much of her scientific career. Throughout those years, it was mainly Karen who spent time with their mother, when they would express their fears that Traci had become distanced from the family. It is why Karen vividly recalls their mother being excited and relieved about Traci relocating to Florida, and as a bonus, “without that Southerner talk.” Indeed, Traci’s elocution has remained quite neutral. It is deliberate. She has told Karen that regional accents are distracting for an academic audience. The Southern colloquialisms persist, but their mother considered that a lesser transgression. So does Karen.
Thump! The two of them are startled by a smack on the window, the one that gives the nook its view into the side garden. A couple of bloodied feathers remain stuck on the glass, flickering in a light Florida breeze. “Probably a robin,” Traci assesses. “Male, no doubt. He was fixin’ to scrap with his own reflection.”
Traci has first-hand knowledge that scientific contests between alphas also have dire consequences. “I was at a meeting in France a few years ago. Spinnit’s postdoc presented a poster,” Traci explains. “She showed that SP-650 binds tightly to the same protein that Chuck was pushing as a key player in the onset of pancreatic cancer. This poster created quite a stir at the meeting. It even attracted the P-word. Provocative.
“But Chuck did not get swept up by this enthusiasm. And when he had an opinion, he always told it to you straight. You could take bets on which hypothesis he would label as ‘bullshit’. OK, the language was aggressive, but I don't think he should be resented for challenging new ideas. He should be admired. We need more like him. Because bad science is difficult to rectify, especially after it is published.”
“Really?” Karen does not agree. “Maybe psychology is different? About fifteen years ago, there was a research study that claimed brief exposure to an American flag exhibited a subliminal shift towards Republican voting intentions. But within three years – a blink of an eye in a scientific timeline - the study’s statistics were reported to be flawed. Doesn’t that prove Science is self-correcting?”
“Well, ‘not so fast’ is what scientists in my field would say. We can all point to high-impact papers that are not only wrong, but also pollute the literature with fallacy for many years. Or even decades. Rarely are these bad studies denounced in public. Because establishing a career relies on making new discoveries, not by rubbishing the published work of those with influence. On top of that, journals crave novelty and shun controversy. That's their commercial model. There's no room for refutations and tedious, negative results.
"I liked that Chuck bucked this trend, even if he could only get away with it because he was a big fish. But him not buying into these SP-650 data isn’t my point. What concerns me is how testy this argument became. Not just during the poster session, but later that night. Chuck got drunk and woke up Spinnit at one in the morning. By banging on the door to his hotel room - a couple of students witnessed it, and the news spread. Sounds vindictive, doesn’t it? The next day, everyone could see that Spinnit was really pissed about the disturbance. None of that puts Chuck in a good light.”
“If these are the types of anecdotes that Lydia is trying to dig up, she can paint a grim picture of him. And that’s a problem for me. Because we were close colleagues. I’m worried my reputation will be dragged down with him. It’s stressing me out.”
Traci looks down at her plate, and sees slivers of congealed butter languish on cold toast. Ham oozes out of the remains of her omelet. It was a mistake to bring Chuck’s death to the breakfast table. It has certainly killed her appetite. Her efforts to avoid the front line have led her into a minefield. She pushes the plate to one side and asks Karen if they can move into the sunroom. The request comes with an offer to make more coffee. While it is brewing, Traci insists on clearing up the kitchen by herself. She needs a breather.
The morning sunshine pours through the sunroom windows onto a wicker sofa with rounded arms. Facing opposite is a swivel chair, which suits Karen, so she can leave the warmer seating for her sister. The light blue back cushions on the sofa are tufted, so that the fabric pinches into a central hollow. It gives her the impression she is about to be interviewed by three wise navels.
While she waits, Karen has too much of an opportunity to envy the garden at the rear on the house. A manicured Bermuda grass lawn weaves between immaculate flower beds, ending at a wax myrtle privacy hedge. Karen and Tom’s lawn is half the size, and trending towards the neglected extreme of unmown.
As Traci brings two refills of coffee, Karen has a suggestion prepared. “What if you were to agree to an interview and take the opportunity to present an alternative viewpoint. You must have seen a much nicer side of him. Talk to the reporter about that.”
Traci knows that her career has very much benefitted from Chuck’s kindness. Because he was grateful that she had done him a huge favor. But this is another topic she will not discuss with Karen today. “Even if I paint Chuck in a good light, the bio may still turn out to be nasty. I don’t want any of his colleagues - or mine - to blame me for it. If I avoid meeting with her, I get deniability.”
“Are you really sure that she has bad motives?" Karen asks. "Was Robbins being truthful? After all, you indicated he is a dreadful person.”
“That’s crossed my mind too. Because it does not make sense that he would want to protect Chuck. The two of them were not friends. They had a big disagreement. Chuck told me. He said that Robbins shared some data from a paper his group were about to publish. This was information that led Chuck into a new line of research and an important discovery. Or so Robbins claimed, because he demanded credit for the original idea. He wanted to be co-author on that paper. Chuck wouldn’t agree.”
The scientific world is more alien to Karen than she has previously realized. “Why would they argue over something so prosaic?”
“Establishing whose name goes on a paper is absolutely the opposite of a mundane process. That’s how a scientist gains ownership of a new concept. It’s all about recognition, not just from your peers, but also the wider scientific community.”
“I thought scientists believed in working together for a common goal.” Karen takes a sip from her mug, and smothers a scowl. The sweetener is missing.
“Collaboration is frequently the propaganda posted on laboratory web sites. Photos of groups of smiling scientists having so much fun. But in reality, scientists operate in a niche with limited resources. Robbins is an influential, heavy-hitter in the cancer research field, just like Chuck was. But the two of them were in fierce competition for the largest research grants, the most prestigious of conference speaking slots, and for chairing the most powerful of scientific committees. And most of all, the two of them were intent on attaching their name to more and better scientific papers than their rival.”
Traci’s rationalization of this disagreement is difficult for Karen to accept; it still seems to her that scientific customs are being disrupted by petty squabbles that are rooted in vanity and entitlement. “Surely there are rules that can prevent these arguments from arising?”
“Only in theory,” Traci sighs. “Generally, a significant experimental or intellectual contribution to a research project would be expected. But different labs can argue at length over the meaning of ‘significant’, and never arrive at the same conclusions.” That is a point that Traci can readily illustrate. “Chuck and Robbins never resolved their argument over authorship.”
“Hold up . . .” Karen continues to express bewilderment. “Am I following all this correctly? You told me this Spinnit guy had good reason to dislike Chuck. And you said the journalist wants to hit him with bad press. Now you’re telling me that Robbins had problems with him too? Did Chuck upset anyone else? It sounds like the entire world was against your friend. I can imagine the police running out of space in their tiny notebooks after asking: ‘Do you know of anyone who might bear a grudge towards Professor Standish?’ ”
“Even if there were some who was insulted by his acerbic personality, that is not a murder motive. Anyway, I could see past that, and I'm sure others could too. It was all theatrics. To command the stage.”
“Let’s return to this unresolved argument between Chuck and Robbins.” Karen’s words are delivered with a softer, more gentle tone. “It reminds me of when we were kids. When we would fight. And afterwards behave like nuns taking a vow of silence. Do you also remember how Mom would help us work through it?”
Traci recognizes the therapist voice, and she catches her breath. The diversionary strategy has run its course. It is time to pay the piper.
“She would gather us around the kitchen table,” Karen continues. “She would demand we be respectful. She would nominate one of us to remain silent while the other proposed a resolution to the disagreement. So, Tray, I’d like to follow Mom’s approach. Please will you promise to listen?”
“Okay. . . go ahead.” Traci’s words emerge hesitantly, as if she were reserving the right to pull them straight back.
Karen is trained to co-construct a diagnosis with the assistance of a client, in order to get it right. She bets on Traci being willing to acknowledge that her sleep is being disrupted by emotional stress. “I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with so much pain recently. This has been a terrible time for you. I wanted to have this talk last year, but then your friend was murdered. I’ve been waiting for a new opportunity. Maybe this isn’t it. But here goes. I heard you cry out last night. Have you been having nightmares recently?”
This line of questioning - I wanted to have this talk last year - it alarms Traci to learn that she has somehow created anguish for her sister these past few months. She also cannot understand why her disturbed sleep last night has got Karen all worked up. “Don’t read too much into my bad dream. It’s something that happens from time to time. Usually when I sleep on my back.”
“OK, let’s put that to one side for now. Instead, let me ask this: can you help me to understand why you resist discussing a memorial service? Is it possible that you have difficulty expressing your emotions about Mom’s passing?”
Traci takes this as a poorly conceived and outrageous accusation. But she deflects with traditional Southern kindness. “Oh, Karen. Bless your heart. Your diagnosis is a load of crap.”
She wishes she could explain to Karen. Mom deteriorated over a period of months. I knew it was coming. I was prepared. And at the end, she passed calmly. Whereas with Chuck, it was the violent and unexpected. Alive. Blink. Dead. The suddenness is so much harder to cope with. But she sits on those thoughts. She will not upset Karen with the revelation that losing their mother has not been her primary concern. “I admit I have been hit hard by Chuck’s murder, so soon after Mom passed. Yes, twenty-twenty-three was a tough year. But I’m not suppressing anything.”
“Are you sure about that?” Like a dog tugging on a bite toy, Karen does not let go. “I noticed that the photo of Mom and us on the dolphin boat has gone from the mantelpiece. I am wondering what happened to it. Was it too difficult to keep it on display?”
Traci is well-aware that it is a natural human desire to construe new information as verification of a pre-existing concept. She has experienced a similar of problem with her lab staff. Confirmation bias - the temptation to reject data that argue against their favored hypothesis. She believes Karen has made a similar error. She arrived here with a preconceived notion I am not recovering from Mom’s death. She confirms that bias by wrongly interpreting an unseen picture frame.
“Why didn’t you just ask me about the photo? I’ve not hidden it. I moved it. Onto my bedside table. Where I say ‘hey Mom’ every morning, and ‘rest easy’ at the end of every day. That’s acceptance, not repression.”
Traci sees Karen's posture slump and her Adam’s apple bobble as she swallows hard. Good! She accepts she is mistaken about the photo.
The room is suddenly too warm for Traci. Her palms are clammy. Sitting in the sun, perhaps? No, of course not. It is because of the unfamiliar ground: role reversal with her sister. She is about to blindside her. Traci shifts her weight in the chair - maybe she could open a couple of the transom windows to admit cooler air? But it rained yesterday. It is mid-March. Mosquito season has begun. Maybe I should lead with an apology? It might help her to be more receptive.
“I reckon this is my doing. We’re way past due a sit-down on this one. I’ve let my job get in the way. Running my lab is hard work. Mastering new technologies. Staying abreast of new concepts. So many papers to read. Trying to remain kind and accommodating to my staff’s needs. And being head of department is bearing on me heavy with additional duties. I am up to my eyeballs in committee meetings, which means I’m working into the evenings to keep up with lab tasks.”
Like water seeping into clay, Traci’s words slowly soak in. Karen smiles gently. She is pleased to hear Traci confess to overworking.
“But your needs should have been more important to me," Traci continues. "I should have been there for you. I’m really sorry. So sorry." Her stomach tightens. This is a make-or-break moment, one that Traci worries is poorly prepared. “Has it been difficult for you because Mom donated her body to medical research? Because there was no funeral? Has it prevented you from grieving, and coming to terms with her passing?”
Traci has the feeling her speech hangs in the air like it is dirty laundry - an embarrassment that her sister is too shocked to discuss. Is Karen withdrawing from this discussion? All of this confrontation, all of this anxiety, will it be for nothing? The only sound she can hear is her own thudding chest. But she is not a therapist. They trust a silence. It is an opportunity for a patient to safely contemplate and process emotions.
Finally, Karen responds. “There’s a term for that. Ambiguous loss. . . maybe. . . I think I might have walked that path.”
I can't believe I may have got this! Traci is as surprised as she is relieved. Her heart beats diminuendo; a frantic bass drum relaxes to the rustle of a brushed snare. It encourages her to push on. “You were much closer to Mom than I was. I wonder if losing her has hit you harder than you realize. And then, after the hospital provided you with her ashes, perhaps you compensated by planning a big memorial service. But I think you allowed yourself to believe this arrangement was for my benefit. To allow me to come to terms with my loss.”
Karen's thoughtful nods motivate Traci to shoulder more blame. “I should have had this discussion with you when you first proposed to invite her retirement community to the memorial. I should have explained I felt no connection with these people. I haven't even met most of them. I don’t want to share Mom’s memory with strangers. I also don’t want them all on the boat for Mom’s ashes being scattered into the Gulf. But I never explained all this to you. It was wrong of me.”
“Tray . . . I’ve messed up too.” Karen rises from her seat to offer arms of comfort. Time stops, while the two of them hug tightly, wet cheeks pressed together. Karen’s sobs rise from the dark depths of her heaving chest. As her voice gradually returns, her words are muffled by congested nostrils. “I . . . I thought . . . I mean . . .” She pulls away from the embrace to reach into her skirt pocket for a tissue. She wishes she were in her office, in easy reach of a large box of tissues.
She gently blows her nose, and takes a deep, steadying breath. Refuge is also found in one of her metaphors. “Emotional strings are like nerves. It takes a while to recover from the numbness.” An effort is made to smile through tears. She feels it emerging as a grimace, but is hopeful Traci appreciates the effort. “I didn't give myself space in which to think. I am beginning to see that now.”
Karen quotes a prominent psychologist, although she forgets their name. “When you blame others, you give up your power to change.
“I didn’t see the nature of my own problem. You've made me realize I’ve been deflecting. It’s a subconscious defense mechanism. In order to avoid having unpleasant feelings myself, I came to believe it was you who were suffering, not me.
“I can drop the idea of a memorial service, if that’s what you want. I haven’t sent out any notifications. But I really need your help with scattering the ashes,” Karen begs. “And it’s not only about helping accept Mom’s passing. It’s to put an end to jokes about urns. Tom and the kids have been trying to cheer me up. They mean well, but it’s not working.
“Last week, Tom asked if we should put Grandma’s ashes in a glass urn. One of the kids responded ‘remains to be seen?’
“There was another occasion when the kids said how much they enjoyed building sandcastles with Grandma, and Tom pretended to reprimand them for having played with the urn.”
It crosses Traci’s mind that her sister’s family would not have been so jocular if they had known it was Karen who had been suppressing trauma. She must have convinced them the problem lay entirely on my doorstep. But Traci cannot become angry, because she hears her sister make a noise that she has not heard from her in . . . how long has it been? The sound that breaks through Karen’s heartache: was that a chuckle?
Traci acts on her obligations. “Yes, I will help you come to terms with the grief. We should lay Mom to rest among her beloved dolphins. But let it be just the two of us.”
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