Family Values

*** CW: Contains mention of child abuse / sexual abuse. If these topics trigger you, please do not read. ***

I was thirty-eight years old when my uncle Felix died. The funeral was a massive affair. The family all attended, but the media were not there to see us. They didn’t really care about the ordinary folks in attendance for a man they loved and respected. But the camera crews and interviewers surrounded the many stars of the big and small screen, who had appeared in adaptations of his classic children’s books. They gave soundbites to the cameras.

“He wrote such wonderful characters. I really felt as though I had actually met Mrs. Connifer.”

“He insisted that I would be ideal to play the old doctor – went toe to toe with the studio for me.”

At the reading of the will, it was mostly family. His last agent and publisher were both represented, of course. I had been specifically advised by the lawyer to attend. That surprised me. Uncle Felix and I had been very close when I was a child, but after I grew up and moved away, we were reduced to Christmas cards every year. Then to e-cards with an occasional email “here’s what happened since we last talked.”

He was my father’s younger brother, and my father had predeceased him by a few years. In fact, the last time I had seen Uncle Felix was at my Dad’s funeral. We hadn’t really spoken, just nodded and hugged, the way you do at funerals. My mother was distant with him, but she was an emotional mess. My brother and sister were pleased to see him, but they’d never been as close to him as I was. He didn’t stay overnight; he drove straight home after the funeral.

The will itself was a big surprise. The lawyer looked at me and then read the specific instructions for me. “To my niece Melanie Crawford, I leave my house and all its contents, including all my papers, published and unpublished. Melanie, you were my muse and first critic when I started writing books for children. I am leaving all these papers to you in memory of the time we spent inventing these glorious characters. Please look through them all and keep whatever you see fit.”

My family stared at me in amazement. The house was huge, bought with his substantial earnings from the TV and movie rights. Yes, we had shared wonderful times as he made up fantasy stories for me. It was my favorite memory of my childhood. But now, more than a quarter of a century later, why had he left so much to me?

The publisher’s and agent’s representatives were clearly shocked. They both started to talk at the same time. The lawyer waved at them to be quiet. “Ms. Crawford will go through the papers and determine how to dispose of them. Mr. Felix Crawford was quite clear about his intentions. Mr. Crawford stipulated that no one was to put pressure on her to hand over the papers.”

Both of the representatives took out their phones and started texting furiously. Apparently, they had anticipated a trove of unpublished work to make them rich. The agent’s rep scowled at me. The publisher’s rep started making eye contact with me and smiling encouragingly.

The rest of the bequests were straightforward. My mother and all of her children (myself included) were given equal shares in the other assets. He had substantial investments and several classic automobiles. That meant that I would have enough money to cover the running costs of the house, which was my first concern.

When we were leaving, my mother asked me if I knew why Uncle Felix had chosen to leave so much to me. I had no idea. My siblings, Jace and Pepper, were less confused.

“You and he were always making up stories together. We’d go out to play, and you’d be there in the living room together.” Jace was two years older than me, so he had clearer memories than I did.

“He’d take you out to the park for ice cream all the time.” Pepper was younger, and therefore jealous.

I shrugged. “Maybe he meant it when he said I was his muse and first critic. Maybe I did help him shape his writing career. Funny he never said much about it, though.”

We all moved on with our lives. I went home to tell my husband Mike what had happened. Our daughter, Cilla, was eight years old now, a couple of years older than I was when Uncle Felix and I started working on his stories. Mike hadn't really known Uncle Felix at all, so he was shocked as well as intrigued to hear about the inheritance.

“What do you want to do with it?”

“Well, it’s a big house in a great location. You work remotely most of the time, and I can blog from anywhere. It probably has good schools for Cilla. I think we should spend some time there and see how we feel about it. I need to go there and sort through the papers anyway. What do you think?”

It was only a three-hour drive from our neat suburban home. We could sell one house and keep the other, and we’d be mortgage-free either way. Mike scheduled a week off work (emergency calls only) and we drove up there two weeks later.

Wow. I had never seen a property like that. It was set back away from the road, surrounded by woods. It wasn’t a huge house, but plenty big enough for the three of us, and for visitors to come and stay. A wrap-around deck surrounded the house outside, with a spacious fenced backyard with a lawn and a small rose garden. Cilla spent the first day exploring everything, shrieking with delight at each new find. Mike and I were stunned. We had never really dreamed of owning a place like this, without incurring massive debt.

Of course, it was fully furnished, albeit in a rather masculine style. Uncle Felix had assembled a collection of curiosities from around the world and across the centuries, and he (or perhaps an interior decorator) had scattered them tastefully through the house. These included a brass bed-warming pan, an antique theodolite, a collection of Italian glass decanters, a Ming vase, a scrimshaw walrus tusk, and many other unique objects. Cilla was constantly asking about what things were and how they were used. I remembered a couple of items from my time with Uncle Felix at her age. I probably asked the same questions – otherwise how could I have answered her inquiries so confidently?

The first day, we settled in for our stay. I was going to spend the mornings exploring the surrounding area with Mike and Cilla, and the afternoons and evenings going through the papers in the office. I would manage breakfast and lunch; Mike would take charge of dinner.

I started with the easy stuff. The papers on the desk and in the desk drawers were mostly business. I sorted those into four piles according to where they needed to go. That was a straightforward introduction to how organized Uncle Felix had been with his paperwork. I told Mike and Cilla all about it over dinner.

The next day, I went through the big filing cabinet. It was also very organized. The drawers were arranged by story – the original manuscript, major revisions, publishing contract, contracts for film or TV adaptations, etc. They were all tagged with file locations for his computer records (I had decided to deal with those last, as I could do them from home if necessary). The books themselves (and DVDs or videos) were stored in a massive bookshelf that took up two complete walls of the office. I left these as they were, except for putting yellow tags on everything that hadn't been published. I'd call the agent to talk about all of these.

I picked out one of the unpublished works and read it to Cilla after dinner. I found I was imitating Uncle Felix’s style of speaking, so well-remembered from decades ago. It was a sound and a cadence that I found deeply comforting.

The following day, I had to start on the most challenging area. There was a walk-in closet in the office with shelves. There were binders, boxes, and books on those shelves and on the floor, with no obvious filing system. I started with the books. Why were there books in here when there was so much bookshelf space available? I looked at the bookshelves in the office. They contained his own works, works and biographies of other authors, and a huge reference section. Of course, the reference books included style guides, dictionaries, etc. as you would expect. There were several well-thumbed books on child psychology, which intrigued me. Uncle Felix’s stories were mostly fantasy, appealing to a child’s imagination. I recalled the days spent listening to him in awe as he described distant planets, fairies, unicorns, pretend families, and magical beings.

The books in the closet were a surprise. They described abnormal child psychology, effects of abuse, and psychotherapy for children. Was this research for stories, or was it more personal? I took those books up to our bedroom, intending to discuss them with Mike after Cilla had gone to bed.

There was a notebook where he had apparently written down story ideas. Some had been crossed out, and I recognized the plot ideas from some stories he had told me as a child and later published. Others that had been crossed out seemed familiar, and I tried to remember whether he had told those to me as well. He might have done, but I didn’t know them as well as the others. I set the notebook aside for further review later.

Then another notebook caught my eye. It was filled with what appeared to be notes about two boys, F and D. My father’s name was Don. Could the boys be Felix and Don? I flipped through the pages, and gasped. The boys had a stepfather who abused them. The man I called Grandad had been my father’s stepfather. On one page, I saw that F had done something bad, and the stepfather threatened him. D, his older brother stood between them and pushed F away. Then the stepfather closed the door, and F heard D’s screams.

I couldn’t read that. If it was true, it was far too personal for me. I loved my father and my uncle. I couldn’t bear to read these notes if they were true. I stopped work in the office for the day and took that notebook up to the bedroom as well.

Once Cilla was in bed, I brought the books down and told Mike what I had found.

“Honestly, Mike, it looks as though child abuse was a part of his early life. And my Dad’s as well. There are books about dealing with children who have suffered abuse, and what looks like a memoir of what happened to the two of them.”

Mike looked at the textbooks. He had studied psychology in college before switching to law. With concern, he asked me “Did you know the person who you think abused them?”

I was distraught that he had reached the same conclusion that I had. “According to his notes, it was my Grandad. When I knew him, he was very old and unable to walk. He died when I was quite young. He was not their biological father. Would you be prepared to read this notebook, and give me the Cliff’s Notes version of what happened? I don’t think I can read it myself.”

He held his hand out for the notebook and flipped through the pages. “You definitely don’t need to read this about your family. I’ll read through it and then we can discuss whether it really happened or not. He was a writer, after all. He may have been working on a book for adults.”

There were tears in my eyes. “Thank you, Mike, you are an angel. God, I hope it was fiction. The little bits I read were horrific.”

Mike hugged me and held me while I pulled myself together. “Why don’t you take a rest day tomorrow and spend it with Cilla and me? We’re going to the zoo. You could use a break.”

That sounded wonderful. I took myself to bed for an early night. Mike stayed in the bedroom with me while he read. He was afraid I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep, but in fact I was exhausted, and I slept like the dead.

After a proper day out at the zoo, I was feeling much better. Once again, I waited until Cilla was asleep before raising the topic. Mike shook his head sadly.

“I’d like to think it was fiction, but it reads like a collection of memories. It seems as though your Dad took the brunt of the abuse, but they both suffered. Your Grandad was a piece of work. He abused the boys emotionally, physically, and sexually. I’m surprised they both turned out OK.”

I raised my head slowly. “Did they? If they were OK, why did he have those textbooks? Was Uncle Felix damaged by what happened? Is that why he spent so much time with me as a child?”

Mike pulled me towards him on the sofa. “You had a great relationship with him. Everyone in your family agrees. Maybe he was trying to make up for his own miserable childhood by making up stories with you. He called you his muse, didn’t he?”

I felt a weight in my heart. Uncle Felix had been damaged, and I had helped him heal. I could live with that story.

The next day, I looked at the rest of the contents of the closet. In the back corner, on the floor, was a cardboard box. When I pulled it out, I saw in black marker the message “For Melanie’s Eyes Only!” Maybe this was why he had insisted on leaving me the house and all its contents. There were lots of letters in there, all addressed to Uncle Felix in my Dad’s handwriting. I had a very bad feeling about this. I took out all the envelopes and sorted them into date order.

The first was formal and read quite normally. But there was one paragraph… “Felix, you remember how Dad used to touch me? I don’t mean the beatings, but the other stuff. I’m afraid that may have affected me. I thought getting married would keep me stable, but now that we have a daughter, I’m not so sure. Can we talk about it?”

I stared at that paragraph for a long time. I didn’t want to read the next letter. I wanted this paragraph to go away, or to change to say something different. But it stayed as it was, mocking me.

I eventually set the letter aside and picked up the next one. It was postmarked about six months later. This letter was not formal at all. “Felix, I did it again! I knew what I was doing, but I couldn’t stop myself. Please help. You did so well calming Melanie down. Can you do it again? Can you come and stay with us for a few weeks? I don’t think I’m safe around her.”

Why didn’t I remember this? Something bad must have happened between us, but I had no recollection of it at all. I do remember Uncle Felix being around for a great deal of the time, and I remember all the imaginary stories we created together. But I loved them both – surely if I had been abused, I would have hated my Dad?

I put those two letters in my pocket. Later in the evening, I showed them to Mike. He read them in silence, then he spoke. “Mel, there’s something I need to tell you about the memoir. I didn’t think you needed to know about it, but I’ve changed my mind. In the memoir, the stepdad tried to rape Felix. Don came in and they struggled. The stepdad ended up in a wheelchair. Don saved his brother, and Felix worshipped him. So when Don found out how badly he himself was damaged, Felix did everything he could to help him. Apparently that included keeping you safe and helping you to think it was just another story.”

I sat there trying to remember. I thought I remembered my Dad and me together in my bedroom, but I couldn’t tell if I was retrieving memories or creating them. Mike spoke softly. “You had forgotten it for more than twenty years. Felix did what he could to help you bury those memories. We could get you to a therapist to dig them up, but do you want to? You’re normal, a loving wife and mother. The abuse cycle has ended. It’s up to you.”

We extended the vacation for an extra week. We had to go through the rest of the papers, and I had decisions to make. I wasn’t sure whether to keep or destroy the memoir and the letters. For now, I decided to keep them, to remember what Felix had done for our family, and what my Dad had done for Felix. I found being surrounded by Felix’s eclectic belongings oddly comforting. He had saved me and my Dad, and I had only happy memories. And his house showed that he was a survivor too. He had taken abuse and built a body of work for children, and a safe home for me and my family.

At the end of the second week, Mike said “Well, I guess we need to put the other house on the market. We live here now. I’ve started looking into schools for Cilla.”

I love my husband. I have been surrounded all my life by men who protected me.