Soundtrack of Our Lies: Genesis, Invisible Touch

There have only been a handful of Wizard of Oz moments in my life. You know—times when the curtain was thrown back and you saw or learned things you weren't meant to see or learn. The most obvious one is, naturally, when I realized that "Santa's" handwriting looked an awful lot like my Mom's. The others are as follows:

1. When I read about how far Disney theme parks go to keep the illusion alive.
2. When I saw a jug of something called "ButterFat" on the counter next to the popcorn machine at the movies. (You mean they don't use REAL butter? No, unless if by "real butter" you mean "real butter CONCENTRATE." Of course, I knew they didn't throw sticks of Land O' Lakes in there; I just didn't need to know what they DID throw in there.)
3. When I went to pick up a bracelet at Tiffany's and they lost the Tiffany-blue suede pouch it came in and the salesperson opened up a drawer filled to bursting with extra pouches. She actually said, "Uh, you weren't supposed to see that."

And this one:

My parents never fought. Not once. Sure, they had their typical marital disagreements from time to time, mostly about money, or our serious lack thereof. But you couldn't say they ever "fought" in the yelling sense. I suppose it would be more accurate to call what they did "serious discussion." Their lack of fighting, however, didn't mean their relationship was wine and roses—far from it. They didn't avoid each other, but they weren't exactly bursting with passion, either; instead, they gave each other lukewarm "hello" and "goodbye" kisses, some quick hugs here and there, a few hapless slow dances at family weddings. Mom wanted Dad to be more romantic. "Joanie's husband brings her flowers each week," she would tell him. "Well Joanie's husband is a senior vice president and can afford things like that," he shot back. Mom would pout for a few days, then Dad would finally realize that he needed to make some gesture at romanticism, usually involving taking her out to their favorite restaurant and actually having dessert. This was like their reset switch and worked fine—until some other neighborhood husband did something else to trip it. Still, I never thought much about my parents' relationship; based on what I'd seen of my friends' parents, this was Normal.

The summer before my tenth-grade year, my Mom spent a lot of time visiting her dad—Poppa—and my grandma in B______ while Poppa got chemo. He died in early fall. When he died, something in her seemed to die, too, which was odd, given the stories she'd told me about how controlling Poppa was; how when she got a scholarship to college, he didn't let her go; that he thought she should go to trade school and become a seamstress; how strict he was. I don't mean to imply that she didn't love him or that she shouldn't have been sad about his death, but I never had a lot of warm and fuzzy feelings for Poppa, a lot of which I attributed to the things Mom said about him. Also, Poppa never made secret the dislike he had for my Dad. Family Lore went that right before she got married, Poppa pulled Mom aside, gave her a stiff drink, and said, "You know, you don't have to do this." Mom always said that part of the reason she married my dad was to piss Poppa off. She'd say this with a laugh, but the look in her eyes never quite made it believable.

After the funeral, my mom was making weekly trips up to B______ to take care of Grammie. Grammie was a strong, tough lady who had been prepared for Poppa's death ever since he'd been diagnosed, so I suspected it was more Grammie who was taking care of Mom. Her visits, at first, were overnights, then weekends, then long weekends, then weeks. And when she was home, she was doing only two things: Listening to Genesis' Invisible Touch album and getting ready for her next trip to B______. I don't know what made her bust out that particular album, then, and the tape was pretty garbled in parts. The last time I'd listened to it was five or six years earlier when I made up an awesome interpretive dance to their prog-rock classic, "The Brazilian." Before—because things were suddenly being measured by Before (where Mom was Mom) and Now (where Mom was … Different)—I'd come home from school and she'd be folding laundry or making dinner, singing along to "Tonight, Tonight, Tonight," or, if she was in a very good mood, "Invisible Touch." But Now, she'd mostly play "Throwing It All Away" over and over. Sometimes I'd catch her sitting on the floor, listening, crying and she'd jump when she saw me standing there, with a "Oh, hi, honey. I didn't hear you come in," quickly drying her eyes on the handkerchief that had become a permanent part of her wardrobe, Now.

Dad and I just figured that she was having a really hard time with Poppa's death. Dad wasn't one for sentiment or grand emotional displays, so he was having an equally hard time trying to figure out what the heck he should do for, or say to, his grieving wife. He didn't do warm embraces; his shoulders weren't built for crying on. He didn't cry or anything when his own father died. Dad was a rock, which was one of the things I loved about him, so it was hard watching him try to express feelings he didn't know how to and failing. When he tried to talk to and comfort Mom, I'd watch her recoil and him look hurt. That would lead to one of those serious discussions, and our house was so small, the only place I could go to get out of earshot was outside. I'd walk for long stretches of time, sometimes not coming home until well after the streetlights fitzed on, sometimes missing dinner. My Dad had always been adamant, insistent, about me being home for dinner every night, no matter what, period, end of discussion. The first time I missed it, I was preparing myself for his ire. It never came. The second time, I thought for sure the ire was on its way. It wasn't. Because ire was Before, and this was Now.

One night, that winter, I was getting ready for bed and went into my parents' room to say goodnight to Mom, just as I'd been doing for time immemorial. We did our routine—she asked about my day, how school was, what I was doing that next day. She said, "I'm going to be spending more time at Grammie's house. She's…she needs someone to be with her right now. It's hard for her to be alone."
I stretched out and yawned, "Okay. No biggie."
"I'm going to be gone for awhile."
"How long is awhile?"
"Well, there are a lot of things that need to be done with the estate, and Gammie is moving to that apartment building, and we need to have the yard sale, still, and—"
I cut her off, "Ma, I don't need all the details. It's cool. Whatever."
She hugged me close and said, "No matter what happens, know that I love you very much, okay?"
When I looked up at her, she was crying. Completely my father's daughter, the tears were making me squirm, "Okay, I got it." I got up and gave her a quick hug. "Night, Mom."
She waved, "Goodnight, honey," and I went to bed.

The next day I came home from school early. I decided to skip all my afternoon classes in favor of a grilled-cheese sandwich and a nap. I'd been thinking about both since first period and I was such a geek that I'd already worked ahead in the classes I was going to miss so I wouldn't be behind. Pulling into our driveway, I saw that my dad's truck was there. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," I muttered. This was unprecedented. My father's schedule was like clockwork—you really could set your watch to it. I panicked and immediately thought of a whole passel of fantastical things to explain why he would be home: he was having an affair, someone died, he got laid off, he finally won the office lottery, he was sick—that being the most outrageous of all the explanations because Dad had never ever, to my recollection, missed a day of work due to illness. Dad also had dog-level hearing, so I knew he must have heard me. I thought up the best excuse I could (felt sick from drinking expired milk in cafeteria), and went inside.

Dad was sitting on the couch, in the dark. Our house was plenty dark already, what with the tapestry-like curtains he hung on all the windows to "keep the heat in," so I felt pretty creeped out. "This is bad," I thought. "Dad? What's going on?"
He looked up at me, "Your mother—she's gone."
My heart raced, "Gone where? Dead?"
"No. Not dead. She went to B_____."
Now I was confused, "Yeah, I know. She told me last night."
He handed me a piece of paper, "She's not coming back." He put his head in his hands and began to sob.

Genesis, Invisible Touch
Released summer of 1986