After Elliot, I snuggled back with my husband, spent more time in the office but by 1990, three years after Elliot, on turning forty, I rebelled against being a middle-aged woman.
The children in college no longer needed my cinnamon rolls. I was their past tense mother, the mom who raised them. Now we were all "adults", my position was, the one who takes care of holidays and pays household bills.
At the office, I could be replaced by a bookkeeper. My business card title, Office Manager was a misnomer for a social secretary. I didn't have a real job and finding one outside of the office made no economic sense with the income the business generated. I was simply an appendage, not necessary for anything. While trying to accompany my husband on business trips with his frequent flyer miles, however I often was left home, alone.
He had his mistress, the business. Who was I, simply the provider of domestic tranquility? Financially well off, I became a Nordstrom's and Saks' Fifth Avenue attired ornament who spent half a day once a week at a salon, maintained shoulder-length hair, bathed in a bubble bath, used exotic lotions to keep a supple skin and layered it with expensive French lingerie. I drove an SL500 cream-colored hardtop Mercedes with a vanity license plate, in short, a stereotype rich, bitch, ornament, a title that didn’t annoy me.
It kept me from seeing myself as past tense but wasn’t enough to avoid a mid-life crisis; I needed something dramatic, a statement greater than wearing an orange dress.
After wishing for larger breasts since Erica I decided the ornament needed was a boob job. They went from 34 B to 36 C on a summer afternoon in a plastic surgeon's office with periareolar saline implants, not into big boob bimbo, just a notch up, so I told myself. Once the soreness receded, I put on heels and stood naked before my full-length mirror and admired my new shape. I was a boob girl, they looked great.
They needed to be shown off, test-driven, if only Erica could see them. Shopping, I tried different outfits to see how to enhance them, selected bras that promoted them and developed other attire accents which made my presence known. I selected a perfume few wore to announce my presence by smell, wore heels which drew attention by their walking tap, decorated like a Christmas tree with expensive jewelry, and I used TV news anchorwomen as dress role models. It was a full 40-year old life crisis.
The attention my upscale appearance garnered ensured I wasn’t a past tense woman. I wanted men to notice my eyes, hair, neck nape, legs, clothes, and breasts, walking by, entering a building, getting in or out of a car, I wanted visual attention, the opposite of when I was young. I smiled thinking about my Pee Che folder hiding once upon a time. Now I was the crudely referred to, attention whore. It was fun to flirt as a 40-year old woman but only if men flirted back. I made sure they did.
With the enhancement, I was top-heavy. Like a teenager rapidly growing, my enhanced outline bumped into things. With their soreness eased, hubby had his playtime with them. My enhanced profile incorporated in my movements, it was time to see what they could accomplish.
While originally blaming my husband's swinging idea for my unfaithfulness, with Elliot I realized I was promiscuous and stopped blaming hubby for who I was. A woman addicted to affairs, their excitement, and self-esteem assurance. Affairs were a craved drug stimulant that controlled me. Even while with Elliot, I fantasized about milking three men. When it ended, I knew it was partly because it was time for his replacement.
After Elliot, I was honest with myself. I craved illicit sex and accepted I was going to continue being libidinous. The real reason for my breast augmentation, was not for myself, not for hubby but for men yet to be met. I don't think even hubby believed it was all for him, though he had no objection and encouraged me when I brought up the idea.
I was a sex predator and wanted to experience more men before I was no longer desirable, difficult to admit until the honest realization, I was my father's daughter. The dilemma was not being faithful; was keeping my addiction hidden. I wanted the sanctuary of marriage and affairs.
Reviewing my past, I realized Edward almost cost me my marriage. I stupidly thought my husband's swinging agenda would provide a rationale for his acceptance. Once his jealousy was exposed it was too late to stop seeing Edward. My lies it was over were not entirely convincing. It made my life schizophrenic, in love with two men, one dramatically changing me. More importantly, it remained the elephant in our marriage closet. With the elephant in there, we were not the same couple who married. It was never mentioned but we both had to move around it.
Enrico only played a sexual role and was easy to hide with his own need for cover. I was circumspect with Darryl and Elliot but much of my cover was due to my husband's preoccupation with business. If discovered, hubby would be devastated. Even if still married afterward, we would no longer be husband and wife, just two people living together. Like a spy; exposure meant death, the death of our marriage.
I learned to compartmentalize two personas, not just physically but in everything and never commingle them. My duality was my reality. I kept separate memories, presents and future. To be two in one, the two puppet shadow characters couldn’t let the wrong word slip out, had to keep track of what was said and done in each life and keep an escape hatch answer if questioned for a discrepancy.
If successful, the puppet shadow presented is unquestioned unless there is a tear in the screen.
I’d gambled and won but made unwise bets. I’d kept physical contact with, Enrico, Darryl, and Elliot limited unless there was a cover excuse; unlike foolishly done with Edward. Still, there were errors. The members of the broken “Affairs Club” circle knew too much. Rumors could spin out. With Elliot, too many knew. He and I me and could talk about his past. Even Darryl’s new love could come out to haunt me.
Time was my friend as my past mistakes drifted into the dream world of memory and out of collective consciousness. I couldn’t rely on luck in the future. Previously, my past infidelity was covered by lies on the wing as they occurred because I failed to recognize who I was.
I accept who I am. I’m a married woman who wants to be married to hubby who I love and admire but must not hurt.
I’m addicted to adultery.
Therefore, I’ll cheat but I’ll carefully manage my secret puppet shadow. Let events unfold, take advantage as the opportunity presents itself in a secured stealth mode. Be professional, be a professional cheater.
With enhanced physical assets and mental enlightenment, I looked forward to the rest of my life.
We hoped our kids would be accepted at Stanford or the University of California, Berkeley but neither was. Instead, they attended the University of Southern California and Santa Clara University, USC and SCU as we liked to say, They’re good schools but not excellent.
In 1990, on a September Saturday, I flew down to the San Jose Airport for a Santa Clara University parent's day with my refitted, 36 C, profile.
Visiting Santa Clara University provided checkups on Mom, mother in law and re-connection with my past habitat. Silicon Valley, however, continued to metamorphose from the world I knew into the high-tech center of the world. It was no longer my home town. Home prices continued endlessly to rocket up, our former house eventually worth ten times the impossible price we sold it for.
My father in law had passed away two years earlier, drinking to the end. He had my pity but not my respect until later. His funeral was unattended except for the immediate family. His life’s bad luck followed him to the grave.
Dad passed on a year later with Mom somehow managing a Catholic funeral, her prayers before the saint's statute for funerals answered by an old priest by pulling strings.
With widowed Moms, we purchased for them, in our names, modest 2-bedroom homes in the Willow Glen area of San Jose so they could enjoy old age without the wolf pounding on the door. Our generosity was eventually repaid with rising home values. One brother mooched living with Mom. It being a small 2-bedroom house was a blessing. It kept other siblings from moving in with the area's high housing costs. He did provide companionship and Mom was happy to coddle, make excuses for, feed and clean up after him, giving her a purpose to live.
From the airport, I first drove to my mother in law's house for dinner without Mom as they didn't socialize. As a widow, my mother in law blossomed into a happier person. She never knew my secret shadow puppet but confided in me after I kept her abortion secret and she expanded her trust in me by telling me widow dating details I didn't want to hear. After dinner, I learned her secret puppet shadow was more complicated than first told. The abortion passed off as a miscarriage, which devastated my father in law, was not all. It was worse, much worse. At her house, after dinner, drinking the second bottle of Northwest wine I brought down, I joked.
"Gee Mom, I feel good, and it’s good to see you! Let's drink to wine; let’s hope drinking’s not hereditary"
I called her Mom for my husband's sake but it wasn't an honest term of endearment. Realizing immediately my hoof in mouth statement, due to my father in law's alcoholism, I tried to cover by switching the subject.
"I love what you did with the roses."
Mulling my alcohol hereditary comment, she changed the conversation back.
"Don't worry about it being hereditary. The kids are safe."
"Oh Mom, I'm not worried. Let's drink to not worrying."
She leaned close and hit me hard.
"There’s no worry. Dad's not his father."
I looked shocked. I was. At first, I thought it was a jest, and then it settled in.
Hubby's Dad is not his father?
She saw my disbelief. A little tipsy she explained.
"His biological father is the one who caused the abortion. I know it's terrible but I was in love. It was before the pill. I would have divorced to marry him but he rejected me for his family. I stayed married for security and ruined two lives. Don't tell. I needed to let you know in case, in case, something develops, unforeseen. As far as I know, there are no hereditary diseases to worry about but if something comes up. Well, you should know, because I could never tell him."
It explained the height difference, the assumed Dad being six inches shorter. An evil thought slipped by; the grandkids needn't worry about being short except for Mom. Again, I made a secrecy vow, one hard to keep; my husband didn't know his biological father. I shuddered thinking how this secret would devastate him and our kids.
Not knowing who his father is, it’s worse than not knowing my secret puppet shadow.
The revelation further tarnished my mother in law’s image. I left as soon as politely possible. I was judgmental. Alone, driving to the hotel, an honest perspective overcame me. What about me? What would I have done if I’d gotten pregnant on the couch by Edward? I couldn’t think about it.
Thank You, God, thank you, guardian angel, thank you, Blessed Virgin Mary, you saved me.
While no longer condemning her, my opinion of my father in law elevated substantially.
He knew! He knew because of the lack of physical resemblance. Maybe he knew the truth about the abortion too but loved her so much he held it in, lied to himself and drank to face the life's music he had to dance to. Oh God, what a burden to carry!
It was a terrible puppet shadow to think about. Discovering another’s dark secret, however, provided an excuse for my own. As I walked to my hotel room, her revelation eased my guilt.
As I drifted to sleep, I smugly thought.
I’m not the best but I’m not the worst.
The year before learning my mother in law’s secrets, the family had gathered at Saint Joseph’s Church in downtown San Jose for Dad’s Catholic funeral service. A few unknown white women and his good time pals attended as did a short, elderly, Italian lady with dyed red hair. They respected us and kept apart. Our family pretended not to see them except I returned the old Italian woman’s smile of recognition and nod of condolence.
During the service, I beseeched God to go easy on Dad. I didn’t resent him for his weaknesses, mine were equal or greater. I loved him and thought of the little Singer sewing machine he bought me after my get rich, gathering black walnuts fiasco. I only rued not knowing his past. I wanted to know more to be closer to him.
After the short Mass, just the family followed his casket to Santa Clara's Mission Cemetery, to put Dad to rest in its sanctified grounds. Mom managed to accomplish a Catholic burial next to her future resting spot with prayers and candles before Saint Joseph's statue. She fobbed off his religious conversion with the canonical help of an old priest's postdated baptism to overcome church ecclesiastical interdiction. Driving to the cemetery, I reflected on how there were reasons the Catholic Church survived for 2,000 years. While Popes are dogmatic the priests allow the flex necessary to keep the message of Jesus alive.
As the casket lowered into the earth, my elder brother Rickie’s military funeral haunted me. A second family member was in the ground. I should have paid more attention to Rickie when he was alive, know more about him instead of preoccupation with my issues.
As we departed the cemetery, I thought of how I used to pester Dad with questions if there were Alviso connections to him besides Vahl's. He never answered, just smiled and admitted only he gambled at Vahl’s. I checked public records but it was apparent Alviso was a place dedicated to anonymous lives.
A few secretes emerged after his death, a death from a heart attack going up the steps to the card loft at Vahl’s. The county coroner insisted on an autopsy which Mom refused to sign for, so I did. The coroner feared foul play but mine was fear of his being in the rear annex instead of ascending the card room stairs.
The coroner’s inquiry confirmed stairs not the next-door brothel and cause of death as a heart attack. It also revealed some shocking revelations. He had a second identity, was at least ten years older than I assumed and there were old left shoulder and leg bullet scars.
We never knew his birthday let alone the date of birth but I estimated he was around sixty-five or a little older when he died. The autopsy report hypothesized seventy-five or older. With death confirmed as a heart attack and lack of foul play, the coroner’s office lost interest. It didn’t care about his revealed second identity. They accepted the name we gave, the one on his driver’s license and moved on to investigate the next corpse.
The second identity was as Mr. Chew, his known name at Vahl’s. On death, one’s most private documents can be rummaged through, trampled on by the living. In addition to his driver's license, that we'd never seen, there was a locked metal box in his bedroom closet. Pried open we found an old Chinese passport with Dad's photo, (so young-looking), issued to a Frank Chew, a school transcript, a military medal, and photographs.
The passport, issued by some Chinese Shandong government official, was stamped with a Chefoo, Shantung exit and Vancouver, BC Canada entry, the latter dated December 3, 1948. With the help of a San Francisco Chinatown interpreter, we learned the passport was a forgery, issued during a chaotic time of government collapse. It indicated a birth date of June 2, 1913, which made him seventy-seven when he died, thirty-five when he entered Canada and thirty-seven when I was born. As a forgery, the dates were explained as suggestions and the interpreter reminded us, when forging documents, one tends to fake a younger age.
The 1925 school transcript by a Methodist Missionary school in Yantai was for English language achievement. It explained Dad’s reasonably good English except for his struggle with “L” and “R” sounds. It was issued to Lee Lin, age fourteen, confirming Dad’s surname as we knew it and added a couple more years to his age, seventy-nine being the most probable.
The military medal was a common type, presented by China’s shifting armies of the time. We couldn’t determine if of Nationalist, Communist or of some warlord origin. The scars explained his assumed arthritis which impinged on his military posture. The battle scars explained his odd comment at Rickie’s funeral.
“War, it’s death, death of those you love, over and over again.”
The photographs were the most revealing. One was of Dad and a young woman as a stiff, serious, couple in traditional Chinese wedding garb, obviously his formal wedding portrait. The attire suggested neither was of peasant stock.
The other was of the same Chinese woman with Dad and a young child.
Dad obviously had a prior family. Were they killed, abandoned or separated from him in China by events? It meant I had a potential additional unknown sibling and a stepmother, dead or alive. Another photo was of a white female, perhaps a missionary teacher.
His locked away papers, photos, scars suggested upheaval, chaos, war, desperate movements, possible army desertion and perhaps even escape from execution.
I put together what little I could of his confusing background and summarized how he became my father. During harrowing upheavals, wounded by gunfire, his family lost, he escaped by boat to Canada on false papers. From there he sneaked in the US, shortly later met Mom who was from Hawaii and impregnated her with me in September/October 1949. The odds against my conception were unimaginable low, my existence an extreme long shot fluke. I was chosen not just from one of Dad’s millions of sperm cells but also by strange coincidences of fate.
The locked box also revealed a much bigger secret but I didn’t deduce its clue staring out from the passport. I was too involved in reconstructing my father’s image to comprehend what was in front of me. It took Mom to reveal what I was blind to see.
Dad had always kept his wallet to himself. I assumed to protect his money but his driver’s license provided a birthday which we never knew and another year of birth, 1912. The Chinese interpreter, however, explained in Chinatown things are not as they seem and obtaining documents is a sub-industry where one can be what they want to be. There was no Social Security card. His erratic employment and never receiving Social Security suggested an ability to get a driver's license but not a Social Security card. Dad was an illegal alien; his past an enigma. He was not just an Alviso cannery worker, if he ever was, instead he was a complex Chinese military ghost shadow.
I reconstructed his life to fit a new father image. He wasn’t just a happy go lucky, womanizer and poor gambler. His life’s puzzle was a complicated survival struggle against odds. He adapted to shifting events, discovered the mind’s dark place where you find out what you can do to live. It explained his ambivalent attitude toward money. He enjoyed spending it but never saved for a rainy day because money to him was transitionary.
Mom told me he didn’t spend all his winnings only on himself and girlfriends, he also often bailed out our “rent is due crisis” days. She smiled and explained our family eating out splurges were after he made a big win, something I’d figured out.
At death, he left me a larger life portrait than the smaller picture I presumed when growing up as he drove off for the weekend. The few additional jigsaw puzzle pieces whetted my appetite for more rather than fulfilled answers sought. His ghost puppet shadow made me realize I didn’t know my father and never would. The little I did know raised his stature to my being proud to be his daughter.
Why was I ever ashamed? Only because I couldn’t see behind the screen of his puppet shadow character.
