missing: part four

"Do you think he's happy," Mom asks.

Happy, I'm thinking to myself, who's happy? Mom's asking the wrong question. But I don't say this to her because I'm intrigued, instead, by the fact that she's asking this question so many years after Peter left our lives. Did she think about "happy" when she took him out of her will? Did she think about "happy" when she refused to support his choice of marriage partner? Did she think about "happy" when she let all these years slip by without ever trying to find him?

"I don't know Mom," I say to her, trying to imagine if someone can be "happy" and still live with all the pain and resentment I know my brother carries. Last I spoke with him, our conversation felt like a psychotherapy session where my brother unloaded every wrong, from childhood to adulthood. I listened. For three hours. His reservoir of pain was very very deep.

"I think he likes...you know...likes...what he does...you know...with the kids...he and that woman."

Mom's referring to the last piece of knowledge we have about my brother--that he's running a mission for street kids in a suburb of Phoenix, a project his second wife (whom we have never met and will never meet) is helping him with. When I tried to check this out, I could find no such mission and no such listing for Peter Ross Schuler in or around Phoenix, Arizona.

I realize what Mom's doing--she needs to feel like Peter's life makes sense, despite his schizophrenic first wife (Heather) who refused to take her meds, his divorce many years later from Heather, his angry self-propelled expulsion from the family, his marriage to a woman (Susan) who apparently hates us more than Peter even does.

The last time Mom sees Peter is serendipity--she and my brother Eric's family are vacationing in Ketchum, Idaho when they accidentally run into him; he's also there on vacation. I am not present. According to my sister-in-law, they all have a nice "chat" with Peter telling stories and my brother's kids listening with bated breath to every word their until-now-unknown uncle has to say. Mom's comment on the afternoon is that--"I thought we...resolved...things...you know...everything's fine." Susan is not there with him.

When Peter gets up to leave, Mom walks him to the door. This is when my mother knows but can't quite admit that all is not well. I can imagine how it must have been--my mother's slight 5'4" frame overshadowed by Peter's angry 5'11'' bulk. Can I have some money," Peter asks her, just as she opens the door to let him slip out into the early evening cool. "I don't have any," Mom explains to him as by then Mom is strapped for cash--she has property but no income to live on. My brother apparently doesn't believe her, as he launches into the age-old tune of--"you took my money from me, the money I deserved when Dad died." In point of fact, there was no money for any of Dad's children as my father had an "I Love You" will and left everything to my mother. Apparently Peter doesn't believe this either, though right after my father died he did have an attorney contact Mom's attorney and demand to see the will and explain his supposed disinheritance. There was none.

Peter is an angry man, maybe even a greedy man, though when you have so little economically it's hard to call the desire for money and comfort "greed."

As I'm listening to Mom and replaying these event of our collective history with my brother, I am trying to decide whether to ask the question I have come today to ask--do you want me to find Peter? Do you want me to bring him to you?

I've been debating this question in my head ever since Mom had her first stroke a year ago in October. Something tells me he should know Mom is ill...that, if it were me, I would want to know. But this is Mom and Peter we are talking about--two of the most stubborn, angry people I know. I still don't have an answer.

But before I can say anything, Mom says--"You know...you know...he wouldn't...right...wouldn't come...right?"

I consider what to say. Mom's right, of course. But do I say this to her?

I look at Mom. Today is a pretty good day. Mom attempts to straighten her chin and level her eyes at me. She is sitting in her usual position, head ratcheted to the right, her body slumping into her right arm rest. While Mom is making some gains with her upper body--she can hold onto her fork and spoon and, with some help supporting her elbow, can bring that fork and spoon somewhere near her lips--Mom is still not in control of her torso. Sitting slumped in her wheelchair, she looks forlorn, abandoned, even with me sitting right next to her. Even so, Mom needs the truth. She needs it now, more than ever.

"Mom," I decide to say to her, touching her on her arm. "Mom, I think you're right. He's too angry."

She takes this in without comment. But still I'm sorry I've had to say it.

"What would you say Mom, if you had another chance? What would you say if Peter walked through this door right now?"

I see Mom's lips moving, her fingers worrying her blanket like a rosary. No sound comes out.

"It wasn't me," she finally says, "you know...it's your dad...not me."

Mom's words are astonishing. Even now, so many years later, she thinks in terms of blame--who is "at fault," who is to blame for Peter's loss?

"Mom," I say with a bit of reprimand in my voice, "are you sure about that--is that really the thing you want to say to your son?"

"No," she then says, and pauses.

"No...maybe not."

"What would...what would...you know...you say?" she asks me.

"I'd say 'I love you'...that's what I'd say, Mom." My answer comes out quickly, with ease, before I can edit what I'm saying.

Mom says nothing. But she catches my eye and, in that glimmer of a smile, I can see she'd say this too.

If she had the chance.