this was my original title
Liz and Catherine ~ When I finished writing the first half of this book, I sent copies to my family and had a few friends read it. They all liked it enough that I wondered if I actually had a “book,” so I ran it by Andy at my bookstore and he referred me to a retired New York editor living in Marin.
She said, “Your writing is good. You portray characters well, you are quite funny, you have a good story, but your book is a mess. Who is the protagonist, you or your mother? Who is your audience? Whose story are you telling? You have five books in here with way too much stuff and it’s confusing and rambling.”
Liz and Tony
I didn’t know how to respond to any of that. I’m a one-trick pony and I only intended to write one book, so I stuck everything in there. I also write like my mind works, which is often confusing and rambling. I took it home, eliminated all the genealogy and historical stories (I later put a condensed version back in), and tried to keep the storyline in my immediate family. Then I got the new version out. It passed the family test. I made sure Liz (Betty) was okay with the story I included about what happened to her in Sonora. She was. Until her husband read it. When he got to the part about her kidnapping and rape he threw it down and stomped out of the room. “I don’t want to read this crap.”
She phoned me. “Take that scene out of the book.”
“Why?”
“Doesn’t matter why. I want it out.”
“Liz, everyone’s already read it. Some of the book doesn’t make sense without it. It says a lot about Daddy, and about who you were and who you are today. It’s like you’re trying to hide a family secret that everyone already knows about. I don’t get it.”
“You promised me that if I changed my mind, you’d take it out. Take it out!”
“Give me one good reason.” I didn’t find out about her husband’s response until some time later, so I didn’t get that’s why she wanted it out.
“I don’t want my grandchildren to read it.”
“You’re grandkids are not going to read this. They’re kids. And when and if they do, they’ll be adults. Don’t you think they’ll have some compassion and a better understanding of the woman they love?”
“Take it out. You promised,” she snapped, digging in her heels.
I must have lied. I didn’t want to delete that part of the story, and, I didn’t want to betray my sister. It was a no-win. If I left it in she’d never speak to me again, which I wasn’t about to let happen. If I omitted it, there’d be a pertinent, important chunk missing, and thus giving the event even more energy. Either way left a bad taste in my mouth, not to mention my heart. I was looking for a healing here, not a rending.
We didn’t talk about it again. I hadn’t decided what I was going to do. I worked on other sections, editing, adding small stories, working on my writing. Then it reared its ugly head again.
Liz and Tony
Liz was diagnosed with lung cancer and she and Tony were at my house with some of her family. They were staying with me for a few days since I live an hour and a half from the clinic where she went for testing in Sacramento. It didn’t look good for her.
We were in my back yard eating snacks and drinking iced tea: Liz and Tony, two of their adult children, and Mary Tupa, an old family friend from Vista who now lived in Petaluma, sat circled around my white patio table. I went inside to answer the phone, and it was Anne, a friend in my writing class who’d spent time helping me edit and rework pieces of the book.
She got excited when she heard who was here. “I’m at my mom’s around the corner and I’d love to meet your sister. I’ve read about her so much I feel like I know her. Can I come by real quick?”
I came back and sat at the table. “That was Anne from my writing group and she’s stopping by for a minute to say hi.”
“Is that the goddam little bitch who told you not to take that part about me out of the book?” Liz snapped.
“Uh, yeah, that would be her.”
What had been a sunny afternoon turned quite dark. I had a feeling that Anne stopping by was going to be a mistake. Then my sister, sitting across from me, directs every bit of venom she has in her at me. Leaning in she points her finger in a threat and says in dead seriousness, “If you don’t take that story out of the book I’ll put a hex on you!”
You’ve had those moments where time condenses and moves one freeze-frame at a time r e a l l y s l o w. This was one of those moments. I’d witnessed Liz in action around mother, seen her spit her anger at Claudia, her husband and kids, along with a long list of others, but I’d never, not once in my life, ever, had her direct it at me. Now it was my turn.
Everything and everyone stopped. I live in a quiet neighborhood and it got quieter. There was not a sound. No breeze, no birds chirping, no insects buzzing. I slowly looked at my watch and remember thinking: I know you are dying. I know you know a lot about everything. I also know you don’t know squat about voodoo, and by my clock you don’t have enough time to study up on it, so I’m probably pretty safe here.
Anne walked in and came though my back door before I had time to stop her. Liz went ballistic. My sister has a mouth that would put someone afflicted with a severe case of Tourette’s to shame. I levitated out of my chair to stand in front of Anne to protect her from the barrage. She is small enough that with me standing on the step below her she was completely hidden from view. I ushered her back into the house, apologized, and led her by the elbow to the front door. She understood, and didn’t take it personally.
Now I was pissed. I marched back outside. The party had broken up, everyone edging past me to get on safer ground. I stopped Liz before she could make it up the stairs.
“How dare you,” I seethed. “Just because you’re dying doesn’t give you the right to talk to another human being that way. Who do you think you are?” Liz folded. She looked at me and pleaded, “Please, will you just take it out of the book?”
We both took a breath. I softly rested my hand on her forearm. “I can’t promise that. But here’s what I will promise. I’ll put the book away. I may never do anything with it. But if and when I do, I’ll make the decision then to leave it in or take it out. So rest easy that it’s not going anywhere for a long time. And listen, I love you, I want to honor your wish, and I also want to honor our family story.
So I put the book away, figuring I’d wait for a few people to die. This memoir had reunited my family, and now it was blowing it apart. Liz was mad at me. Tony was mad at me. Two of their kids were mad at me. Then my ex-husband got his nose into it and he started jabbing at me, as if I cared.
My son Matt later asked, “Are you going to write about the family as it is today?”
I asked, “Why?”
He said, “Because if you do, EVERYONE will be mad at you.”
© 2018. Catherine Sevenau.
All rights reserved.
Gerry Wisdom says
Dear Cathy, What do I call you? Great friend of our daughter? But, you are more than that! What fun we had at Brooke’s and Matt’s wedding, Matt was there for us when Jeff had his terrible accident – Rebecca brought your sons to our family reunion, and on and on. I used to think NOBODY else’s family had strange relatives except ours – not so. When you think about it, every single person in our family has a story to tell that has already been written. They just need to find their own voice to tell it. So many of your stories resonated with me, and many times I was glad I had been spared some of them. Am I the only one who never had a “funny uncle”? Or an abusive father or distant mother, mean brothers or sisters? How lucky I was. I also call myself lucky to have you and yours as friends. Gerry Wisdom
Catherine Sevenau says
If Rebecca is my wife-in-law, I’m you other daughter-in-law. Thank you for always making me feel a part of the family.
Barbara Jacobsen says
There are lots of skeletons rattling around in our closets too….and since I probably won’t get around to writing our family history, I can reveal them symbolically through my collages and paintings. I think some of them are dying to get out and help us on our journeys (bad pun!) so we don’t keep repeating their old patterns.
Catherine Sevenau says
I suspect the ancestors also had a hand in helping me write the book. Bless them all.
susan Dalberg says
The really odd thing about all that is that you actually cleaned it up anyhow, Catherine. Not just about her, but exposing your family. Probably only 70% of what you felt important was in here, right? My sister also didn’t want “truth total” in my writing. I could put some stuff but other stuff, which I thought was less damning, she didn’t want in there. She is gone, so if I decide to clean it up and publish, like you, time will have solved the problem. Proud that you stood up for yourself and your friend, honey.
Catherine Sevenau says
I included all the stories told me, as they were told to me. Liz’s story I did leave in, with the only thing left out were the last names of the four boys who kidnapped her. I have the newspaper articles and their prison records where I could have included more detail, but the story was not about them. I know two of them are dead. One is still living and a registered sex offender in the same area; he continued on his path. The fourth, I don’t know about. It was a risk to stand against Liz that day in my back yard. I could have lost our connection forever. As it was, thankfully, it worked out. The other thing I left out of the story was the amount of swearing that went on, which I omitted for my brother’s sake and common courtesy, of which he has more of than I do.
P.S. One cousin had a fit that her name was in one of the stories so at her request I took her name out and where she lived at the time.
Sheri Woods says
Thank you for your honesty and wit. It has been a journey for you but for all of us readers as well. I have tried to share with my own family members but some don’t want to venture into the world of what is often unspoken. It’s important to find the truth but safeguard those still living who would ultimately be hurt. This is a touching and telling chapter into just those very unmentionables and how the actions we take have ramifications. I think the truth always wins out.
Catherine Sevenau says
It was easier for me to write my siblings stories as they told them to me and knew I was going to include them. I’d not known any of our past until I was writing it, as I was much younger. Larry did not know much of it because he was already gone and out of the house. Carleen didn’t want to talk about it and added little of what went on, though she has loved reading it; she is more private than the rest of us. Larry is also, but I had his diary, which provided me with a timeline. He’d always say “that never happened” and I’d say, “Did so, it’s in your diary.” Betty and Claudia are a couple of blabbermouths and gave me a greatest amount of material. Had I written this whole book from my perspective I doubt I could have gotten it past all of them. My parents were long gone so did not have a vote, and doubt that I could have gotten much information out of my dad anyway. Some cousins are interested, some not so much. My sons, not at all. I wrote it for my siblings so that’s all that mattered to me. I had no idea that someday I’d have a wider audience. Thank you for your kind comments. I’m glad the story has made a difference.
Maggie says
I just love your writing. Though I know editors and writing advisors can be very helpful and precise in the areas that are their skillsets, I find the advice wanders over into places where the word/person/situation I wrote is exactly what I wanted and no- you can’t take it out or change it!!! The family member issues are different. For most of us, we love our family “pieces” and never intend to hurt them, but it sounds like what happened to her, HAPPENED TO HER. She didn’t encourage it or bring it to her life. To believe rape is a cause for guilt or shame in the victim is a very old fashioned but still often present concept. It was good of you to ask her opinion, perhaps it just needs a bit of time. I hope so. I can hear your concern. Keep writing please.
Catherine Sevenau says
I waited five years after my sister’s death to publish. She died in October of 2004. Enough time had passed. I also don’t believe she ever felt it was her fault. The shame came from my father denying it had ever happened, thus making my sister out to be a liar.