Why Do Stars Fall Down From The Sky

The problem, as he saw it, was my own sense of duty. I could see that doubt written all over his face.

Carol was my sister -- again, whether I wanted to admit it or not -- yet in his eyes, my sense of duty to her was an unknown, and my grandfather didn't cotton to such equivocation. In other words, I needed to prove myself -- to him. I needed to prove -- to him -- that I was worthy of my father's trust.

But why?

Why was that important to him? And to all of us?

In a way, when I first thought about it I had to look no further than my own mother -- and how she had simply left us to pursue her own dreams. And now I could tell that grandfather harbored vast reservoirs of ill will towards my mother -- and perhaps to my own departure for Berkeley and then the Air Force. Guilt by association had festered in his mind. Then the distance I'd kept for almost twenty years, in effect denying the very existence of my family. Just as my mother had.

I had very little experience to fall back on, too, as my fondest recollections of family came from the year or so in high school that I spent with Genie.

And yet...Genie was here, now, and like good friends everywhere we had simply said hello and started talking right where we'd left off all those years ago. Talking with her still felt natural, and by extension, I still found in Deborah a kind of surrogate mother figure. But yes, Genie was different now, too. She'd finished up at Tulane and then went to law school there. She'd married and had a boy of her own now, though she was apparently a single mother now. For more than a while, too. She'd moved home after her separation, returned to the comfortable embrace of the familiar, and now her son, Tom, was at Bradfield -- and I guess you could say he was following in our familiar footsteps.

If anything, Genie was the ideal counselor for me now. She knew me as well as anyone, and she knew my family dynamic. Best of all, she and my grandfather were close; they had been since I'd started learning to fly.

But right now I had two weeks emergency family leave, so I had two weeks to put all the pieces together, and I had two people who could help me make that happen. Yet there was one piece of the puzzle I had yet to size up.

Joan and Carol. They were the last great unknown, as in Beyond Here Thar Be Dragons.

When I spoke with Carol's psychiatrist I was underwhelmed by her use of jargon, which I vaguely understood: borderline personality, bipolar, depressive disorder. In truth, I had little real idea what these things meant, but I could see the results strapped in a bed at Timberlawn. The little kid I'd known in high school was long gone now, replaced by a gaunt, gray skeleton-looking thing, her wrists swaddled in gauze. Carol's eyes, almost always wide open, looked like they were focused somewhere beyond infinity.

Her shrink wanted to try ECT, or electro-convulsive therapy, which I think everyone else called 'shock therapy,' but this was a controversial treatment option and, as I was Carol's guardian, she needed my permission to proceed.

What, I asked, did she hope to accomplish? Would any meaningful change in her condition result?

And she informed me that her team had run out of ideas and that they no longer knew quite how to proceed -- beyond keeping her so medicated she was not able to move. Carol was, they implied, being warehoused, and in time her skin would begin to break down, her physical health would deteriorate and perhaps quite precipitously. Due to the medications she was on, organ failure was a near-term possibility, and a long-term certainty. ECT was an unknown frontier, and they had no clear idea how it might impact Carol's mental condition. It was, one of the other psychiatrists told me, a Hail Mary play, a last-ditch effort to change an almost certain outcome.

Genie was dubious. My grandfather was curious but doubtful. He'd been watching Carol's slow demise for years and he was now ready for anything that sounded even remotely hopeful. I wondered about asking Joan; she was, after all, Carol's mother, but Deborah, Genie, and my grandfather all advised against getting her involved. When he growled that Joan was a scheming psychopath I had the good sense to move on to another subject, namely what the hell were the options if ECT didn't work?

Genie looked at me and as kindly as she could uttered one word: hospice.

I was thunderstruck. A thirty-something-year-old girl with no chronic illnesses going into hospice? Seriously?

Yet Carol was being fed via a gastric tube and she was urinating via catheter. She was currently unaware of her surroundings and was developing bedsores. Her brain was broken.

And it was costing, on average, about thirty thousand dollars a month to keep her in that state; medical insurance covered the first five hundred dollars -- and not one cent more -- per year. Of course my father had easily afforded that sum, and the trust he'd left for her care had more than enough to cover the expense for decades, but in the end that wasn't the point.

"Pat, if you were in your sister's place," Genie asked, "what would you want?"

"If I wasn't really conscious, if I couldn't lead a productive life or even take care of myself? Man, I don't know. It's easy to say 'pull the plug' when you're talking about things in the abstract, but it's a completely different thing when it's someone you know."

"When that person is family," my grandfather added gently.

And I nodded. "I hate to say it, but I'm hoping ECT works. If there's even the slightest chance of an improvement I think we have to go with her team's advice."

Grandfather nodded, and so did Genie. Deborah seemed to want to say something but held back.

I talked with Carol's lead psychiatrist the next morning, and of course she had the papers she wanted signed all ready to go. I had a five o'clock flight back up to Boston that evening, so Genie ran me out to Timberlawn and helped me with all the paperwork, then she went with me to Parkland to check in on Joan, my mother-in-law.

What I remember most about that visit was the color orange. Really more a yellowish-orange. Joan's skin was orange and the whites of her eyes were yellow tinged with orange and red. What her doctors called advanced liver disease, and she was in terminal decline that day. And sober, too, for the first time that I could recall. We talked about the accident and Dad's funeral -- which she had missed -- but she really wanted to talk about her daughter, Carol.

"I know you two were never really close," she began, "but she is all the family you have now. Please take care of her, Pat. Please. For me, if not for your father."

Of course I assured her I would, but I didn't linger over Carol's prognosis, nor did I mention ECT, while under the current circumstance, a word like hospice seemed hideously cruel. We talked about a few good times we had enjoyed as a family and Joan seemed content enough with that, then she came to the heart of the matter...she had, at best, another week to live...and then, the bombshell.

"Your father told me he wanted a divorce a few months ago, and I really fell apart after that," she said as she looked at Genie. "I don't blame him, Pat, I really don't. I was always too high-strung, too tightly wound..."

"I assume he knew who you were before he asked you to get married," I replied.

"No, not really, Pat. I was always pretty good at hiding my worst impulses, and I think he was in a state of denial after he figured that out. I took advantage of him, you know? You too. I counted on you to take care of Carol even then, but you know what? Your grandfather was the only one who had me pegged from the get-go."

"I know. He was always the great and powerful Oz, working away behind his emerald curtain to make things right for..."

"For you."

I nodded. "I know. We've always leaned on each other."

"I'm glad he's still here for you."

Our eyes met, and she looked at me now with just one question left to ask. "What are you not telling me, Pat?"

"Nothing important," I said, lying through my teeth. "We just came from Timberlawn and I got the low-down. They know how to get in touch with me, so don't worry. I won't drop the ball."

She nodded, unconvinced. "Will you come for my funeral?" she asked, looking away.

I cleared my throat, took her hand. "Don't worry about all that now," I told her.

"I'd like it if you came. There are a few papers you'll need to sign."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Your grandfather has everything."

"He didn't mention that."

"He wouldn't. I asked him not to, until...the time was right."

I nodded.

"So, when will you be able to come back?" she asked.

"Next week. Probably Monday."

She squeezed my hand and then let me go, but I did something uncharacteristic just then -- I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead -- then I turned and left the room, with a surprised Genie hastily bringing up the rear. When she caught up to me at the elevators I was trying to stifle the tears that had suddenly come calling, and I think she was more surprised than I was.

So Genie ran me out to DFW, but as we were early she went in with me and we sat in a little restaurant -- but it wasn't too hard to tell she had a few important things she wanted to talk about, too.

"How come you never married," Genie asked as I looked over the menu.

And I shrugged. "I don't know, Genie. Maybe I never really saw marriage as something I wanted to do."

"I can't blame you. Not with Joan terrorizing the two of you."

"Terrorizing?" I asked. "Don't you think that's a little harsh?"

She shook her head. "No, not in the least. My mother always called her a rattlesnake..."

I laughed at that, but I'd felt the same more than once.

"I think that's why you were always over at our house, Pat. Just getting away from her."

Of course I had been, and there'd never been any real reason to hide the fact -- now or then. "Survival instinct, I guess," I just managed to say, but I was thinking of Joan again -- and trying to reconcile the painful cascades of memory with who and what I had just seen at Parkland. Worse, I knew now that the only person who might have possibly prevented Carol from taking the full brunt of Joan's tortured madness...was me.

"Tom likes you," she said, out of the blue.

And I looked at her, and at the meaning behind those words. "He seems happy."

"His father is working in Norway most of the time now, but he's shown little interest in being a father."

"Oh?" Now I was wondering when she was going to get to the point.

"Tom needs a father," she sighed.

I nodded. "Who'd you have in mind, Genie?"

"I've dated a few men, Pat, but Tom has never liked any of them. He likes you."

"So, who's calling the shots?"

"Pat, I've been in love with you since kindergarten, and he's heard me talking about you all his life. And let's face it...you're a pilot and what little boy isn't going to be..."

I held up a hand. "Genie, all that happened a lifetime ago. You and me...I haven't seen you in, what? Almost twenty years..."

"And I'm still in love with you, Pat. What's more, I'm pretty sure you still love me."

"Genie, look..."

"Pat, you just lost your father. Joan is dying and now you've got Carol to deal with. I know your grandfather is a great guy, but you really don't need to be alone right now. At least when you come home."

I nodded. "This isn't home, Genie. Not anymore."

"Look, all I'm saying is let's give us a chance. When you come back, could we spend some time together? Not as friends, but as, well...more than friends?"

I nodded. But I looked away, not sure how I felt about all this -- only that the whole day was beginning to feel a little like an ambush. "It's a lot to take in," I sighed.

"I know. The past two weeks have been a nightmare. Just give it some thought, would you?"

We talked about little things after that, over salads and iced tea. About how Bradfield had changed since we'd been students there, and about all the changes the country club had in the works; typical Highland Park stuff, I guess. All the things I'd turned my back on. All the things I had no interest in. We picked at our food like we picked our way through the minefield of my denials -- slowly and carefully -- at least until it was time to head to the gate, but by then she'd worked up enough courage to try one more shot across the bow.

"God knows you had reason enough to run, Pat, but don't you think it's time to stop?"

I felt helpless, defeated. Maybe I even felt alone as I shrugged. "You know, Genie, believe it or not I'm actually kind of happy. I'm doing what I want..."

"And you're running into a dead end," she countered. "One day you're going to take a look around and realize you're all alone, and it didn't have to be that way."

Her words felt heavy, heavy and burdensome.

"Will you at least call me when you're coming? I'd like to meet you here?"

"Of course," I said. "Like I said, next Monday. I'll call you with the flight number as soon as I have it."

She smiled then. A hopeful smile, but her eyes were full of doubt. I suppose because my words didn't quite ring true. We hugged before I walked down the Jetway, and the more I walked the lighter I felt, and pretty soon I felt like running.

+++++

A few days passed and I found myself walking along the banks of the Seine, looking across still waters at Notre Dame and Sainte-Chapelle, as ever in total awe. I'd never been a particularly religious sort, yet from time to time I sought out the solitude of these old medieval sanctuaries, and while I didn't know why, or even care how this came about, I enjoyed the timelessness I felt inside these places. And it seemed today was going to be such a day.

I wandered over to an old favorite, to the Église Saint-Séverin, and walked inside, found an empty pew and sat in a pool of kaleidoscopic light. The stained glass in the main sanctuary was mesmerizing, and as I sat there in the light thoughts of my father came to me slowly. Then came the raging torrent of responsibilities and duties that waited for my return. Joan and Carol. Genie and Tom, and of yes, Deborah, too. And my grandfather, patiently waiting for me to come to my senses and come home...

"Well, I'll say one thing, Pat. I never expected to see you walk into a church."

I knew that voice, and it certainly wasn't God's.

I turned to see not an omnipotent old man in flowing gowns but a stewardess I'd known for years, and known rather well. Ellen. Ellen McGovern. Sweet kid. Kind of a 'fresh off the farm' midwest vibe and really, really good looking, too. Every now and then we had the same flight so we usually got caught up on those layovers, but it hadn't been physical between us in a while; once she'd figured out I wasn't the serious type she'd moved on to steadier, greener pastures.

So I smiled at her and nodded at the door, then got up to leave. Once out in the open she took my arm and leaned into me. "I heard about your dad. You doin' okay?"

"I'm not sure," I said with a grin. "I was about to ask God and then there you were..."

She gave my arm a squeeze as we walked back towards the Seine. "Aren't you cold?" she asked. "It's freezing out!"

"I think it's more like fifty degrees. At least that's what I remember from the forecast. So, what are you doing in this neck of the woods?"

"Following you."

"Really?"

"No, not really, but I was showing a couple of the new girls the sights and we saw you."

"And you just dumped them?"

"No, they're around the corner at the crepe place."

"That sounds good."

"Come join us."

So I did.

Two old hands and the three new girls made room for Ellen and I and we shot the breeze for an hour, then I led them all on a tour of Sainte-Chapelle and Notre Dame, glad that, once upon a time, I'd taken several electives on medieval art and architecture and could finally put all that knowledge to good use. An afternoon later we made our way to the Marriott and we all had dinner together, and Ellen thanked me for being such a good sport before she made her way up to her room.

I heard a knock on my door an hour later, but not really wanting to be more confused than I already was I feigned sleep, then tossed and turned the rest of the night.

In the dispatch office bright and early the next morning the sympathetic man handed me another note, this one indicating that Joan had passed away a few hours earlier -- I assume while I was out chaperoning stewardesses around the city. Another first officer had been called in to work my flight to Boston and I would, therefore, be flying back to Boston in the cabin, connecting with a flight to Dallas from Logan. I called Genie and left the flight number on her answering machine, and wondered what it all meant.

So Ellen found me in seat 1A when she boarded with her brood, and I filled her in on recent events, told her I was back on family leave and en route to Dallas once again. I was in uniform so on best corporate behavior; she brought me orange juice and handed me a hot towelette. I tried to stay interested as we taxied and took off but the truth of my life was slowly dawning on me.

I was looking forward to seeing Genie. To talking with my grandfather. And I suddenly felt a surge of energy when I thought about the things I might do to help Carol along, because truly, if there was anyone capable of helping her fight her demons, it was probably me. We had, when all was said and done, suffered in silence together, through all of Joan's abominations.

What was it they called this? Survivors guilt? I had been able to run to my grandfather's house when things got bad, which looking back on it now meant I'd left Carol to take the brunt of it in my absence. Why had I done that? Maybe because she was 'just' my half sister I'd never developed the empathy I needed to protect her? Or maybe I'd just been born stronger and more resilient but had mistakenly assumed she could take care of herself? Yet what was the point in laying blame anywhere now? Assigning some half-baked idea of blame wasn't going to help Carol reconcile her past, only compassionate support would help her now.

I thought about the little church of Saint-Séverin. The vast pools of faceted light cast by walls of stained glass, the silence within her cold stone sanctuary, and I guess I was really thinking about faith and how that spark had always eluded me. To me, faith stood in stark opposition to observable truth, and my engineers' mind had always sought certainty -- and never the vagaries of the spirit. And yet I almost instinctively sought out such places as Saint-Séverin when I needed a quiet place to think.

Looking out over the Atlantic, looking down at low scudding cumulus clouds and the shadows they cast on the blue-gray sea, I wanted to see something beyond the obvious. I wanted to see allegory and symbolism, not the stark reality of the hydrologic cycle, but my mind hadn't been wired that way. Then I saw another airliner, below and a little to the left of our track, and I could see that it was a Swissair DC-10 and probably headed to Boston. We flew along in formation like two migrating birds above the clouds.

Ellen brought me lunch and sat with me for a while after the meal service was cleared, and apparently, she still wanted to talk.

"How're you doing?" she opened.

"I'm not really sure. Conflicted, I think."

"You look so lonely sitting here."

I nodded. "I think the past few weeks, well, I've never felt more alone. I don't think I was ever really willing to admit how much my father meant to me, yet I'm coming to realize that his dedication to medicine was our family's undoing, and I don't know how to reconcile that."

"Do you think he was aware of what was happening?"

I shrugged. "He was smart and he was perceptive so I have to think he was."