The Matriarch Matrix

Chapter 1-2

“Beverly, I cannot thank you enough for advocating that my grandfather not be given antipsychotics. That would be the end of him, at least his spirit. He really wants to be cognizant in his last days.”

“Peter, I’ll be candid. My colleagues and the nurses are afraid of his restless nights, his dreams, and how unsettled he is every morning. Dr. Elfante and I had a long discussion about the situation, and I convinced him, after much personal observation, that your grandfather is not endangering himself or other patients. He’s not violent or clinically deranged. He’s just very anxious about trying to grasp his dreams.”

Beverly shifts in her chair, leans on her left elbow with her fingers to her lips. “That said, he seems to have confided in me more than he does in Dr. Elfante. These dreams seem to be an issue that he’s been grappling with ever since early childhood. Smoking was one of the ways he had been coping with this disorder.”

Beverly pauses, coyly smiles, and adds, “He’s been very candid about how your grandmother had helped him cope. As he felt more comfortable talking with me, he described her administration of a special palliative care. He confessed that prolonged passionate interactions with his wife helped him more than the smoking. At first I dismissed his comments as reflective of male wish fulfillment typical in men of his generation.”

A little flushed, Peter purses his lips, then asks, “How much has my grandfather talked about his dreams and what he’s trying to solve?”

“Your grandfather’s dreams are suggestive of a prior traumatic event, but his life history doesn’t suggest he has directly experienced or witnessed such an event. His condition could perhaps be the subject of another paper. Carl Jung would have suggested that your grandfather’s dreams are a sign of great personal transformation trying to emerge—his search for a greater context, one with a greater sense of purpose and destiny.”

“Bev, I’m not making the link between what you’re saying and my grandfather’s affliction.”

“The collective unconscious is part of our mind that is shared with other humans, common to all humankind, and stems from latent memories from our ancestral past. Perhaps in your grandfather’s case, his dreams are trying to bring out some ancestral traumatic event.”

With a smile she adds, “Freud, on the other hand, would call his dreams ‘wish fulfillment.’ There is a f*******n or repressed wish, which may be a result of guilt or taboos imposed by society or family. The dream is the way to transform that wish in a nonthreatening way. It’s an attempt to resolve the repressed conflict.”

Peter shifts in his chair as he reacts to the mention of conflict. He debates discussing the dream from last night that he can’t seem to remember.

Peter is saved by the intercom buzzing. It’s Jenny, who says, “Dr. Fontaine, it’s Mrs. Fitzgerald again. She’s having a fit and the staff nurse is requesting that you come as soon as you can.”

Beverly stands up to get her white coat from the door, pauses, and turns back to Peter. “I’ll catch up with you in your grandfather’s ward. We have to talk about the book that I’ll need your editorial help with,” she says before running down the hallway.

Walking down to his grandfather’s unit, Peter reflects upon Beverly’s propositions. Maybe his grandfather will have further wisdom on the subject, he muses as he enters his pappy’s room. A single room, as the restlessness of his dreams has precluded his peaceful cohabitation with another elderly patient. His grandfather is slightly elevated in bed, with an oxygen mask over a nasal cannula, indicating he is under duress.

“Pappy, how are you today? Needing a little more oxygen this morning?”

Taking off his mask, Pappy, a bit short of breath, says, “Peter. My boy. A little late today, aren’t we?”

“I was talking with Dr. Fontaine about a new project she’s working on.”

“Oh, the good doctor. Why can’t I have her as my physician? She’d be so much better than that Dr. Elephant. She’s so much more compassionate and understanding.”

“So I gather, Pappy. You two have been spending some quality time together.”

“I was simply trying to get her to understand how best to provide me comfort.”

“So I’ve heard, Pappy. How was your night? Anything clearer?”

“The same. What I would give for a peaceful night. Peace. Even the partial peace your grandmother provided. It isn’t so much to ask,” Pappy groans. “As always, I awake knowing I dreamt something very important, but I cannot piece it together. Ninety-four years of this. Ninety-two, if you don’t count the years I couldn’t speak. And what about you? Can you remember anything?”

Scratching his head, Peter stares out the window. “The same agony of not being able to put my finger on that important something.” He turns and shivers. “A darkness. An emptiness. A void. That is, except for a gun.”

Pappy lurches up, very focused. “Peter, my boy, this is very important. Tell me more.”

Peter moves closer to Pappy and helps him lean back to rest. “You know how it is. Everything is so fuzzy. I’ve never remembered anything from these nightly torments. But strangely, the past two mornings it’s different. Maybe a g*n, and a woman. Dark hair?”

“Yes. Yes! g*n and dark hair, Peter,” Pappy gasps. He puts the oxygen mask back on. “I’ve waited. Thirty years. For you and me. To have the same dream. And you needed to save her.”

Shaking his head, Peter stares down at his pappy’s aged hands holding his mask on. “I’m afraid I can’t save anyone. Even in my dreams.”

“Everything has changed now that I know you and I have dreamed the same images,” exclaims Pappy.

Peter pauses, processing that revelation. “Pappy, I was just down the hallway with Dr. Fontaine, discussing the psychology of dreams. But she explained things in such a simple way that I now understand how these theories might relate to our disorder. She says ours are anxiety dreams. That our minds are acting out some repression. Jung says it’s a sign that we’re trying to transform. We’re driven by something repressed that happened to our prehistoric ancestors.”

Peter stares at his grandfather. “What repressed conflict are we seeking to resolve? What transformation are we seeking?”

Pappy takes Peter’s hand. “Peter, all we have is our family tradition to guide us. Please, repeat it for me. That is the so-called repressed conflict of Dr. Fontaine.”

Peter gulps. Looking serious, he says, “The long-tailed star came from the sky, and our lands became ice, and winter became forever. Only the giants of the reindeer dominate. The bright star that never sets will be your guide. Watch for the long-tailed star.”

“Good, my boy. The second part, now.”

“And be wary of the giants, the Reindeer People, for when they arrive, you must flee and seek the mountains.”

Pappy, assuming the patriarchal appearance that has commanded Peter’s life, says, “The third part.”

Nervous, Peter continues, “Follow the black object, for this will guide you as you search for your new life.”

With deepening aggravation, Pappy gasps and admonishes Peter. “Boy, you must—you must not change anything. We have recited this from the beginning of our line. As far back as my great-grandfather, and he said as far back as his great-grandfather, we have passed down these oral traditions. We must preserve them.” Pappy gasps again, and Peter helps put the mask on him.

From under the mask, Pappy mutters in slow, broken phrases, “Follow the vision. And words. Of the black object. For this will guide you. As you seek your new land.” He stops and waits for the oxygen to rebuild in his blood, then nods for Peter to continue.

Peter mentally rehearses and finally recites, “Fourth part: Man and woman. Only as two together can you find peace. The object can save. You might see in sleep, might hear.”

Pappy rests his head back and gasps. After several tense minutes, he removes the mask. “Peter, forgive an old man if he repeats himself every time you visit. But I find that if I don’t keep repeating myself, at my age I will begin to forget. And my grandfather pounded into my head that we should never forget.

“He made me promise to find the meaning of this object, as I have made you and your father promise. He said what has happened in our past will guide us in what will happen to us now.” He pauses to breathe. “And, my boy, you have been faithful to this quest.

“When I was a boy, we had only books to help us solve the mystery of this object,” laments Pappy. “But that little Austrian burned the ones my father and I needed to find to continue our research, our study. It was my Austria too, and yet he burnt our books. How were we to find this object? What did we have to compromise for this quest? What line did my father cross to save us all?”

A very dark pause passes between them as the aged man runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth. “His death would be in vain if we could not make progress in finding the object. Our family name would be exonerated if you could find it, Peter.”

Pappy pauses again, in deep reflection, with a look of regret mired in pain. “After the war, I met your mother’s uncle, James, who was just like me. He suffered the dreams. The dreams that haunted both his parents’ lineages as they did mine. And we searched together. But postwar Europe was a mess, Peter.”

He stares out into the hall and spots Dr. Fontaine looking busy across the way with some charts. “And then your grandmother found me. She was a nurse. Part of an American relief program. She recognized the dreams. Her grandfather had them. And she knew what she needed to do to help me through the nights, through the next morning.”

Pappy pauses. “Were you able to make any progress in your search last week, my boy?”

Peter grimaces. “I thought I had a lead, like so many I’ve had over the years. The professor I studied under at Santa Cruz, she has so many useful resources and contacts. When you’re an editor, it’s amazing the doors that open to those who want your services. Her latest contact had traced a possible pre-Neolithic site that might tell of where the object may lie—Tell Abu Hureyra, fifty miles east of Aleppo. The Gollinger luck strikes again. The site is thirty feet under Lake Assad. As if I could assemble an underwater excavation team. Besides, given what’s happened today, with the Arabic Confederation staging an impending attack on Turkey from that area, I don’t think I’m going to get anyone over there to help with recovering this source.”

“Peter, keep trying. You are now our ancestors’ only hope. I wish I could fund you. I spent our entire family fortune chasing the object. But I have taken both families’ words and traditions and passed them to you. You have a more complete set than any of us ever had,” Pappy concludes, taking Peter’s hand again.

“I thought your father was going to solve the mystery. I was so proud of him when he was accepted into the archeology program at Cambridge. When he came back, I introduced him to your mother. I thought she knew what your father needed, just like your grandmother did.”

Pappy pauses, taking a break for oxygen. “But she couldn’t handle it anymore. Once you and your sister were in school, she told your father that he had a choice—her or the object. Your father stopped searching, stopped teaching you the traditions. It didn’t make his pains any better. It just got worse. I didn’t tell him he failed. I told him I failed him. And you.”