The HAL Project

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Revelation

 

Was it because of 9/11?

 

Or, was the reveal prompted by a chance encounter?

 

Perhaps, an upcoming anniversary – a birth and a death – was its impetus.

 

The reason, which will never be known, isn’t important.  The revelation was.

 

Mom visited New York a month after that September day.  Since I live across the street from the hospital that was designated as the medical facility to treat survivors of the twin towers, flyers and candles from family members and friends who were searching for their loved ones began dotting the neighborhood as the sun was setting.  By the time Mom came the wind and rain had battered the countless flyers; and, all that remained of the multitude of candles were their remnants of melted wax and candle holders.

 

The surrounding tree-lined streets with their gracious brownstones belied the universal anguish.  The nearby fire station, which had pictures of fallen heroes, exemplified the mood.  Death and sadness permeated the air.

 

While Mom was the most fearless person I knew, she did not like to fly.  Because the City was in mourning as well as her trepidation about flying, I suggested that her weekend trip be rescheduled.  The reluctant flyer refused to change her plans.  Mom’s response to my suggestion:  “Terrorists be damned.”

 

Sitting at an outdoor café in the Village, I pointed out the hole in the southern sky.  Straightaway, Mom asked if we could go down to the World Trade Center site.  The thought to visit the pile hadn’t crossed my mind.  Soon, we were heading downtown.

 

That night we were in a friend’s garden on Jane Street, which is in a bucolic-like corner of the Village.  A group of friends gathered that evening as we had been doing several nights each week year after year.  It was one of those quintessential autumn evenings.  The conversations, as usual, centered on politics and the theatre.  The previous month’s painful incident was reflectively avoided.

 

At breakfast the following morning, Mom recounted her conversation with one of my friends who was battling cervical cancer.  I could tell it had been a meaningful interaction.  Because I was focused on that day’s trip to look at discounted purses, I wasn’t inclined to pursue a topic that reminded me of my older sister and, I feared, the fate awaiting my friend. 

 

We were taking the LIRR to the Coach Outlet store in East Hampton the day before Mom was returning to Houston.  Once exiting the East River tunnel, I explained our travel route and other trip minutiae.  It was going to be a long trip, a long day.  I was oblivious to how long of a day it was about to become. 

 

Along the way we saw several funeral processions with hundreds of policemen and firemen in full dress uniform.  The beautiful October day made these emotional scenes all the more poignant.  Little was said between us.  Words could not do justice to watching family members and friends saying good-bye to loved ones. 

 

Purposefully, Mom turned to me and asked “Did Cheryl ever tell you anything?”  It was a curious question.  All the more so as Mom hadn’t mentioned Cheryl in the four years since her death.

 

Cheryl was her first-born.  Mom unconditionally loved her children.  It wasn’t that she loved one more than the other, they were different kinds of love.  I was the middle child and, besides being the only boy, I was different from the rest of the family.  Angie, her baby, came along between my parents second and third divorces.  Mom thought you should be married to have sex.  Why else do you keep marrying the same person?

 

After scanning my face for any hint of knowing her shame, Mom felt assured that Cheryl hadn’t told me anything.  Then, she proceeded to reveal a secret that had been kept for 27 years.  And, so I learned that Donna, my mother who led a simple, but difficult life, gave birth when I was in college.  I had another sister.

 

 

Part One – Version 4