The Secret of Secrets

Book 10

the tenth one

(untitled)

a confessional novel of distance & intimacy from the 21st Century

by

T. Van Santana

Today’s the today. We’re going to see Baby Margeaux. I’m excited but nervous too. Want everything to be all right.

It’s cold in the study. I think about how Phil Dick wrote about writing in a shack out behind his house, his wife having exiled him, and it’d be so cold that the typewriter ink would freeze. My situation is not like that at all. I’m snug and warm in the heart of the house. But it’s still cold in here.

I look at the book over there. One of ‘em. It’s a stack of paper. In 2016 we’re still printing things. I really need to print them all out, read through them. But I can’t. Don’t have the patience for it—the printing or the reading. The people who read me would probably have a shitfit if they knew I really don’t care for reading. I mean, it’s fine. I don’t hate it. But I much prefer other mediums. But I don’t like writing for other mediums. It’s like a club mentality. If you write for us, you gotta be into the shit we’re into, which is this shit that you do. Johnny Depp doesn’t watch movies, by the way.

Aerosmith kinda sucks. But I still connect with this song. It’s here and so am I. It takes me back to when I first heard it. Probably high school. Fucking high school. No one gets that about my books. They’re all about what I’ve been through. Some of it’s exceptional and some weird shit for sure. Like demons and things. Or people who believed in them, anyway. Maybe scarier. But that’s all extraneous, huh? My life doesn’t count for much. Don’t bore me with the deets of your fuckin’ life, Van Santana. I want some fucking story here, yeah. And with some recognizable characters, fuckin’ dig? I’d love to give ‘em a taste of the hissing blade, see what they think of that.

The hissing blade that was my dad’s, Dad who just came home today. Dad who’s on the mend. I hope. Jesus, I don’t know if I’ll ever have the kind of relationship with him that I want. And I see it reflected with my son. I look at Mason and think about all the things that I hope we can do together, the person I can be in his life. But it’s not easy. You can’t be friends. Not right away, anyway. You’ve got to be a guide. And sometimes a guide has to tell you not to go that way and to get your ass up and move.

Knock at the door.

Sigh. “Yeah?”

“T?” That’s Lila. Or you know, I call her that to protect her identity. I used her real name for a while, but she asked me to change it. It’s better this way anyhow. Not a one to one copy.

“Yeah?”

Lila pokes her head in, smartphone in hand. “It’s your mom.”

“Okay …”

“She’s got news about your dad.”

Right. I texted her a few minutes ago.

I give Lila a wave, and she comes on in, hands me the phone.

“Hello?” ‘Cause it’s my mom, and she taught me to answer the phone that way.

“Hey,” Mom said.

“Hey.”

Lila leaves, smiling as she goes.

I give her a little wave, like thanks.

“Okay, so we’re home,” she said.

I know that. They sent me a picture last night. Blurry-ass pic, but still. Got the idea.

“It was something of a harrowing ordeal,” she said. “They sat him down and read everything that he’d been through to him. Every pill they gave him, every step he took. I was, like, Jesus Christ! I know they have to do this, but c’mon! It took an hour.”

“Uh huh. Did they give you a copy of it?”

“Yeah.”

“I may be interested in that.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll keep it for you.”

“Thanks.”

“And then it took ‘em an hour to get everything together. They had to weigh him and do all this other stuff. And he was antsy and wanting to leave …”

“I’m sure he was. Been in there three weeks.”

“Yeah, so that was fun. Then there was the whole parking situation. Abi and I had to dig out a spot and this young guy kept putting a folding chair in the only parking spot, you know, the one we dug, so that no one would take it. And I thought, you go out there and dig your own spot! I just dug out mine!”

“Uh huh.”

“So anyway. They told us he can go to the a local urologist sometime by Friday. They say his kidney functioning is improving but they don’t want it overfunctioning.”

My family has issues with overfunctioning. Just fyi.

“And your dad wants to go as soon as possible, so we’re going today. Around two.”

“Okay,” I said. “Well let me know how it goes.”

“Okay.”

“You may or may not know this already, Mom, but we’re going to the doc today to see Baby Margeaux. You know, the ultrasound.”

“Oh! No, I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure everything is fine—we’re going on the idea that everything’s fine—but could you say a little prayer that everything’s fine?” Probably my OCD, but you know. Just to be safe.

“Oh yeah, of course, I will. I’ll pray that you guys get many happy surprises.”

Neither Lila nor myself really liked surprises. Trouble with growing up in turbulent homes full of blame and drama and overfunctioning.

But I don’t say any of that. I say, “Okay, thanks.”

“What time is that?”

“The ultrasound is at twelve thirty. Doc is about one twenty, I think.”

“Okay, so we’ll all be gettin’ home about the same time, then.”

“Well normally, yeah, but I’ve had to move folks around because of the snow. So I’ll be goin’ to work after.”

“Oh, okay.”

“So it’ll be a normal workday for me. I’ll be home around eight. But Lila can give you updates.” Shit, I typed her real name. Had to go back and change it. Not to worry. All this will get revised and changed. People never like the way I do it the first time. There’s something inherent in the mind of readers and writers to hate first drafts. I submit that you could places various drafts, unlabeled, and ask people to identify first drafts from subsequent ones and you’d get a random return. But no one is interested in such a study or its results or what those results could mean. People want more of the same, please.

“Oh and before I forget,” she said, “we got the results back on the psych consult.”

“Mmm hmm,” I said.

“You were right.” I already knew I was. “They said that the mood swings were brought on by isolation and the stress of what he’d been through.”

“And the delirium?”

“Like you thought. Substance induced from the pain meds.”

“And the delirium has passed now?”

“Yeah.”

As I knew it would. I mean, people act like I haven’t been to school for this for fucking years, that I haven’t been doing this work for a living for a decade.

“Okay,” I said, “well thanks for letting me know.” And now you know too. One of my secrets. One of my biggest secrets.

I looked in the mirror at my face. Reminded of my other big secret. I couldn’t hold my eyeline for long. Had to look away. That one has too much to it to bear right now. And it’s not a secret, really. It’s just confusing. For me, and so probably for everyone who would know it.

“I appreciate it, Mom,” I said. “Tell Dad I love him.”

“Will do. Talk to you later.”

“Bye.”

“Bye bye.”

I didn’t keep it secret to be devious. I did it for good reasons. Being professional. “Protecting the public trust.” Avoiding confusion. My own psychological need for privacy and room for creative self-expression.

Early on, I had fears about people projecting themselves into my work. Reading “truth” into the fiction. I mean, fiction works off that function to some extent. But that fear’s faded over time. Now it’s just scary that people can see me, like the way I see them.