In the valley, Faye tried to stop her ears against the constant gossip of a small town, whose opinions pushed in through the windows and crept under the doors. Mother often described herself as a pleaser: she said she couldnāt stop herself from speculating what people wanted her to be, and from contorting herself, compulsively, unwillingly, into whatever it was. Living in her respectable house in the center of town, crowded by four other houses, each so near anyone could peer through the windows and whisper a judgment, Faye felt trapped.
Iāve often imagined the moment when Gene took Faye to the top of Buckās Peak and she was, for the first time, unable to see the faces or hear the voices of the people in the town below. They were far away. Dwarfed by the mountain, hushed by the wind.
They were engaged soon after.
ā
MOTHER USED TO TELL a story from the time before she was married. She had been close to her brother Lynn, so she took him to meet the man she hoped would be her husband. It was summer, dusk, and Dadās cousins were roughhousing the way they did after a harvest. Lynn arrived and, seeing a room of bowlegged ruffians shouting at each other, fists clenched, swiping at the air, thought he was witnessing a brawl straight out of a John Wayne film. He wanted to call the police.
āI told him to listen,ā Mother would say, tears in her eyes from laughing. She always told this story the same way, and it was such a favorite that if she departed in any way from the usual script, weād tell it for her. āI told him to pay attention to the actual words they were shouting. Everyone sounded mad as hornets, but really they were having a lovely conversation. You had to listen to what they were saying, not how they were saying it. I told him, Thatās just how Westovers talk!ā
By the time sheād finished we were usually on the floor. Weād cackle until our ribs hurt, imagining our prim, professorial uncle meeting Dadās unruly crew. Lynn found the scene so distasteful he never went back, and in my whole life I never saw him on the mountain. Served him right, we thought, for his meddling, for trying to draw Mother back into that world of gabardine dresses and cream shoes. We understood that the dissolution of Motherās family was the inauguration of ours. The two could not exist together. Only one could have her.
Mother never told us that her family had opposed the engagement but we knew. There were traces the decades hadnāt erased. My father seldom set foot in Grandma-over-in-townās house, and when he did he was sullen and stared at the door. As a child I scarcely knew my aunts, uncles or cousins on my motherās side. We rarely visited themāI didnāt even know where most of them livedāand it was even rarer for them to visit the mountain. The exception was my aunt Angie, my motherās youngest sister, who lived in town and insisted on seeing my mother.
What I know about the engagement has come to me in bits and pieces, mostly from the stories Mother told. I know she had the ring before Dad served a missionāwhich was expected of all faithful Mormon menāand spent two years proselytizing in Florida. Lynn took advantage of this absence to introduce his sister to every marriageable man he could find this side of the Rockies, but none could make her forget the stern farm boy who ruled over his own mountain.
Gene returned from Florida and they were married.
LaRue sewed the wedding dress.
ā
IāVE ONLY SEEN A single photograph from the wedding. Itās of my parents posing in front of a gossamer curtain of pale ivory. Mother is wearing a traditional dress of beaded silk and venetian lace, with a neckline that sits above her collarbone. An embroidered veil covers her head. My father wears a cream suit with wide black lapels. They are both intoxicated with happiness, Mother with a relaxed smile, Dad with a grin so large it pokes out from under the corners of his mustache.
It is difficult for me to believe that the untroubled young man in that photograph is my father. Fearful and anxious, he comes into focus for me as a weary middle-aged man stockpiling food and ammunition.
I donāt know when the man in that photograph became the man I know as my father. Perhaps there was no single moment. Dad married when he was twenty-one, had his first son, my brother Tony, at twenty-two. When he was twenty-four, Dad asked Mother if they could hire an herbalist to midwife my brother Shawn. She agreed. Was that the first hint, or was it just Gene being Gene, eccentric and unconventional, trying to shock his disapproving in-laws? After all, when Tyler was born twenty months later, the birth took place in a hospital. When Dad was twenty-seven, Luke was born, at home, delivered by a midwife. Dad decided not to file for a birth certificate, a decision he repeated with Audrey, Richard and me. A few years later, around the time he turned thirty, Dad pulled my brothers out of school. I donāt remember it, because it was before I was born, but I wonder if perhaps that was a turning point. In the four years that followed, Dad got rid of the telephone and chose not to renew his license to drive. He stopped registering and insuring the family car. Then he began to hoard food.
This last part sounds like my father, but it is not the father my older brothers remember. Dad had just turned forty when the Feds laid siege to the Weavers, an event that confirmed his worst fears. After that he was at war, even if the war was only in his head. Perhaps that is why Tony looks at that photo and sees his father, and I see a stranger.
Fourteen years after the incident with the Weavers, I would sit in a university classroom and listen to a professor of psychology describe something called bipolar disorder. Until that moment I had never heard of mental illness. I knew people could go crazyātheyād wear dead cats on their heads or fall in love with a turnipābut the notion that a person could be functional, lucid, persuasive, and something could still be wrong, had never occurred to me.
The professor recited facts in a dull, earthy voice: the average age of onset is twenty-five; there may be no symptoms before then.
The irony was that if Dad was bipolarāor had any of a dozen disorders that might explain his behaviorāthe same paranoia that was a symptom of the illness would prevent its ever being diagnosed and treated. No one would ever know.
ā
GRANDMA-OVER-IN-TOWN DIED THREE YEARS ago, age eighty-six.
I didnāt know her well.
All those years I was passing in and out of her kitchen, and she never told me what it had been like for her, watching her daughter shut herself away, walled in by phantoms and paranoias.
When I picture her now I conjure a single image, as if my memory is a slide projector and the tray is stuck. Sheās sitting on a cushioned bench. Her hair pushes out of her head in tight curls, and her lips are pulled into a polite smile, which is welded in place. Her eyes are pleasant but unoccupied, as if sheās observing a staged drama.
That smile haunts me. It was constant, the only eternal thing, inscrutable, detached, dispassionate. Now that Iām older and Iāve taken the trouble to get to know her, mostly through my aunts and uncles, I know she was none of those things.
I attended the memorial. It was open casket and I found myself searching her face. The embalmers hadnāt gotten her lips rightāthe gracious smile sheād worn like an iron mask had been stripped away. It was the first time Iād seen her without it and thatās when it finally occurred to me: that Grandma was the only person who might have understood what was happening to me. How the paranoia and fundamentalism were carving up my life, how they were taking from me the people I cared about and leaving only degrees and certificatesāan air of respectabilityāin their place. What was happening now had happened before. This was the second severing of mother and daughter. The tape was playing in a loop.
No one saw the car leave the road. My brother Tyler, who was seventeen, fell asleep at the wheel. It was six in the morning and heād been driving in silence for most of the night, piloting our station wagon through Arizona, Nevada and Utah. We were in Cornish, a farming town twenty miles south of Buckās Peak, when the station wagon drifted over the center line into the other lane, then left the highway. The car jumped a ditch, smashed through two utility poles of thick cedar, and was finally brought to a stop only when it collided with a row-crop tractor.
ā
THE TRIP HAD BEEN Motherās idea.
A few months earlier, when crisp leaves had begun slipping to the ground, signaling the end of summer, Dad had been in high spirits. His feet tapped show tunes at breakfast, and during dinner he often pointed at the mountain, his eyes shining, and described where he would lay the pipes to bring water down to the house. Dad promised that when the first snow fell, heād build the biggest snowball in the state of Idaho. What heād do, he said, was hike to the mountain base and gather a small, insignificant ball of snow, then roll it down the hillside, watching it triple in size each time it raced over a hillock or down a ravine. By the time it reached the house, which was atop the last hill before the valley, itād be big as Grandpaās barn and people on the highway would stare up at it, amazed. We just needed the right snow. Thick, sticky flakes. After every snowfall, we brought handfuls to him and watched him rub the flakes between his fingers. That snow was too fine. This, too wet. After Christmas, he said. Thatās when you get the real snow.
But after Christmas Dad seemed to deflate, to collapse in on himself. He stopped talking about the snowball, then he stopped talking altogether. A darkness gathered in his eyes until it filled them. He walked with his arms limp, shoulders slumping, as if something had hold of him and was dragging him to the earth.
By January Dad couldnāt get out of bed. He lay flat on his back, staring blankly at the stucco ceiling with its intricate pattern of ridges and veins. He didnāt blink when I brought his dinner plate each night. Iām not sure he knew I was there.
Thatās when Mother announced we were going to Arizona. She said Dad was like a sunflowerāheād die in the snowāand that come February he needed to be taken away and planted in the sun. So we piled into the station wagon and drove for twelve hours, winding through canyons and speeding over dark freeways, until we arrived at the mobile home in the parched Arizona desert where my grandparents were waiting out the winter.
We arrived a few hours after sunrise. Dad made it as far as Grandmaās porch, where he stayed for the rest of the day, a knitted pillow under his head, a callused hand on his stomach. He kept that posture for two days, eyes open, not saying a word, still as a bush in that dry, windless heat.
On the third day he seemed to come back into himself, to become aware of the goings-on around him, to listen to our mealtime chatter rather than staring, unresponsive, at the carpet. After dinner that night, Grandma played her phone messages, which were mostly neighbors and friends saying hello. Then a womanās voice came through the speaker to remind Grandma of her doctorās appointment the following day. That message had a dramatic effect on Dad.
At first Dad asked Grandma questions: what was the appointment for, who was it with, why would she see a doctor when Mother could give her tinctures.
Dad had always believed passionately in Motherās herbs, but that night felt different, like something inside him was shifting, a new creed taking hold. Herbalism, he said, was a spiritual doctrine that separated the wheat from the tares, the faithful from the faithless. Then he used a word Iād never heard before: Illuminati. It sounded exotic, powerful, whatever it was. Grandma, he said, was an unknowing agent of the Illuminati.
God couldnāt abide faithlessness, Dad said. Thatās why the most hateful sinners were those who wouldnāt make up their minds, who used herbs and medication both, who came to Mother on Wednesday and saw their doctor on Fridayāor, as Dad put it, āWho worship at the altar of God one day and offer a sacrifice to Satan the next.ā These people were like the ancient Israelites because theyād been given a true religion but hankered after false idols.
āDoctors and pills,ā Dad said, nearly shouting. āThatās their god, and they whore after it.ā
Mother was staring at her food. At the word āwhoreā she stood, threw Dad an angry look, then walked into her room and slammed the door. Mother didnāt always agree with Dad. When Dad wasnāt around, Iād heard her say things that heāor at least this new incarnation of himāwould have called sacrilege, things like, āHerbs are supplements. For something serious, you should go to a doctor.ā
Dad took no notice of Motherās empty chair. āThose doctors arenāt trying to save you,ā he told Grandma. āTheyāre trying to kill you.ā
When I think of that dinner, the scene comes back to me clearly. Iām sitting at the table. Dad is talking, his voice urgent. Grandma sits across from me, chewing her asparagus again and again in her crooked jaw, the way a goat might, sipping from her ice water, giving no indication that sheās heard a word Dad has said, except for the occasional vexed glare she throws the clock when it tells her itās still too early for bed. āYouāre a knowing participant in the plans of Satan,ā Dad says.
This scene played every day, sometimes several times a day, for the rest of the trip. All followed a similar script. Dad, his fervor kindled, would drone for an hour or more, reciting the same lines over and over, fueled by some internal passion that burned long after the rest of us had been lectured into a cold stupor.
Grandma had a memorable way of laughing at the end of these sermons. It was a sort of sigh, a long, drawn-out leaking of breath, that finished with her eyes rolling upward in a lazy imitation of exasperation, as if she wanted to throw her hands in the air but was too tired to complete the gesture. Then sheād smileānot a soothing smile for someone else but a smile for herself, of baffled amusement, a smile that to me always seemed to say, Aināt nothinā funnier than real life, I tell you what.
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IT WAS A SCORCHING AFTERNOON, so hot you couldnāt walk barefoot on the pavement, when Grandma took me and Richard for a drive through the desert, having wrestled us into seatbelts, which weād never worn before. We drove until the road began to incline, then kept driving as the asphalt turned to dust beneath our tires, and still we kept going, Grandma weaving higher and higher into the bleached hills, coming to a stop only when the dirt road ended and a hiking trail began. Then we walked. Grandma was winded after a few minutes, so she sat on a flat red stone and pointed to a sandstone rock formation in the distance, formed of crumbling spires, each a little ruin, and told us to hike to it. Once there, we were to hunt for nuggets of black rock.
āTheyāre called Apache tears,ā she said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small black stone, dirty and jagged, covered in veins of gray and white like cracked glass. āAnd this is how they look after theyāve been polished a bit.ā From her other pocket she withdrew a second stone, which was inky black and so smooth it felt soft.
Richard identified both as obsidian. āThese are volcanic rock,ā he said in his best encyclopedic voice. āBut this isnāt.ā He kicked a washed-out stone and waved at the formation. āThis is sediment.ā Richard had a talent for scientific trivia. Usually I ignored his lecturing but today I was gripped by it, and by this strange, thirsty terrain. We hiked around the formation for an hour, returning to Grandma with our shirtfronts sagging with stones. Grandma was pleased; she could sell them. She put them in the trunk, and as we made our way back to the trailer, she told us the legend of the Apache tears.
According to Grandma, a hundred years ago a tribe of Apaches had fought the U.S. Cavalry on those faded rocks. The tribe was outnumbered: the battle lost, the war over. All that was left to do was wait to die. Soon after the battle began, the warriors became trapped on a ledge. Unwilling to suffer a humiliating defeat, cut down one by one as they tried to break through the cavalry, they mounted their horses and charged off the face of the mountain. When the Apache women found their broken bodies on the rocks below, they cried huge, desperate tears, which turned to stone when they touched the earth.