CHAPTER 5
Standish Against the World
Traci Weber 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 some 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? A rerun of a disturbing dream is another possibility. As an adult, she can easily escape the nightmare. She simply wills 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 wakes in her mother’s soothing arms. It’s not real. Just a dream Traci, just a dream.
It is their mother whom Karen is surely going to discuss today. Traci is uneasy about that. But the greater degree of anxiety – the main reason she is sleep deprived – is due to being unsettled by a voicemail. She saw it while getting undressed for bed last night. Traci takes another sip of coffee, and re-reads the errant transcription of the message. 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 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?”
“Troubled waters?” Karen is fond of metaphors. Her excuse is that it comes with the profession.
Karen takes a seat opposite Traci. The view of her sister’s 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 gardener that was hired last fall. Gardening used to be Traci’s hobby, but not any 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 Traci has claimed it is “a huge undertaking” that has to begin well in advance.
Karen has formed a different opinion. She views Traci’s focus on her job as a manifestation of cognitive avoidance. To be so self-adsorbed at work, that she can evade making decisions about their mother. Becoming a workaholic is taking its toll. Karen makes that observation because it is not simply an older version of herself that is sitting opposite. Yes, the four year age gap shows in Traci’s looser jowls. Her forehead creases are deeper. Pronounced wrinkles have developed under brown eyes that, Karen feels, have lost their sparkle. It seems a long time since the two of them laughed together. These days, even when Traci does manage a smile, it is thin and forced. Concern for Traci’s quality of life is why Karen is visiting. Well, not only that. Brooding over this situation is having a negative effect on her own job.
Traci looks up from her phone, but conversation has to take a back seat while a pair of jets 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. It gives Traci a moment to remind herself why she is a little jealous of her sister. It is partly because she is physically tougher. Even though a thermostat claims the house is a comfortable seventy-one degrees, Traci staves off cold-intolerance with her cozy clothes. But she sees that Karen is only wearing a thin T-shirt and denim skirt, and is untroubled by bare feet in contact with the tiled floor. Traci 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 Karen flirts her cleavage. The boyfriend becomes an ex.
That’s just how it is, Traci thinks. But I am the smarter one. She decides to open up to Karen about her concerns over the phone message, because she thinks it is an easier topic. Well, easier than having a heart-to-heart 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. . .”
Karen offers therapist’s nods while she diagnoses a stereotypical avoidance strategy.
“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. A weekend of respite from counseling would be welcome. Not simply because of a recent trend towards tedium. Though she is bored with mediating marital disputes that revolve around claims of lavish spending or infrequent sex. But worse than that, 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.
Despite her desire to be off duty, Karen knows that is not possible. She is here to help. She has seen her sister draw inwards since their mother passed. Repressed trauma, Karen has decided. Her friend’s murder must be adding to her mental strife. But Karen is optimistic that discussing Chuck Standish may prise open a gateway to the main source of Traci’s bottled-up anguish.
“So. . . why are you so reluctant to meet with this journalist? Would you like to talk about it?”
Traci readily accepts the invitation. “I was warned off from meeting with her, during a symposium at Gunn University last month.”
Karen offers a salacious smirk. “Did you see 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 the police miss something? These are the elements that can be hyped into an overly dramatic webpage, or a podcast.” Traci conjures up a tagline that she illustrates with air quotes. “Cancer researcher slain at San Diego symposium – family mourns without answers.”
Karen gets it. “I can see how that would attract attention. For sure. It’s like 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 her sister during the aftermath of the murder: the person who killed Chuck is not rotting behind bars.
“There are no legal constraints on Lydia,” Traci continues. “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 allows the discussion to go off-piste. She lets Traci 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. The public will be sucked in by that.”
Recalling her training, Karen says “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.” She returns to the key issue. “Has Chuck done anything that could attract negative attention? Are there skeletons in his closet?”
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.
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.
Several slices of sourdough toast, a butter dish, and omelet halves are delivered to the table. Now that the hood has been switched off, it is important to pay a complement. “Mmm. Looks great. Thanks, Tray.” It is the truth. She is a wonderful cook.
The two of them scratch butter over crisp toast in unison, prompting Karen to wish more important issues in their lives could also work in synchrony.
Traci had collected her thoughts while she was cooking. Now she is willing to answer Karen’s question about skeletons. “Chuck did have some beef with a competitor. Roger Spinnit. His lab specialized in synthesizing chemicals that inhibit a group of enzymes known as kinases. Spinnit set up a shell company, while he worked with his university to get patent protection. All of his reagents were named after his company. For example, SP-650: SP is short for Spinnit Pharmaceuticals. This is one of the reasons that Chuck had such a low opinion of him. Because Spinnit was more interested in getting rich than in advancing scientific research. Chuck 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 Spinnit’s 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 women’s 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 pictures that were taken 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. “He 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.”
Traci sees Karen’s puzzlement. “In academia, it’s a Smart Aleck word,” Traci explains. “It means: ‘these new data may seem exciting, but I have the intellectual insight to be more cautious about their interpretation’.
“Anyway. . . about Chuck. He was possessive about his area of research. He viewed Spinnit as an upstart who was sticking his oar in where he shouldn’t.
“Chuck pitched a hissy fit during the poster session. But he directed his anger at the postdoc. So Spinnit stepped in. I saw the two of them argue. Several of us did. It got quite nasty for a few minutes, before Chuck stormed off. None of that puts Chuck in a good light.”
Karen works through her breakfast, pleased with the indications that her therapeutic strategy is progressing nicely.
“Their confrontation spilled over into some fraternity-level behavior that night. Chuck stayed up late with some students. I heard there was a lot of drinking. At one point someone must have stumbled across Spinnit’s conference program. Chuck decided it would be amusing to wake up Spinnit at two in the morning with a phone call to innocently reassure him the booklet had been found. Sounds vindictive, doesn’t it? The next day, everyone could see that Spinnit was really pissed about the disturbance.
“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. Bringing Chuck’s death to the breakfast table has killed her appetite. She pushes the plate to one side and asks Karen if they can move into the sun room. The request comes with an offer to make more coffee. While it is brewing, Traci insists on clearing up the kitchen by herself.
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 she very much benefitted from Chuck’s kindness. Because he was grateful that she had done him a huge favor. But she doesn’t want to get into that topic with Karen.
“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.”
More probing from Karen: “And are you really sure that she has bad motives? 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 information from a paper his group were about to publish. Information that gave Chuck an idea for a new line of research that led to a cool manuscript. Robbins 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 they all 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 be bewildered. “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?’ ”
“Chuck could be abrasive during Q&As,” Traci admits. “You could take bets on which speaker would be accused of ‘bullshit’. Yes, he had an acerbic personality. But I could see past that. To my mind, it was all theatrics. To command the stage. But that’s not a murder motive.”
There is something else about Chuck’s reputation as being hypercritical that is on Traci’s mind. Since he offered praise so rarely, receipt of his seal of his approval was held in high esteem. A fait accompli, whenever he provided a supportive reference letter. That is how she has earned her current appointment.
Karen segues into her main goal for this discussion. “That unresolved argument between Chuck and Robbins. 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 shoots her sister a suspicious look. All of this encouragement to speak from the heart about Chuck and Lydia, has it been a ruse? Merely to wait for an opportunity to hook Mom into the room?
“She would gather us around the kitchen table,” Karen says. “She would demand we be respectful. She would nominate one of us to remain silent while the other presented their viewpoint on how to come to an agreement.
“Tray . . .” A soft and gentle therapy voice is used. “I’d like to follow Mom’s approach. Please will you promise to listen. . . ?”
“Okay. . . go ahead. . . I’m listening.” Traci’s words emerge hesitantly, as if she were reserving the right to pull them straight back.
It is time for a prepared speech. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to deal with so much emotional 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?”
“It was simply a bad dream. It’s something that happens from time to time. Usually when I sleep on my back. As simple as that. Don’t over-analyze. It’s not PTSD.”
Karen does not believe her sister’s denial. “OK, let’s put that to one side for now. I am still concerned about why you been refusing to discuss having a memorial service? Is it possible that you might have repressed trauma over Mom’s passing?”
Traci can deflect with Southern kindness even when it is her sister who has launched a poorly conceived and outrageous accusation. “Oh, Karen. Bless your heart. Your diagnosis is a load of crap.”
Traci wishes she could explain why she has not been traumatized by their mother’s death. 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. She keeps these thoughts private, because she does not want to convey that losing their mother has been of secondary concern. “I admit I have been hit hard by Chuck’s murder, so soon after Mom passed. Yes, 2023 was a tough year. But I’m not repressing anything.”
“Are you sure about that?” Karen keeps pushing. “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. It is the temptation to deprioritize data that argue against their favored hypothesis – the one that is revolutionary enough to earn them a publication in a high-profile journal, provided they publish the idea before anyone else. The intense competition in science makes them so anxious. Speed is of the essence. They become prone to cutting corners in an effort to wrap up the project.
Traci knows that her sister has made the same type of mistake: a preconceived notion that she reinforces by wrongly interpreting a bad dream and an unseen photograph.
“Why didn’t you just ask me about the photo? I’ve not hidden it. I moved it. Onto my bedside table. I say ‘hi’ to her every morning, and ‘goodnight’ at the end of every day. That’s acceptance, not repression.”
A rising tide of embarrassment floods Karen’s soul. Oh. . . shit! It dawns on her that she might have made a terrible mistake.
Traci sees her sister’s posture slump; her Adam’s apple bobbles as she swallows hard. It is time to forgive Karen for jumping to the wrong conclusion. The older and wiser sister needs to step up. It is time to make amends. “I reckon this is my doing, Karen. We’re way past due a sit-down on this one. I’ve let my job get in the way. Trying to be an honest and productive scientist takes so much dedication. 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 bureaucratic duties. I am up to my eyeballs in committee meetings, which means I’m working into the evenings to keep up with lab tasks.
“But your needs that should have been more important to me. I should have been there for you. I’m really sorry. So sorry. I know it’s been a struggle.
So, I have to ask. Has it been difficult 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?”
Like water seeping into clay, Traci’s words slowly soak in. A glimmer of understanding appears on Karen’s face.
“You were much closer to Mom than I was. I wonder if losing her has hollowed out your life. And then, after the hospital provided you with her ashes, perhaps you tried to fill the void by planning a big memorial service. But I think you fooled yourself into believing this arrangement was for my benefit. To allow me to come to terms with my loss.
“I should have had this discussion with you when you first proposed to invite her retirement community to the memorial. We’ve never even met most of these people. 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.”
It is an emotional statement. A dollop of sadness gathers at the back of Traci’s throat. It is contagious. She sees tears mustering in Karen’s reddening eyes.
Karen rises from her seat to offer arms of comfort. “Tray . . . I’ve messed up too.” 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.
Karen’s voice eventually returns, although at first it is a broken whisper. “I . . . I thought . . . I mean . . .” She pulls away from the embrace, and takes a deep, steadying breath, and finds refuge in one of her metaphors. “Emotional strings are like nerves. It takes a while to recover from the numbness.” She attempts to smile through tears. She feels it emerging as a grimace, but she hopes Traci appreciates the effort. “I didn't give myself enough time. I am beginning to see that now.”
Karen quotes a prominent psychologist, although she forgets his name. “When you blame others, you give up your power to change.
“I didn’t see the nature of my own problem. 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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