Carole Page - In Search Of Her Own

That attitude carried over into the rest of my life. I grew up feeling that my own needs and desires were somehow shameful and suspect, and that it was in bad taste, if not actually sinful, to let others know what I wanted The proper thing was to pretend I had no needs or yearnings—better to acquiesce to the wishes of others and make them happy. So I grew up determined to please my parents by behaving like their perfect little girl

I was careful never to vent my emotions around them—anger, fear, frustration, disappointment or sadness; rather, I always wore a smile and pretended everything was wonderful, so that my father would give me his smile of approval and praise me for being his “goodas-gold little girl.”

My mother, too, seemed to love me most when I was on my best behavior, so I saved my tears and anger for moments when I was alone in my room, where I could sob into my pillow or pound my mattress with my fists when I was angry.

I realized as an adult that my parents had taught me, perhaps inadvertently, never to be candid with another human being, nor to express my own wishes and desires, but rather to bow to the opinions of others and deny in a sense my own personhood, my own right of expression, even my own right to make mistakes.

But when I turned eighteen, things changed. I was seized by the same sense of daring and rebellion that was typical of others my age. I found myself wanting to strike out against the limits imposed on me, to stretch myself, to do something bold and excessive, perhaps to begin walking down an unknown road and never turn back I was obsessed by a restless yearning for something that had no name, no substance, no form. I dreamed of recklessly toppling my sane, sensible world

It was during this period of inner conflict that I met Rick Lancer. He was playing summer stock at a little theater near the university. A classmate introduced us. I loved Rick immediately. He flattered me, courted me and carried me away with his dreams and schemes, only to eventually compromise me and cast me aside.

Rick was an actor with an actor’s flair and sense of the dramatic. He prodded me out of my shyness, chided me for my rigidity of spirit and taught me to “loosen up.” He promised me the world, the moon and the stars—or at least a wedding and a honeymoon, as soon as he saved up the money from his next gig He gave me an inexpensive ring with diamonds no more real than his love for me. I still recall his words: “We’ll announce our engagement when I get the lead in summer stock. Doll, we’re as good as husband and wife. Don’t let some silly little paper keep us apart. Let me love you the way a husband should “

I never actually said yes to Rick, but neither did I quite say no. I felt emotionally overpowered by him, mesmerized by his flamboyance and style And, of course, I had been brought up to please without protest those I loved. and so I let Rick Lancer take what he wanted.

By the time I realized I was pregnant, Rick had already journeyed to New York with a local acting troupe My letter telling him about the baby was returned marked Address Unknown.

My pregnancy devastated my parents and put an irreparable chink in their carefully laid plans for my life They told me I had betrayed the long years of nurturing and intense devotion they had invested in me My father considered my pregnancy an act of rebellion against him. “After all I’ve done for you, to think you could do this to me — heap shame on the family name!” But he had a remedy for every situation, even the tragedy of an unwanted pregnancy.

“You made a mistake, but we’ll take care of it,” he told me, his voice edged with contempt. “It’s all arranged. Your mother will go with you. No one will ever need to know Your life will be back on track before you know it.”

I burst into tears and for the first time in my life stood up to my father “No, no, no! You can’t make me kill my baby! It’s mine and you can’t have it!”

When I refused the abortion, my parents sent me to a private university in another state where no one knew me. I completed my sophomore year and earned a straight-A average, but I was going through the motions, dazed and numb. I was painfully alone, except for my baby growing inside me—my wee, constant, unseen companion. At night I would lie in bed and talk to my child, pouring out my hopes and dreams for the two of us. I would feel him kicking, a foot here, an elbow there. We played a little game: I’d press the spots where he kicked and he’d nudge me back. Kick and nudge, kick and nudge. I vowed I’d let him grow up to be his own person, but even as I made the promise, I knew I could never keep it…because I couldn’t keep him.

My parents made it clear I couldn’t come home with a baby, and when I threatened to go elsewhere, my mother told me the awful news My father was seriously ill and needed me at home “He asks for you constantly, dear. You’re the only one who can comfort him.” Two weeks later I delivered my baby—a pink, thrashing, bawling seven-pound boy I saw only briefly as he was taken from my body and placed in a bassinet I wanted my son more than I had ever wanted anything in my life, but in my mind all I could hear was my father’s voice denouncing me: “You’ve sinned You don’t deserve to keep your child!”

So I signed the papers for his adoption, convinced my life was over at the tender age of twenty. I never anticipated the emotional upheaval I would experience by giving up my child. After he was taken away, I felt a physical ache for him—my arms ached to hold him, my breasts ached to nurse him. It was as if my very heart had been torn from my chest

Three days later I returned home, desolate, my arms empty, to offer my ailing father what little comfort I could muster. But without a word or a glance he’d delivered his ultimate rebuke. He’d died of a massive heart attack hours before I arrived home, and somehow I knew it was my fault; my weakness and selfishness were to blame.

As I settled in at home and began my junior year at the local university, my father’s death struck me with its staggering reality. His desk was cleared, his chair empty, his possessions gone The walls were silent, the rooms enormous without his voice, his presence. Worst of all was the growing conviction that I had caused his death. My shame had killed him

“No,” Victoria said aloud with a decisiveness that startled her She dropped her pen on the desk and slammed her journal shut. She was trembling, the memories assailing her as if it had all happened yesterday “No, it wasn’t my fault’ Dear God, why can’t I put it behind me?”

She ran to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face and blotted the wetness with a towel. She stared soberly at her reflection, a dark accusation clouding her eyes. “I didn’t kill Father,” she told herself severely “God has forgiven me The guilt is gone.if only I can someday forgive myself.

“I’ve got to get out of here. Maybe some fresh air will clear the cobwebs of memory from my head.”

Victoria went to her closet and took out a suit, a double-breasted blazer and pleated trousers in powder pink crepe wool. She dressed quickly and left her condominium.

Her car was still in the shop, but the local mall was within walking distance, and she could use the exercise. She would walk to Elaine’s Fashion Boutique, a chic little women’s shop she frequented on occasion; she liked their styles, and their prices weren’t exorbitant. Yes, she would go there and buy herself something frivolous. No, not frivolous The annual faculty tea for graduating seniors was scheduled for next weekend and she needed something new to wear—perhaps a pretty pastel dress, something delicate and springlike.