“What have we become, just look what we have done, all that we destroyed, you must build again …”
-When The Children Cry, White Lion
I grew up in a world I never truly understood. Since the day I was born, there were so many things wrong, so many things I never acknowledged, including my mother. I was born on my parent’s wedding anniversary, a day that should have been joyous and miraculous, but instead it now seemed a curse. When my mother found out she was pregnant, she wasn’t well. Sometimes I wish it would have been something like cancer, something that could have been fixed if really tried, but my mother … the great psychiatrist Marlena Evans, was mentally ill. No one knew how it happened, not even my father, the one man who loved her more than life itself, and when she found out she was pregnant, she begged doctors to abort her child. She could barely care for herself, let alone another being, but my father refused. He believed I was their last chance. I was the child who was supposed to fix the mess that had become their lives.
The day I was born, I was given to my father. My mother couldn’t be bothered with me, or so I thought for most of my life. It was my father who nurtured me, who loved me, who named me. He was still so in love with my mother, that he vowed to do everything in his power to make me perfect. He named me after her, a name I hated for a long time. I didn’t want to be named Evan. Aside from it being a boy’s name, I didn’t want to be reminded of her. So as soon as I was old enough, I begged my father to let me drop Evan. Marin might have been a reminder, but not as much as a name that was my mother’s last. I knew it hurt him, I saw the sadness in his blue eyes, I saw the tears he so desperately tried to avoid. But it hurt me too. It hurt me that I was named for someone I’d never know, someone who was supposed to love me, yet couldn’t even be bothered with me. On my fourth birthday, I asked my sister Isabella where Mommy was. She had this look, this look that is forever burned into my mind, and she just smiled at me, this phony smile, that makes me wince whenever I think of it. She told me our mother was away, but that she loved me. I was so young, but I cried so hard that night. I wanted my mother and I believed it was my fault she was gone. There were so many nights after that, so many moments when I was growing up, that I felt alone. The Christmas after I turned fifteen, a lot of memories of my mom came up. I don’t know why it was that year, maybe it wasn’t, maybe it was just the first year I could remember, and I felt like I wasn’t part of the family. I didn’t get the cooking jokes, the pet names, the books she read. I didn’t understand why ‘How Do I Love Thee’ had so much meaning. I loved my family, but I didn’t want to be there. It hurt a little too much.
“Little Child, dry your crying eyes, how can I explain, the fear you feel inside.”
-When The Children Cry, White Lion
As the years progressed, I really began to hate my life. Don’t get me wrong, I had an amazing family. My father adored me, my sisters, Samantha, Isabella, and Carrie cherished me, and my brothers, Eric and Brady were there the instant I needed them. But there was still something lacking, something missing. I was always so afraid, that as I got older, I kept to myself. I wasn’t like my sister, Belle. I wasn’t Miss Popularity, I wasn’t Homecoming Queen, I wasn’t really anything. I was a child lost, a girl who would rather stay home and cry than try to make it in the real world. I didn’t want to get hurt, so I closed myself off, sometimes to those who loved me the most.
It was the night of my 18th birthday that things changed. I can remember everything so vividly. We had spent the summer in Pasadena where my brother Brady was now living, and all I wanted to do with return home to Salem. I spent the entire day on the beach, watching the waves crash along the shore, watching as the sun slowly melted and dusk became night. I sat on the soft, warm, sand and cried for everything that I lacked. Soon I was hysterical, for reasons, I can’t even be sure of. I was so angry. At the world, at my mother, at the life I was given. I never asked to be a miracle child, I never asked to be the burden I felt I was.
I closed my eyes and tried to envision my mother. I don’t know why, just sometimes I liked to pretend she was an exotic actress, someone who was always traveling the world on location which is why I had never met her. Everyone said I looked like her, but I tried to deny it. I didn’t want to be like her, in looks or in personality. And I soon began to cry, harder, because I realized I did. I did want to know her, to love her. I sat, the tears forever flowing, when I felt my father’s hand on my back. I looked up at him with vulnerable eyes and tried to smile. My father was a beautiful man, especially on the inside. He tried so hard, even though I knew he was dying emotionally. My mother was everything to him. I might have never seen them together, but I saw the way he looked when he spoke of her. The way his eyes would light up and his demeanor would change, and there was something softer, more loving about him. She was his center, his rock, and all those who knew him previous to my mom’s breakdown admitted how much he had changed. But he was the only version of John Black I had ever known and I loved him, despite the fact he was never the same. He sat down, stroking my long blonde hair, and I leaned up against him, seeking comfort in the one thing which would always provide. We didn’t speak, we didn’t need too. We both knew what we were thinking. We both knew my mother was there, right in front of us, lingering.
He turned to me, his eyes compassionate, and placed his hand on my cheek, running his finger across it softly.
“She would have wanted to be here you know.”
“Dad, stop–“
He held his hand up, pulling a letter out of his pocket. He held it in his hands for a moment and I remember wondering what it was he was holding. He just stared at it, as if he was in some trance. He brought it up to his nose, smelling the paper, and I found it so strange. And it was then I realized … it was from her. From the mother I had never known. I placed my hand on his and he just nodded, knowing I understood.
“She sent it to me last week. She wanted you to have it on your 18th birthday.”
I was in such awe as my heart skipped a beat. “You’ve spoken to her? How could you not have told me? I thought she was sick, I thought … How could you have kept this from me?” I have never in my life hated my father as much as I did in that moment.
“I think that’s what the letter is about. She was sick for a very long time, Mar.”
I winced at the nickname, something I knew he must have called my mother at some point. I squeezed my eyes shut, clenching and unclenching my fists. ” Don’t call me, Mar,” I whispered. “You knew she was okay and you never told me. And why isn’t she here? Does Brady know? Belle? Sami, Eric, Carrie … Am I the only one who doesn’t?”
“You’re the only one who knows, actually. Your mother has been through extensive therapy. Over the years her doctors have updated me, but I never told any of you. I guess, maybe I did it for my own selfish reasons. I didn’t want to get everyone’s hopes up, when for all I knew she’d never be okay again. Her doctors developed a new drug, one that has been helping her more than anyone thought possible. I hadn’t spoken to your mother in a very long time, Marin. And when she called me …”
His eyes welled up with tears as he began to speak of his soulmate, the love of his life. He took my hand and linked it with his own, holding on as if all his pain was somehow before us. I felt it in that moment. What it must have been like to hear her voice after all these years, how much he must have missed her, and as angry as I was, the emotion I felt from my father, softened me more than I thought possible.
“What does she sound like?”
He closed his eyes, tears sliding down his cheeks. “Like an angel.” He didn’t say anything more after that, I don’t think he could. He held the letter for another moment and handed it off to me and I held it, almost afraid to see what was inside. I closed my eyes, and just felt it, knowing at one point, she had as well. At some point her fingers had touched the paper, her hands had smoothed out the creases, and her words were right in front of me. I turned to my dad, our eyes meeting, and he smiled.
“Want me to sit with you?”
I bit down on my lower lip, willing the tears to stop. “No, I’m okay. I’ll be inside soon.”
My father just nodded and stood, placing a light kiss on my forehead. And when he left, I couldn’t bring myself to open the letter just yet. I now knew my mother was well enough to be able to write, to comprehend what was going on, and in so many ways, I was so angry. If she was well enough to write, wasn’t she well enough to come home? To see me? To see the daughter she had abandoned on the day she was born. In so many ways, I didn’t want to read it. If I was distant, if she was insane, then it was somehow okay she wasn’t here. But I was always a curious girl and I knew I had to look. So I opened the letter and before I even began to read, the tears started. Her handwriting was beautiful. Soft and comforting. It was like finding a home in a place I never would have imagined.
“You were born into this evil world, where man is killing man, and no one knows just why.”
-When The Children Cry, White Lion
My darling,
This is the eighth copy of this letter I have started and no words seem to be able to come. It’s been so long since I’ve expressed any real emotion with comprehension and now that I can, all these words I thought would seem right, don’t seem to fit at all. I can never apologize to you enough, I can never make up for the life you have led, but I can at least try to explain why.
Months before I got pregnant with you, I started to feel as if the world, the life I was living, was closing in on me. I loved my family more than anything, but something inside me just wasn’t working anymore. I was irrational and I was angry, and I never understood why. It was my profession to help people and yet I couldn’t even help myself. I don’t know when it happened, I to this day don’t know how it happened, but I became very ill. There were voices inside my mind, voices telling me what to do, voices that took over all logical thoughts. At first, I was able to overpower them. But as time passed, I just couldn’t and I began to do what they told me. I felt myself losing all control but I thought I could handle it. There were times when I couldn’t believe I was the one doing this and so I led myself to believe that it was someone else. Maybe it was when my former husband died that I just lost all control. I pushed your father away, not because I didn’t love him, but because I loved him so much, I was afraid I’d do the same to him. When the memories of the killings came to me, I realized that the premonitions of your father killing me, came from the fact that he’d have too, out of protection.
When the news that I was the one committing all the wrong doings came to light, I was far gone. I don’t remember that time clearly, only a haze of memories as if I was in a drunken stupor. I don’t remember the doctors telling me I was pregnant and I don’t remember ever wishing to abort you. Because the truth is, nothing makes me more happy than knowing I have another daughter. When I called your father, he told me about you. How beautiful you are, how when you laugh you hide your hair over your face in embarrassment, how when you speak about something you love you’re so passionate that the room just lights up. He told me that you sing like an angel, but only do it when you think no one is listening because you think you’re not good enough. I hear you look like me, but somehow I know you look just like your father, a beautiful image of a beautiful man.
Marin, I haven’t called you yet or come to see my family yet, because I needed to know you were all right first. I love all of my children and I know my meltdown has hurt all of them, but none as much as you. I need you to understand and know how much I truly love you. How when your father told me your name, I wept with joy, and when he admitted you only use Marin because Evan displeases you, I realized how much I have truly ruined a great thing. Whatever name you use, I love you no less. I’d love you no less if you never wanted to see me or hear from me. And I’d love you no less if this letter makes you hate me more.
I’ve only been well enough for a short amount of time, thanks to medication and well respected doctors and I honestly don’t know what the future holds. But I know I want to meet my daughter. Maybe I don’t deserve this chance. Maybe I don’t deserve anything from you. But if you’re anything like your father told me, I know the love inside your heart will allow you to forgive. I know when you get this, it will be your birthday and I’m sure you’d rather spend it without this pressure. But when the time feels right, please call me. Your father has my number. Please allow me home, Marin. Please allow me to make up for all the pain I have caused you.
I love you, more than you will ever know. And happy birthday my darling.
Mom
“Even if the sky should ever fall from grace, if I die or fade away, in the end you’ll always know, you’re not alone.”
-You’re Not Alone, Richie Sambora
That was probably one of the hardest nights of my life. I desperately wanted to speak to Brady, but I knew this was my decision and my decision alone. I couldn’t sleep that night, so desperate for an answer, so conflicted on what both my heart and my mind were trying to tell me. I walked downstairs, expecting to be alone, when I saw my father sitting out on the beach. I walked outside, the breeze swallowing me, escaping me, all at once. I sat down next to him and for a moment, neither of us said anything. He didn’t want to pry and I didn’t want to ruin the moment. But soon enough, he had to ask the question I knew he was just dying to know.
“What did she say?”
I didn’t answer him. Not the way he wanted me too, but I just felt like it was my letter. He had his secrets with her, his own letters, his own memories, and this was mine. And for the moment, it was mine alone. Instead I asked him what I never allowed myself to know. “Tell me about her. Before, I mean.”
He smiled, this brilliant, perfect, smile that I had never seen before, a smile I now know is the ‘Marlena smile.’ “She really was an angel. Mine, anyway. I came to her with nothing and yet none of that fazed her. She really loved me and there were so many nights where I questioned why. She was this exquisite beauty, that when she’d walk into a room, all heads would turn, all eyes would stare, but for me … for me, she just melted my heart. She had this laugh, the kind of laugh that was just infectious that made you want to know her secrets, to know what made her laugh, what made her smile. It was the little things she did that made me love her, though. The way she’d sit in Belle’s room and just watch her sleep, afraid if she took her eyes off of her, she’d vanish. The way she’d stand in the kitchen for hours trying to perfect eggs which were just runny and disgusting. The way she’d sing when no one was listening, kind of like you.” He smiled. “But she was horrible. And she was the most understanding and compassionate woman I have ever known. She didn’t care about what was going on in her own life, she just wanted to help other people. She could be going through the worst time in her life, but if someone else needed her, she’d be there in a heartbeat, especially her children. Marin, she loved … loves her children more than you will ever know.”
I looked at my father and then back at the ocean, not wanting to see that pain he so desperately tried to hide. “I don’t want to know about that. I mean, why do you love her? I mean what made her so special to you. I don’t mean what everyone else saw, I meant something only you knew, only you understood …”
He paused, leaning back against the deck chair, closing his eyes, as if trying to sort through a million memories. I gave him his space to think but I needed an answer, an answer I felt only John Black could provide. He opened his eyes and turned to me, his hand resting on my cheek.
“The way she loved me. That no mistake was the end and no argument could ever stop her from telling me she loved me. That when she slept, her mouth was parted, as if the last words she said just stayed on her lips until she woke up and said the same thing all over again. I love her because she is who I am, who I always will be. That every breath I take is in honor of her, that every time I laugh I think of her smile, that every time I sleep I know she is always right there. I love that even after all that has happened, after all the years, and all the pain, and all the distress, she called me and it was like nothing had changed between us. There were no awkward moments, not even a minute where we didn’t have something to say. I love her because I was born for her and she for me, and nothing can ever change that. And I love her because she gave me the most beautiful children in this world, a reminder that even if she wasn’t here physically, she was still here, all around me, always.”
I sat there crying, only this time, it wasn’t for the loss I had endured. It was for all I was about to gain, all that was before me, all that I thought was lost.
“Dad, I need her number …”
For the first time, on the day after my 18th birthday, I finally heard her voice. I couldn’t dial, I couldn’t take that big of a step, and so I allowed my dad to do it. I heard his brief conversation with her, but everything around me was a blur. The room was spinning, my ears seemed clogged, and all I really wanted was to go into the bathroom and be sick. My father handed me the phone, as if in slow motion, and as the receiver touched my ear, I inhaled, closing my eyes in anticipation. And when I heard her voice, I began to cry, so much so, I couldn’t breathe. I just listened to her, her soft, beautiful, melodic voice soothe me and calm me, and I knew then how much I had always loved my mother. How all rage, all anger, was just hiding from the truth of how much I missed her. It was the day after my 18th birthday, when I took the name Evan back.
“Take these broken wings and learn to fly again, learn to live so free.”
-Broken Wings, Mr. Mister.
After that, things started to become normal. After all these years, my mother came home and she was more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. She just stood in the doorway of what was once her home and looked around, not really seeing anything, but on the other hand seeing everything at once. It was only my father and I there that night and I stood off to the side as I watched the two of them hold each other. It was probably the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. They were both crying, only this time all the sorrow was gone. It was like the end of some breathtaking movie, where you can’t help but cry that these two people destined to be together finally are. She buried her face in his neck, smelling him, kissing him, getting to know him all over again. I sat there, never wanting to interrupt the happiest moment in my father’s life and so I watched, overcome with emotion I can never fully explain. I can never explain how gorgeous she was, how pictures would never do her justice. How when she laughed at how overwhelmed she was, it was just as my father had said, a laugh so special, you just had to join in. So I did and it was then our eyes met. She stepped away from my father and I stood, each of us taking one step closer, almost afraid that maybe this all was some dream. She pulled me into her arms then and held me as if the world was ending. I remember the smell of her hair that night, lilacs and honeysuckle, soft and inviting, almost like her handwriting had been. We stayed up for most of the night and I told her everything I could, but most of all I just stared at her, tracing her face with my finger, wanting to remember every single feature. Her first night home, she held me in her arms and rocked me to sleep, like she had been doing it for all of my life.
She had reunited with my father and after all of these years, I finally got to see the great love that was John Black and Marlena Evans. I’d sit on the balcony of our staircase and watch as they’d lay there and laugh. I can’t even explain how happy my dad was, how it made my heart melt to see how truly perfect they were together. How he’d tell this horrible joke and she would just smile as if you humor him, and then laugh so hard, she couldn’t stop. She’d kiss him on the lips and while still laughing, tell him how much she loved him.
Everything that had once been broken was now reconstructed, and all pain I had once felt no longer existed. I came out of my shell that summer. I stopped being so afraid and started to live the life I had always envied, a life like my sister’s, filled with good friends and good times. I stayed home from college that year. I had been accepted to Princeton and Columbia, but it was where my mother was that I wanted to stay. It was almost like she was never gone, like I had known her always, and the more time I spent with her, the more I realized I did. That every time Belle would laugh, she sounded like Mom, or every time Sami would argue something to the death, it was exactly how Mom was when she was firm on her opinions. I never realized how much my dad was like her, how they had the same views, the same taste, the same way of loving.
My parent’s got married a year later, on my 19th birthday. It was going to be a new start, a new beginning. And for a while, it was. We moved out to Pasadena where Brady was and where Belle would soon follow and I started attending the University of Southern California to become a script writer. After all I had endured, writing was the only way for me to escape. It allowed me to be my own therapy, to change things I could, and relive moments which I will forever cherish. It was a little less than a year later, that once again things began to change. I had plans to meet my mom for dinner, we were going to plan this wonderful anniversary party for my dad. I was taking a test in my Film Story Analysis class and I remember thinking I was going to be late for dinner, I just couldn’t seem to concentrate. It was like I had this feeling something was wrong. I sent my mother a text message during my test, the wonders of technology these days, telling her I wasn’t going to make it, I’d meet her at home. And when I got in that night, I could feel the stale air, the sense of mourning. I knew in that moment things would never be the same.
My mother had a brain tumor, an inoperable one, and she would soon pass away. I wouldn’t even let her finish telling me, I ran to my room and cried, feeling like I did all those times she wasn’t there. After 18 years of not knowing my mother, I finally had her back, only to know I was going to lose her before I turned 20. And so I cried. I screamed and I screamed and I let the pain wash over me. I turned on my stereo, blasting angry music, wishing it would take everything away, but instead it just made it worse. My head was stuffed underneath my pillow, my cries wracking my entire body, and I felt her hand on my back, soothing me, trying to comfort me in my pain. I looked up at her, her face as tear stained as mine must as been, and she held me like she did on that first night, never letting go.
“Would it have been better if I had never come back?”
Her question surprised me. I leaned back and her arms loosened, our eyes connecting in a bond only bound through blood. “Why would you think that?”
“Because maybe the loss the first time around was enough. If I had known this was going to happen–“
“What? You wouldn’t have come back if you had known then you’d be dying two years later? Don’t you get it?”
She shook her head, pulling my hair behind my ear.
“You gave me everything I ever wanted, Mom. I grew up my entire life thinking I was so unfortunate. That my mother left me when I was born, that she wasn’t well, that I was forever missing something everyone else in my family got to experience. I pitied myself for no real reason, except that I was angry. You coming back here, you coming to me, it made me realize how lucky I truly am. You made me believe in miracles. You made me believe in God. I hate that I am losing you, Mom. I hate that after all my years waiting, you’ll be gone as quickly as you came. But for all that pain, there is so much more joy. Because I got to know you, plain and simple. I got to love the most amazing woman I have ever known.”
She smiled at me, wiping the tears from both my eyes and her own. “How did you become so smart?”
I laughed. “Brady likes to think he had a lot to do with it, but we both know he’s just fooling himself there” She smiled again; she was so beautiful when she did. “It’s from you … and from daddy … and from all the years of suffering which in turn weren’t so bad after all. I love you, Mom. For always.”
“For always.”
“In the arms of the angel, may you find some comfort here.”
-Angel, Sarah MacLachlin
My mother passed away a few months later, only days after my 20th birthday and her anniversary. It was like she was holding on, wanting to stay for one last happy occasion, one last special moment. It was at her funeral, that my father handed me another letter. It seemed the perfect way to end things the way they began. After the service, I sat down on the same beach where I read the first letter, and allowed myself to get lost in her handwriting.
Evan,
When I found out about the tumor, the first thing I thought of was how you would take it. I was worried about all my children and of course your father, but you sweetheart, you had already gone through so much. Ironically, it was you who took it the best. It was you who allowed us all to see the light, and it was you who made the last months bearable.
For so long I wanted another child with your father and it just never seemed to be the right time. You were our angel, Ev. The moment I first touched you, the moment I held you, I knew in that moment I was okay to die. You gave me every unanswered prayer, every dream I thought was gone. I watched you sleep that first night, so content and so beautiful. I know everyone said you looked like me, but to me you would forever be the perfect image of your father. You were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen and I loved you so much in that moment, my heart could have exploded.
I don’t know how to say good-bye to you, not after I have so recently said hello. But there are some things I want to tell you, things I never want you to wonder. First of all, I am so very proud of you. For your strength, your courage, your view of life and everything it will one day offer. I am so proud of your determination to write, because my darling, you are the most poetic, beautiful soul I have ever known. You will one day become known and although I will not be there in person, I am there for you, always. When you win your first Oscar, I’ll be the one screaming the loudest, when you meet the right man, I’ll be the first approval you get. And when you have a child, know that you will love him or her as much as I love you. You really were my angel, Evan Marin. I love you more than words can say. For always. Take care of your father and your siblings. And know that whenever you need me, I’m right here. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Mom
I folded up her letter and sat there for a moment, my eyes closed, the wind whipping past me. I could hear one of her favorite songs coming from the house, and I smiled. I knew she was all around me, keeping me safe, holding me close.
A lot has happened since then, a lot of things which I wish my mother could have been here for, but I guess when it came down to it, she was. The night my fiancee proposed to me, my mother came to me in my dreams. We were on the beach, laying there, watching the ocean, and she told me she accepted, that she loved Ryan and only wished she could have known him. She smiled that glorious smile and told me of the day she married my father, a day I wish I could have lived. And only weeks ago, I won my first Oscar, for a screenplay based on my life. My mother was right … I heard her louder than anyone else that night. No matter where my life takes me, I realize now that my mother will be there … for always.
The Jarlena Journal 