As close as I was to my son, I am aware of a presumptuousness in telling the story of another, even in the form of a memoir that is clearly from my perspective. In some ways, a mother knows her child better than others do, even better than the child knows himself. But only to a point. And I have to say he knew me too and could have told his own narrative about that.
Paul’s story didn’t end well but, God willing, it can triumph in its capacity to shine a light on all that he kept hidden. And for others suffering as he did, I hope it can lend some insights, promoting hope over despair.
Chapter 1
Pure Gold
Hope was painted yellow,
lighting a path and guiding us when we thought we were blind.
Compassion was painted blue,
the color of the sky, because once it’s within us, it goes on forever.
Last but not least is love, which was painted gold,
because there is no value greater than its gifts.
IT WAS OCTOBER 1982. The nurse dialed the number and handed me the receiver, attached by a long cord to the phone on the wall in the mostly barren recovery room.
“Mommie! I had a boy!” I exclaimed.
“You did not,” my mother replied, expressionless.
She was a gracious and genuinely sweet person whom we all called “Mommie”—which she emphatically spelled with an “ie” and not a “y”—but she could be so deadpan.
“I did! Really! I’m lying here in the recovery room; I’m LOOKING at him!”
“I know you are pulling my leg because you haven’t been in the hospital long enough to have had the baby,” she said with the utmost confidence.
I don’t remember exactly how our brief conversation ended, but I can tell you this: I made no headway. I do remember thinking to myself that my mother was right—I hadn’t been there “long enough” if you calculated averages, even if you cut a wide swath in doing so.
Paul was born within twenty minutes of my hospital arrival, surprising everyone, including my husband, Don, who barely made it in time for the delivery, and my doctor, who told me an hour earlier I had plenty of time. But I knew too that my mother found the “boy” part of my news as far-fetched as the twenty-minute labor and delivery. You see, I came from a family of three girls and, at the time of Paul’s birth, I had a daughter and my older sister, Jennie, was the mother of three little girls. Paul broke the mold.
When I was pregnant with our daughter Keely back in 1979, an era when the baby’s gender was unknown until birth, Don and I decided that if we had a son we would name him after my father. We also agreed we’d call him “Paulie,” my father’s nickname as a young child. On the day of Paul’s birth, I realized further merit: The name certainly wouldn’t hurt as my mother adjusted to this obvious curveball.
Weighing eight pounds even, Paulie was precious—fair skin and reddish hair—and healthy, as verified by looking at him, hearing his cry, and learning of his Apgar test scores. Furthermore, we now had the perfect family—a girl and a boy, spaced three years apart, just as Dr. Spock had championed.
*
BORN A FEW blocks from home at Anne Arundel Medical Center, Paul came into this world as a fifth generation Annapolitan and a member of an exceptionally close extended family. In fact, my sisters and my mother were my best friends.
My own childhood had been idyllic, and my family was a huge part of my identity, as well as a source of pride. The household of my youth included my mother and father—whose enduring romance was an inspiration to all—my two sisters, my mother’s father, and my father’s brother, all characters who, to put it mildly, kept life interesting. Love was unconditional. Mutual support was a given. And we shared countless good times.
My father’s family had moved to Annapolis when he was in the fourth grade, meaning he wasn’t—and never would be—an Annapolitan. This was enshrined in my mother’s book of gospel. Even though he attended St. Mary’s, where he also was a member of the parish and an altar boy, graduated from Annapolis High School and St. John’s College, and ultimately became a civilian English professor at the United States Naval Academy, Mommie said, “You and your ‘people’ have to be born in Annapolis for you to qualify for the distinction.” This was not debatable.
Mommie was born and grew up in the heart of Annapolis’ historic district. She was proud of the small town where her father was a prominent figure. The Alderman of Ward One for twenty-six years and the Fire Chief of Annapolis for nearly thirty, he was a respected voice within the city government.
As newlyweds my parents moved to Washington, D.C., where my father taught at George Washington University. After a year of living there, my mother missed her parents so much that she and my father moved back to Annapolis and into her parents’ home, where they remained, caring for her parents, for the rest of their lives. My father then commuted to GWU until my older sister was born, at which time he sought a position in Annapolis. While he was a superb teacher and undoubtedly found his niche within the world of English literature, his family life drove his place of employment, not the other way around.
My father left the house to meet his classes and promptly returned home to study and correct papers. Of my childhood friends, about half had working mothers. Mine did not work outside the home and in fact was the consummate homemaker. I recall being asked if my mother was home when my school day was over. “My mother and my father are home when I leave for school and when I return!” I said.
For both my parents, family was everything. My father was particularly close to his mother and sought her company frequently, prompted by enjoyment rather than obligation. He also was close to his siblings, deriving much pleasure from time spent with his two brothers. One of his brothers never had children and in many ways functioned as another parent to us, living and vacationing with our family when we kids were little and subsequently assuming parental roles for many years after our father’s untimely death.
While my parents were fun lovers, open minded, and encouraged acceptance of people who were different from us, flexible thinking did not apply when it came to their expectations for our education. In truth, I’d say they were downright rigid. The bar was set high. And being good kids, we fell in line, racking up advanced degrees and maintaining a strong work ethic along with a commitment to devote ourselves to a noble cause.
*
AMONG MY TWO sisters and me, we had eight children within a ten-year period. In addition to Jennie’s three and my two, my younger sister, Erin, had three children. “The cousins,” as we called them, grew up within blocks of one another. Family gatherings for every holiday and birthday, local events, as well as Friday pizza nights, brought the whole clan together with great frequency, most often in one of our homes. Bound by blood, proximity, and friendship, “the cousins” also shared the same middle name—Dunleavy. As young girls, my sisters and I had decided on this strategy to keep our name alive.
Our mother remarried when Keely was five and Paul was two. She was lucky. Not only had she and my stepfather grown up together, but also there were intersections in their adult lives, stemming for the most part from his career as a civilian French professor at the Naval Academy. I was nothing but happy for my mother, but I didn’t even stop to think about how much this man would enrich my life. I think I can safely speak for my sisters in saying they felt the same. And beyond our gaining a stepfather, our children gained a grandfather who loved them as his own and, along with our mother, was a central figure in their formative years. For Keely and Paul, he was the only grandfather they ever knew.
Just a few months after my mother and stepfather married, Don and I separated. In the end, it was my idea that we do so, but I didn’t feel there were other options available to me. While I had gone into the marriage as madly in love as I’d ever been before, and quite frankly