Dear Isabel,
I write to you with the strongest of urges. I write of substance, and of despair. I write to teach and learn, purge and fill. I write to speak, and I write to listen. I write to tell the fucking truth, Iz.
To that end . . .
I was six when Aunt Isabel hung herself in our basement.
She was visiting from Boston at the time. I remember, the day before she killed herself, she sat in our living room and suggested I write a letter to her when she got back to Boston. But I was as impulsive back then as I am now. I decided I couldn’t wait that long. So the next day, I sat in my room and wrote a letter about nothing . . . just a letter. And then I went to find her. I searched high and low, every room of our house. Finally, and as a last resort, I tried the door to our basement. It was one of those ancient, heavy doors that creaked when you opened it. So you can imagine, as a young child, how this frightened me. Also, it had a big brass lock on it, but for as long as anyone could remember the lock had been broken. (I’ve often wondered how differently my life would have turned out had that lock been fixed, or had I been too scared to go down there. But it was broken, and I was brave, and ’twas always thus.) I made my way down the dark stairs, calling out for Aunt Isabel the whole way. Needless to say, she didn’t answer.
Nor would she ever again.
I found her hanging there, her feet dangling inches from the floor—inches from life. Later on, I would piece things together: Aunt Isabel was sick in the head; she came off her meds; at her doctor’s behest, she went to stay with family; she wrote letters (of serious substance and despair, I would imagine) to her doctor; and, ultimately, she decided her life wasn’t worth a damn.
There can be no question that our father blames himself, both for the suicide of his sister, as well as the ensuing shock brought upon his daughter (me, not you). There can be no question that this has fed his suspicions as to my own illness, that he thinks he could have done more to save Aunt Isabel, that maybe he could have done more to save me from finding Aunt Isabel. That maybe he can do more now to keep me from becoming Aunt Isabel. But I’m not her, and I never have been. One day, I hope he sees this truth.
So. The elephant in the room. They’re naming you after her. Yeah. Ha. Ha. Ha. Hilarious, right? Or, if not funny, counterintuitive. I mean, Isabel is a great name, don’t get me wrong. But blimey, that’s a heavy-handed welcome to a world full of weak hands.
So why’d they do it? Why name you after the most tragic figure in our family? I’ll tell you, but when you read what I’m about to write, remember what we determined about Reasons. They’re hard. Damn near impossible sometimes.
Okay, then, here it is: I was supposed to be Isabel.
(Boom, right?)
So you’re probably wondering what happened. Why am I not Isabel? Why am I Mary Iris Malone? (Why, indeed?)
It begins with a promise.
Before you and I were born, our grandmother, Mary Ray Malone, died of lung cancer. On her deathbed, or so the story goes, she asked Dad and Aunt Isabel to carry on her mother’s name (Isabel) should they one day have a daughter of their own.
They agreed.
Enter Eve Durham (my mother), the firecracker from Across the Pond. Shortly after they were married, Eve informed Barry that she was pregnant, to which Barry informed her that should the baby be a girl, her name would be Isabel, to which Eve informed Barry that she hated the name Isabel. Barry pushed. Eve pushed harder. In the end, he gave in, on the one condition that they use his mother’s name—Mary. Mom said, fine, but she wanted some kind of flower in the name.
BARRY MALONE’S FACE
(Upon Hearing the News That His Wife Wanted a Fucking Flower in Their Daughter’s Name)
And so I was born, the improbable Mary Iris Malone, kaleidoscopic anomaly from the word go.
Mim was a quick nickname. Only occasionally has Dad called me Mary, and then, only by accident. But I can’t blame him. My name—my existence—is a constant reminder of his broken promise to his mother.
That’s where you come in, Isabel. You get to make Dad whole. Through you, he gets redemption. He gets to keep his promise. In fact, I make a prediction: Dad will never call you anything other than Isabel. You will have no nicknames.
God, I envy you.
Anyway . . .
I’m with your mom now, riding back to Mississippi. Mosquitoland. That’s what I’ve been calling it. It’s catty, I know, but how else does one kick an entire state in the balls? I’ve chosen mockery.
The truth is, Mississippi doesn’t feel like home. Not yet. Until yesterday, I thought home was in Cleveland with my mom, but God, did I have that wrong.
Home is hard.