My daughter is dead in Amsterdam.
I am on a bus headed for San
Francisco Airport, departing on a journey I never dreamed I would make. In a
few days I will say good-bye to my beautiful daughter Olivia, who was not quite
thirty-one years old when she died. I am going on this trip not only to see to
her cremation and bring her ashes home, but to learn
all I can about her final days. I pray there is a reason for her death and that
it is not the reason that haunts me.
A month ago, we received news of
OliviaÕs passing. My older daughter texted me, saying she was coming up to
visit. I thought nothing of this, as Jemma often made
the hour drive up to The Farm in Sonoma on her day off. Just another visit, I
thought.
Then I saw the motorcycle trailing
after her VW bug. Both vehicles parked at the curb. I leaned across my desk to
get a better view through my office window. Who was with Jemma?
A cop? No, the person was not wearing a uniform. Then who was it? The guy she
had recently met online? Jemma had mentioned that he
had a bike. But it wasnÕt like Jemma to bring someone
up to the house without asking me first. Especially a person I had never met.
And never someone she was newly interested in.
For some reason, I got up and
slipped out the front door. Jemma came up the front
walk without an overnight bag or her tiny dog that usually tears through the
yard and up the stairs of the wine deck. That was strange. I noticed the
missing dog, but I didnÕt notice the expression on JemmaÕs
face. I was too distracted by the identity of the cyclist.
Instead of standing on the high
deck at the front of the house and waiting for the visitors to come to me as I
usually did, I walked down the steps.
Jemma and I met halfway down the sidewalk. She reached for my
arm.
ÒMom?Ó JemmaÕs
voice cracked.
I glanced at her, still not seeing
my older daughter. All I was aware of were the maple leaves at our feet, like
bloody hands clutching the lawn, and the silhouette of the cyclist as he
stripped himself of leather and plastic: a dark messenger emerging from an even
darker chrysalis.
ÒMom,Ó Jemma
touched my shoulder. Her voice sounded thick. ÒSheÕs gone.Ó
I looked at JemmaÕs
large blue eyes, always so startling, always powdered and lined to perfection,
so different from my ordinary brown eyes hidden behind glasses. Putting on
glasses at the age of eight had been my first step away from the rest of the
world. I had taken so many more since then. Or perhaps I
had always been a few steps apart, preoccupied by my
thoughts, work and the emotions of everyone around me. I had always missed
things. Even big things. Or things that were big to
others and were actually little things when tested against the perspective of
my stepfather.
ÒIn a hundred years, will it
matter?Ó he would ask. Many things lost their importance in the face of such a
question.
I stared at my daughter,
uncomprehending.
ÒSheÕs gone, Mom. Olivia is gone.Ó
Still the words meant nothing. But
everything started to freeze. Slippers on hard sidewalk.
Maple leaves swirling. Jemma still touching my upper arm. Even my ever-churning mind
froze, like a lake icing over in time-lapse.
Then I saw the motorcycle rider
trudge toward me, and I recognized the small frame and wavy brown hair of
OliviaÕs Danish boyfriend. I could not understand what Rune was doing in
Sonoma, California. The first and only time I had seen him, he had wheedled his
way into a birthday celebration that Olivia had planned for my best friend and
me. We had celebrated our birthdays with a trip to Amsterdam, compliments of my
husbandÕs frequent flyer miles.
ÒI didnÕt want Rune to come,Ó
Olivia had commented as we parted after the birthday dinner. ÒIt was supposed
to be a girlÕs night out. But he insisted on meeting you. He wanted to know
what you were like.Ó
ÒItÕs fine,Ó I answered. ÒIÕm glad
to have met him. I like meeting the people you hang out with. He seemed nice.
Really short, though.Ó
ÒMom—Ó
I could never get Olivia to
entertain the possibility that taller men might be a better choice. Taller men
had an innate confidence that shorter men often lacked. And men with confidence
problems had always been trouble for Olivia. Unfortunately, short men were drawn
to my petite daughter. In fact, most men were drawn to my petite daughter. But
she always picked the one who was the most piquant. And to Olivia, piquant
meant foreign, older and challenging.
ÒI liked Rune, Olivia. I canÕt
believe IÕm saying this, but I found him huggable. Almost
irresistibly huggable. And you know me and hugs.Ó
Olivia rolled her infamous
blue-gray eyes and quirked a smile at me. The small mole to the side of her
mouth punctuated her smile like a semi-colon. That mole, that smile and those
full pale lips always made me think of an Italian film star from the 60s. I
always expected that she would open her mouth and a flood of foreign words
would come out. But she was American, this child of mine. Trying hard not to
be, but still so very American in her wide-eyed innocence.
ÒStill, it was supposed to be
girls night out. It was your birthday. I wanted it to be special.Ó
ÒIt was special!Ó I smiled at her.
ÒAnd he brought me Laphroaig, my favorite whisky. It
couldnÕt have been more perfect as far as dinners go.Ó
ÒStill, I want to do something
together. Just the three of us. With my two moms.Ó
ÒSo do we.Ó
ÒLetÕs meet for a late breakfast,
then go shopping. We can spend the day together. Then dinner at my favorite
place?Ó
ÒSounds great.Ó
We planned to meet at ten for
breakfast at the hotel. Olivia didnÕt show. We called. She didnÕt pick up. She finally texted an hour later. She was at RuneÕs, running
late. SheÕll catch up. SheÕll text me. Go
ahead and eat without her. Sillies. Why would we wait? We shouldnÕt have waited
for her.
I felt old wounds opening: Olivia
telling me she is on a diet and canÕt eat dinner with me. Had I forgotten? Something came up, I meant to tell you.
You shouldnÕt have gone to so much trouble. I need to go. I thought it would be
fun up here in Lake Tahoe, but all everyone did was bash my boyfriend. Sorry, I
wanted to come, but I have a deadline. Mom, itÕs not important. WeÕll do it
some other time. I know I said Wednesday, but we never finalized anything, did
we?
When it came to dealing with
Olivia, I had always been the guilty party, the one with the faulty memory, the
one who had misunderstood. Usually, I accepted the blame or allowed her the
excuse she gave. After all, she was a grown woman. She could live her life on
her own terms. Excuses were just a way of sliding out of something a person
really didnÕt want to do. I wasnÕt going to force her to live by my rules.
Later that morning, my aging
iPhone ran out of juice as my friend and I walked around Amsterdam, waiting to
hear from Olivia. OliviaÕs phone apparently wasnÕt working either. We ended up
communicating through RuneÕs phone and finally got together at 2 pm.
I felt let down. I had come all
the way from California to see Olivia, to spend time with her in Amsterdam. And
I had just wasted four hours wondering where she was, why she wasnÕt calling
and waiting on her. I could feel my girlfriendÕs patient curiosity at OliviaÕs
behavior like a metronome on my shoulder.
By the time Olivia minced across
Dam Square in her impractical boots that she swore were comfortable, I was
angry with her. But I tried not to show it.
ÒBe relax, Mom,Ó she said, giving
me a hug and reminding me of a private joke from a couple of Christmases ago. I
felt my anger surrendering to the onslaught of her casual charm. ÒYouÕre always
so tense!Ó
She was right. I was a tense
person. Life was serious to me. Growing up, I hadnÕt been treated to Disneyland
or vacations in Hawaii as she had. I had to watch my stepfather beating the
family dog nearly to death for killing a chicken at the neighboring farm. I had
to watch my thirteen-year-old brother get on a train for Ohio and never come
back. I had to eat on my knees at dinner because I had clinked the fork against
my teeth or had forgotten to turn off the lights in the bathroom.
Life was serious to me. I was
never going to make the kind of choices that left me with five children, no
resources and a second husband who sent my children away. From an early age, I
put on the armor of a warrior. I would be responsible, punctual and vigilant. I
would put myself through college. I would never ask anyone for anything. And I
would never let anyone see me cry. Not even myself.
I knew I needed to lighten up. I
was certain I needed therapy. But at fifty-nine, I had deeply-ingrained stories
that I was tired of revisiting in my head. Why would I want to give them life
again by their retelling to a therapist.
I sighed and forced myself to get
past my frustration with Olivia.
ÒWell, IÕm relieved you finally
made it.Ó
ÒLetÕs go to Leidsestraat.
Donna will love all the shops there. You will, too.Ó
I hated shopping. Shopping for
doo-dads, as I called them. But I was here for Olivia. For Olivia—today
here in Amsterdam—I would do anything and go anywhere she wished.
Just like everybody else. Just
like her sister.
Ten years earlier on a four-month
European trek, Olivia had ditched her sister in Venice to marry an Estonian
lover who was facing deportationÉ
April 2004 — JemmaÕs Journal
Monday – 19th: Only when weÕre at the airport can we actually relax. I canÕt believe Olivia is leaving. ThatÕs all thatÕs running through my head. She checked in with time to spare. So what do we do? Crave ice cream and chocolate. This time, though, it was well deserved. We each got a Magnum. And when they were finished, it was time to go. Saying good-bye was a lot harder than I had expected. I think weÕve grown a lot closer in just these past two months. How strange because we used to be so evil to each other. Then she was off. My little sister is getting married. How strange! Maybe it was meant to be. Still, it seems rather random, and sheÕs still so young. I have ten days alone to look forward to here in Venice. Gross.
Wednesday —28th: I finally got an email from Olivia. Like IÕd thought sheÕd been really busy with getting married and all. So, itÕs done now. SheÕs Mrs. Salumae. Olivia Lorraine Salumae. MomÕs going to shit when she finds out—whenever that might be. Maybe September or October when we get back to the States.
To this day I keep hoping that
OliviaÕs death is a ruse she has devised to slip away forever and not have to
face her debts, the people whose love constrained her, a mother who worried
about her choices, but most of all to escape her expectations of self. I pray
that she has tricked us all, and that I will someday be absolved of the part I
might have played in her passing. But the way she exited has left me with
nothing but questions. The ultimate guilt trip.
On the bus, my phone announces a
new email. ItÕs from Eric, OliviaÕs father, a man she hasnÕt seen for eighteen
years. I would have preferred not to tell him anything of his daughterÕs life
and death. He doesnÕt deserve to know. But that wouldnÕt be fair. So weeks ago,
I found his address on the web and wrote him a brief letter to explain what had
occurred. I was mildly surprised when he wrote back, as well as his formal
choice of words. I suspected someone else had written the email for him.
Dear Leigh,
Please regard as sincere my heartfelt expression of sympathy for you and Jemma for your grief upon learning of OliviaÕs fate. I am grateful that you have informed me but very saddened that Olivia has met some as yet undisclosed fate. The very troubling story that the news article has described has left me very unsettled. Please let me know when you learn more details of the circumstances surrounding her death. May I know more about the date of the cremation when those plans are confirmed? Thank you for what you have shared thus far.
Sincerely,
Eric
For the first time in years, I am
corresponding with the man I never should have married. Death has bound us
together as birth once had. IÕm not sure how or what I feel about the
situation. Mostly I feel nothing, and I donÕt think that is natural or healthy.
I open his second email.
© 2016 Patricia Simpson | http://patriciasimpson.com