The Last Laugh

The Last Laugh

Truth and memories are tricky. Both depend on your point of view.

Oddly enough my earliest memories are of the relationship my brother Justin had with our mother rather than the one she had with me. I was an outsider more often than not, being raised by hired help. I was like the proverbial red-headed step child while he received the hugs and kisses that I so desperately needed. I received cold shoulders and harsh words.

I was only three when my brother failed sandbox and was required to repeat kindergarten. Our parents hired a tutor for him. It wouldn't do to have the heir apparent to one of the country's most influential and wealthy families not do well in school. When the tutor came I was usually in the study with them. I was fascinated. Strange symbols strung together made words which turned into sentences and thoughts. That was when I learned to read and write, at the tender age of three.

Justin was our mother's favorite. When he wasn't in school he was with her, going to the park or museums while I was relegated to the care of my nanny. Bridget was a delight. She spent every waking minute with me and slept in the suite adjacent to mine. She would take me to the museums but more importantly, she introduced me to the library. We continued my studies in private as the first mention of them to my mother met with less than approval. Bridget and I had met a friend. Sophia was my age, actually four months older. She lived a few estates over from us and Bridget would take me over to her house or we'd meet in the library. Sophia was my only friend.

Halfway through my first day of school I was called into the headmaster's office only to find Mother there. The sight of her sitting in the tufted leather chair sent waves of terror through my little body. The only part of the discussion I remember between Mother and the headmaster, was Mother being adamant about me not being put in the same classroom with Justin. The next day, I was in second grade, the same grade as my older brother!

Justin never did well in school while I, on the other hand, excelled. I loved school. Reading, no matter the subject, was a passion. The first day of school each year, when we got our books, I couldn't wait to get home to read them all cover to cover. I didn't even mind homework. I found the time spent in books and homework the most enjoyable. It wasn't just school and homework that I savoured. Our Long Island home was situated on just over twenty-six acres and we bred horses. Riding was a passion of mine. I started jumping horses when I was about seven or eight. Justin, my brother, would find any excuse not to ride, his fear of equines clearly visible on his face and from his body language whenever the animals were in the proximity.

I became quite the young horse-woman and was told by many adults that I should participate in riding competitions. Mother wouldn't entertain the thought of allowing me to do something that I might derive pleasure or recognition from. She felt the same about my music. At first I was told I was too young to take lessons and that the piano had been bought for Justin. I had a musical flame burning within and demanded I be given lessons as well. When I wasn't taken seriously I became enraged and took a hammer to a discrete portion of the instrument. I was given my first lesson the following day (after being seriously spankedand sent to my room without dinner). After about six months Justin had quit but I continued taking lessons until in my mid to late teens.

Sometimes, most of the time actually, I sat alone in my room wondering what I had done to make my mother hate me so much. It was much more than that she didn't 'like' me. She made me feel inferior all the time, completely so. Even if I had found the cure for cancer or some other catastrophic disease, it would never be enough to earn her love.


I don't recall the circumstances that precipitated this incident, only the reactions. I must have said or done something that met with Mother's disapproval. I found myself being chased. I was running around the dining room table with her in hot pursuit, so uncharacteristic in contrast to her persona. The only part of the 'conversation' I remember was when she shouted, "You little bastard!" I don't know where it came from but I answered, "If I am, it's not my fault."

Not the smartest thing I could have said. Almost instantly I saw one of her shoes sailing across the table missing my head by mere inches. The inevitable, "Wait till your father gets home," followed.

Being academically advanced did not equate to emotional maturity. I couldn't understand how, despite the hours Justin devoted to his studies he wasn't able to grasp the material. His failure to pass the eighth grade meant dramatic changes were in store for all of us.

Mother had to face it, all her connections and good intentions couldn't make Justin succeed. Father was able to vocalize his utter disappointment in Justin and relief that they were not from the same gene pool. Justin would be away from the emotional safety net Mother provided and I would be alone and unprotected.

The school that was chosen for Justin was two hours and a world away from our house. There wasn't anything I wouldn't have given to have gone along with him but there were two reasons that made it impossible: it was an all boy's school and Mother.

Justin was away at military school to improve his still failing grades. It was all I could do not to resent him being out from under our mother's influence. With him gone there was nobody to deflect her animosity towards me, Bridget having been dismissed. Nothing I ever did was met with even the slightest level of approval. Justin's new school started one week before mine. We all went up in the limo to deposit him at his new home. There were hundreds of other limousines in the lot adjacent to the Admin building. Mother had chosen that school not only for its academic reputation, which was impressive, but for its student base which was composed of senator's, governor's, ambassador's, industrialist's and financier's sons. Justin would make contacts that would last a lifetime.

I hated to see him go almost as much as the thought of the two hour drive home knowing how distraught Mother would be without her 'little boy' and what that meant for me. It was hard to fly under the radar when you were restricted by the confines of a limo's cabin.

Upper classmen now ruled Justin's world. Morning through night, everyday, he was told what to do and what to think. Not much different than his life at home, sans the hugs and kisses. The sanctity of my room was still intact but the time I was allowed to spend in it was seriously diminished.

With Justin gone the joy was gone from Mother's eyes. The only time that flicker shoed through was when she was berating and tormenting me: keeping me from the solitude of my room was one way and there were many others.

My plans for spending the next week riding, reading and at Sophia's were shot to hell. The best laid plans... Sophia's parents took her to Disneyland for the last week of summer vacation; our horses were being trucked down to our farm bringing new ones on the return trip and my presence was required - or more appropriately demanded - at one charitable function after another. I couldn't wait for school to start again.

Life went on. On cold winter days the delightful sweet aroma of Toll House chocolate chip cookies baking in our mothers' kitchens brings one of the comfort memories most of us have from childhood. The smell of melting chocolate pieces wafted throughout kitchens across America for generations. All who watched Leave It To Beaver in the Fifties will recall their mom dressed in her best June Cleaver ensemble effortlessly baking while we either helped or waited with anticipation.

Never allowed to help as the kitchen was Mother (and Cook's) domain, I was seated at the table with my homework piled in front of me. Although my Ethan Allen furnished bedroom had a fully functional and fashionable desk complete with electric typewriter, I was not permitted to do my homework anywhere but under the ever observant eye of my mother. I often wondered why this was so as I was an honors student and never needed prodding to complete my assignments. School and homework were means of escape, anything to avoid the inevitable confrontations between Mother and me.

We were alone, something that didn't happen often, either by design or accident. There were questions that burned inside me for as long as I could remember. Fearing even more abominable treatment at her hands or her venomous words, the questions always remained unasked. This might be the only opportunity I could broach the subject of my adoption without reprisal and get the answers I feverishly sought.

"Mom, I have a question." I said as sweetly as possible since our relationship was strained at best.

Taking a batch out of the oven and putting in a new cookie sheet while resetting the timer she stated, "You know perfectly well that I won't help you with your homework, but will check it once it's finished," as if she really understood the work done in the advanced placement classes.

"No, the question isn't homework. Well, in a way it is, I guess. We're supposed to chart our family history as far back as we can go." I had to be delicate and chose my words carefully lest it all blow up in my face. The facts of my brother's birth were common knowledge in the family and neighborhood, but mine were never discussed. We were adopted at different times but my origins had been clouded in secrecy for some unknown reason. "Being that I'm adopted, I thought it might be worth extra credit if I did two reports," I paused trying to compose myself so as not to let on how eager I was for the answers, "if you might know anything about my birth parents. It's not like I'd want to meet them, I'm just thinking about my grades."

I waited for her to spin around and start screaming obscenities and/or throwing things at me as she had been known to do in the past. Screaming about what an ungrateful brat I was, but to my utter astonishment, she sat down across from me without a moment's hesitation, calmly smoothing her dress as she did so. She folded the kitchen towel neatly placing it on the table between us. Something was always between us.

"We don't have much information. The only reason we know anything at all is because Dr. Cohen was a personal friend of your father." I couldn't believe how forthcoming she was as it was totally out of character. "Private adoptions were relatively unheard of at the time." She paused for a few seconds then continued. "Your mother was involved in a fatal car accident while on the way to the hospital when she was in labor. The ambulance pronounced her dead on arrival. The attendants were able to get here there, to the hospital, in time for you to be born. As for your father, he was killed in the War before you were born."

The timer rang and Mom went back to her cookies and I retreated to my homework. I complete the editing of my book report on East of Eden having related to the story like none of the other students in my class. My brother was the Wunderkind while I was always the disappointment no matter what I did or how hard I tried to please. With that out of the way, History was next. I knew why it was important for us to learn about events of the past, 'if you don't remember you are doomed to repeat them,' but the importance of knowing all the dates on which those events happened eluded me. I loved seeing how events directly triggered other equally momentous developments. I knew the order in which they happened, but the exact dates? When would I ever need to know them? I had no desire to be a contestant on Jeopardy.

Each chapter in my textbook began with a timeline giving the academically challenged a visual assist. World War II started in 1938 and was over by 1945. The Korean Conflict (incorrectly referred to as a war despite the fact Congress never made such declaration) started in 1951.

I double and triple checked the dates then flipped to the index to see what other wars the United States was involved in. I was born in October, 1948, and there were no wars that the US was engaged in during the years of 1947 or 1948.

I realized that Dear Old Mom had lied. She'd not only given me false information, but had done so knowingly.

I remember the day I received early acceptance and offers of full academic scholarships from Smith and Vassar. It should have been one of the happiest days of my life, but alas, it turned out to be one of my worst. I was picked up by our chauffeur and told that Mother wanted me in the music room the moment we arrived home. I entered the double doors and thought I was in a distillery. I wanted to wretch. I noticed two envelopes and an empty bottle of scotch on the table.

Mother spun around sloshing her drink on the Oriental carpet. "Why?"

She slurred this as if the single word would be sufficient information for me to formulate an answer. I stood there, not moving a muscle, waiting for her to continue. To do otherwise would be suicidal.

"Did you really think you could get away with this?" Her pitch and volume continued to escalate at such a dramatic rate that within a few more rants, only dogs would hear her.

Still motionless and silent, I waited again for more information.

"Just how did you think you would get there without me knowing?"

The smell was literally making me nauseous. I didn't know how much more of it I could take before I threw up, my gag reflexes were kicking in.

"There's no way you will ever get my signature on these papers." She crumpled them and threw them directly into the roaring fire in the marble fireplace. Her heightened emotions, in combination with the alcohol, caused her to pass out right there on the floor.

With the aid of a poker I was able to retrieve the half crumbled papers from the fire and the envelopes off the coffee table and fled up to the safety of my room where I cried for hours when I realized what she had been incensed about. I couldn't believe that a woman who had openly hated me would deny me, and herself, of four years of not having to deal with the other.

When I was no longer hyper-ventilating I called my best (translation: only) friend to help me understand. Sophia's mother got on the phone and told me to pack a bag; she was coming to get me for the night.

My high school graduation was on a Friday. I had my valedictorian speech prepared and was so happy Justin's commandant said he could leave school a day early to attend. Mother said, "No." I don't even know if my parents were there as I was driven to and from by our chauffeur.

Most of my graduating class (all except me) got trips to Europe for the summer before college. I got a watch. Not a Rolex or a Paget, but a Timex. It was the worst summer of my life. Justin went to work with Father every day and Sophia was gone. I had nobody. I was still too young to drive so I was stuck on the property, virtually under house arrest.

September had me going to a local university at the ripe age of 15 (almost sixteen). I was not allowed to date, which frankly, didn't interest me in the least any way. During the winter semester one weekend I was summoned to the master suite Mother occupied. I hadn't been in there since I was five. Having no clue as to why she wanted to see me, I was extremely anxious, inching my way.

"Sit down here next to me," she said patting the bed.

Was she kidding? The look on her face told me no.

"You'll receive two checks every month from the broker. You'll need to put one in the household account to pay the staff and the other in my account," the words were coming slowly as if she couldn't collect her thoughts. "No, give the other to Justin."

"He's away at school."

"I know that, otherwise I'd be having this conversation with him." It was almost comical to watch her struggle for the right words. It only took an instant for me to know that something was wrong. She fell back on the bed and started going into convulsions.

I picked up the Princess phone on her nightstand and called Dr. Joe, our next door neighbor. The convulsions had stopped by the time he was at the house, a matter of just a few minutes. Dr. Joe looked around the bed area and then went into the bathroom where he found several empty pill bottles. Valium. Librium. Miltowns. It was a pharmacological cocktail!

The ambulance arrived moments later and the paramedics wheeled the stretcher out. They were given instructions to take her to a private hospital which Dr. Joe was affiliated with. On the way there, Mother stopped breathing. Emergency, change of plans. The closest hospital was the new destination.

Mother would never have been caught dead in a State run facility, but she didn't have the opportunity to threaten the paramedics with their jobs in her unconscious state. They revived her but she had slipped into a coma.

I sat with her in the dingy, colorless room day and night. To this day, I don't know why. Father continued to conduct business only visiting when it fit into his self-imposed schedule. Justin was still away at military school. There was no one else. Father did make sure that the house staff brought me decent food and a change of clothes every day.

Eight days and nights until she finally opened her eyes. I was relieved, though that was short lived. Her first words to me when she was able to focus her eyes were, "Why the fuck did you save me?"

After spending every one of the 12,384 minutes by her side, worrying, only half sleeping, this was the thanks I got? I rose from my chair, looked her dead in the eye and told her, in no uncertain terms, "Next time, stick your head in the oven!" turned, leaving the room and the hospital, never to return.

Mother didn't understand many things. The State had a funny law about people trying to commit suicide; they needed to be committed for observation. Her attempts to be transferred to a private facility were thwarted at every turn.

Tuesday morning I returned to classes at the school not of my choice. One of the students, a boy whom I'd never really noticed before, approached me on the quad. "Are you okay? I noticed you were gone all last week."

"Oh, I'm fine. The Queen was in a coma."

"Elizabeth? I didn't see anything about it in the papers."

"Not that queen, my mother, the self-coronated queen."

Confused, he just tilted his head as if to say 'whatever'. "If you need to, you can copy my notes."

Thus started my first rebellious act, well, not really my first, but certainly my most important. Cliff and I started meeting daily on the quad before classes, during our lunch break and after our last class. We talked about everything. He asked me out for a date on Friday and was disappointed when I told him I had other plans. When I explained that I was going down to Princeton to visit Sophia for the weekend he seemed relieved and asked me out for the next weekend.

When the Queen was released, two months later, she tried to impose her will on me once more but I wasn't having it. I would continue to date Cliff and in exchange I wouldn't contradict her when she told people that she had made an unexpected trip abroad for the nine weeks she was gone.

In my junior year I, on my eighteenth birthday, I got married. I did so more to get out of the house than out of love, although that did come. My parents stopped all support the day I married while Cliff's parents picked up my expenses. My only contact with the family was with Justin except for those "command performances" the Queen was famous for. Justin's graduation present was a shiny new Corvette convertible. For a 4.0 GPA I got a Timex and his 2.7 got him a Corvette.

Cliff and I graduated together in three years. I got a job and he went off to Officer's Candidate School and then to Viet Nam, never to return. I had to remain in the area until I was able to take control of the trust fund my grandfathers set up for me when I was born. I stayed longer because I loved my job and being in my own apartment made life enjoyable enough.

I suppose the knife the Queen delivered to my back, the one that made up my mind to leave, was at the baby shower/anniversary party she threw for Justin. I estimate 200 people attended the early June event. The presents the couple and future baby received were of the typical privileged variety (the silver kind and stock certificates), with the exception of the final one. When the bow was removed the box sides fell revealing a doll house. Upon closer inspection on the lawn was a full-sized keychain and deed. It wasn't a doll house at all but a miniature of the house Mother had bought for the happy couple.

Sophia noticed my reaction and followed me when I went inside to collect my purse. We left in my Mustang without calling attention to ourselves.

We talked almost the entire night. The following morning we loaded my suitcases in the trunk. After dropping her off at work I proceeded to the bank, making arrangements for my trust fund, then on to my job where I tendered my immediate resignation for personal reasons. I left town and stayed gone. I had no contact with anyone from the family and learned how to be the best 'me'. Without disapproving words and glances I was able to develop into the person I am today.

Sophia's husband, Grant, worked for the same bank Justin did. Grant was in investments and Justin was a VP. Grant understood the industry and knew that Justin got his position because of the deposits the Queen had made. Dad, or Mom, had literally bought Justin his job. Without a college degree, and an accompanying MBA, that was the only way Justin could have become management.

Sophia and I remained friends throughout the decades. She'd come out to visit with me and I'd fly in under the veil of secrecy to visit her.

Forty odd years after I left home I received a manila envelope from the family attorney in New York. Inside was a copy of my mother's Last Will and Testament and a Waiver of Probate. She'd died three months earlier. It came as no surprise that I was to receive nothing. She gave me nothing in life, why would I expect anything different from her in death? What I got was one more slap in the face. The date on the Will, the day she signed it, was my birthday! Coincidence? I think not.

I called Justin the moment I found out Mother was dead. I could never have imagined the reaction I received. I called to tell him how sorry I was for his loss knowing how devastated he must have been. What I got was, "I haven't got time for you. Gwen is out in the car." I couldn't believe my brother dismissed me so coldly.

Sitting at my desk dumb-founded I spent a few minutes composing myself before deciding to call to our father. At first he didn't believe it was me having forgotten the sound of my voice. After weeks of calls back and forth, Father invited me back into the family over my brother and sister-in-law's rather vocal objections.

Father flew out west for a week to visit with me and my family, meeting his son-in-law, granddaughter and great-grandchildren for the first time. A few months later we all flew east to visit with him. I was surprised when he told me Justin and Gwen gave him an ultimatum: "ditch the bitch or loose us as family".

Gwen had overplayed her hand. She thought she had more control over the situation than she did. Once it was out there, she couldn't back down. When Father told her she had no business telling him how he should treat his daughter, she couldn't cave. She repeated the lies of the past. Trying to ingratiate herself with Mother while at the same time trying to milk the cow for all she could, Gwen had told Mother that I used Justin's credit (saying I was his wife!) to buy a house that I defaulted on making him responsible for it. Mother came to their rescue and gave them $500,000 to pay off the non existent loan.

Gwen knew a good thing when she saw it. She married my brother and played my mother. She saw the distain Mother had for me and fueled the fires at every opportunity. Mother had an ally and the daughter she always wanted, someone who would bend to her will. Her entire estate was left in trust for Justin and Gwen upon my father's demise. I was specifically excluded. I received nothing from her in life and death proved no different.

When I had gone back to New York, Father asked me to help him go through the vault with him. I found the truth, or at least a portion of it. Papers I had never seen: my adoption papers. Burning with curiosity I was afraid they might incinerate from my touch.

The first thing I noticed was the name on the court papers. It was my first name but a different last name. Inside it gave my date of birth, my birth mother's name and my foster (adoptive) parent's names. Further into the document was a court date thirteen months after my birth where both the foster parents and my birth mother appeared before the judge to finalize the adoption. There was no information about my birth father.

I confronted my adoptive father with the information I found. He insisted I had never been lied to, that I always knew I was adopted. That much was true. He said they had told me hundreds of times, a gross exaggeration on his part, that he got the call shortly after 2am the morning of my birth. He went to the hospital while Mother stayed home with her Justin. I was in Dad's arms when I was just hours old.

It was time for him to tell me the whole story. It seems, at least according to him, that my mother, birth mother, was a widow. She had older children, in their late teens at the time she was pregnant with me. My birth father was not theirs. (Adoptive) Mother had been informed about this woman's situation and had gone to meet with her. Based on that meeting and the fact that my birth mother's teenaged children looked like the three year old son Mother had adopted, a bargain was struck. When I was born, I would be passed off.

Father would not put up with disloyalty. When Gwen and Justin put forth the ultimatum, Father withdrew all his support. The accounts that had been set up in Justin's bank were transferred to a more profitable venue thus costing Justin his high-paying, prestigious job. It was difficult for him to find work with no marketable skills. After several months he got a position as an assistant branch manager with a very local bank at a salary probably one tenth what he was used to.

Father died eight years after Mother. We were summoned to the reading of his will.
Julia, the little blonde receptionist had been through hundreds of Readings in her six years with the firm. She had the timing for her preparations down to a science. Gwen and the nine other members of her family caught her off guard, even before she had started the coffee. Julia saw no harm in allowing them to wait in Conference Room 4 until the other participants arrived.

Gwen and family had taken the 10:27 train into Manhattan after a strategy breakfast. It was agreed that arriving before the rest of the attendees would allow them to choose their seats - positions of power.

The cold front blowing in off the Atlantic combined with the Arctic front coming in from Canada brought dark clouds, colder temperatures and precipitation: a generally miserable day.

My grandchildren were apprehensive. They didn't want to get dressed up for a drive into the City for a meeting with family they had no desire to know. I understood all too well. I had no desire to be confined in a room with a brother I didn't know any more and a sister-in-law I didn't want to know.

Gilbert, my father's major domo, held a large umbrella over our heads as he guided us into the limousine. The sky was the color of wet flannel; damp and dank, just like our spirits. It was a slow drive in the noon time traffic with the slick roads and fender mishaps but we would arrive at Turner, Elliman and Stribling before the appointed time.

Upon entering the lobby I realized this was one of the buildings my father had owned. I'd been there several times as a child through couldn't remember why.

Every law office I had ever been in was paneled in rich woods or painted with warm colors. As the elevator doors opened we were assaulted. The walls were either Plexiglas or real glass, I couldn't tell which, and the abutments were brushed chrome. It was the coldest atmosphere I'd ever been in.

The law clerk who escorted us down the long hallway rivaled Trey, my husband, in size but walked slowly enough that the children didn't have to struggle to keep up. Opening the door he stepped inside taking a seat in the corner behind the door.

Backs to the outside windows sat Gwen, Justin and their brood (or was it a litter?). A chill not attributable to the climate controlled environment or the impending storm outside permeated the air of the conference room. The storm was on the far side of the table. The battle lines had been clearly drawn and were evident the moment my family and I entered the room.

My once handsome brother was now obese and pathetically balding. The Charles Tyrwhitt custom made white herring-bone shirt showed signs of wear and tear at the collar and cuffs and hadn't been introduced to an iron in forever.

Gwen had also packed on the weight, probably seventy-five pounds in the last thirty years. She still had a penchant for over-stretched, low-cut tops that accentuated her more than ample bust line which was no longer pert. Her frosted hair, beyond highlighted by several shades and lack of subtlety, was in a bouffant style that was passé thirty years ago and had never come back into fashion.

The eleven of them along the window were a formidable sight for the children. Bryan, my daughter, counted down five seats from the head of the table opposite her cousins. She placed Daniel between her and Trey and Sydney between Trey and me.

Justin and Gwen gasped when we entered. Neither could believe how I looked. It had nothing to do with the Armani suit I wore but rather my physical appearance. I was only three years younger than Justin but where he looked every one of his years - and then some - I didn't look a day over thirty-five. How was it possible?

During the reading I found that I had been lied to about my origins yet again. Father's Last Will and Testament contained the whole truth. Yes, Justin was adopted. Yes, I was adopted. Justin's parents were unknown. Mine, were not. I had already found the name of my birth mother from the adoption papers I found when the Queen died, but now I was faced with the fact that my birth father and my adoptive father were one in the same!. No wonder Gwen didn't have the power to make him turn his back on me.

An understanding that I never had appeared before me: The Queen had been faced every day with the fact that her husband had had an affair. It wasn't the first and surely wasn't the last, but I was a living reminder of his infidelity. How could she not resent me? It was easier to resent me, even hate me, than to leave the power and financial freedom of staying married to my father.

How many lives were ruined? Justin went from one controlling female (the Queen) to another, his wife. He was unable to make decisions for himself, lacked all confidence in himself and had nobody's respect. Father never knew true love, he couldn't have with all the affairs he'd had over the years. As rich and powerful as he was in business, he didn't have the balls to acknowledge me as his daughter.

Leaving New York was the smartest decision I had ever made. Making a life for myself, continuing my education, marrying for a second time, having a beautiful family, these were the things that were important. The past is now dead and buried and life goes on.