An Umbrella on the Wind

I was in primary school when I heard that crazy laugh for the first time. Other girls in the class tittered and giggled in typical 8-year-old manner: Janine Scott’s laugh was anarchic, dangerous and often inappropriate. I loved it. Sharing an absurdist sense of humour and a love of dancing, we became firm friends. Frequent sleepovers at each other’s homes were spent choreographing our latest dream dance production and laughing for hours at nothing in particular, amusements in an era devoid of personal computers, internet and smartphones. But one Friday night, as we lay about her bedroom, chatting, she became increasingly agitated as I mindlessly threw her small brown Teddy bear into the air.

Stop that!


Stop throwing the Teddy around.

Me, laughing and dangling the bear upside-down by one leg: What’s wrong?

Janine, almost crying now: It belonged to Morgan.

Who’s Morgan?

Morgan was my brother. And my father killed him.

Janine’s sudden disclosure of her youngest brother’s filicide and her schizophrenic father’s subsequent incarceration in a psychiatric hospital plunged me into the cold reality of how different two lives lived in close contact could be. My bedroom was a safe sanctuary, but Janine kept the windows of hers firmly shut in the sweltering heat of Durban’s summer nights for fear her father would escape and come back for her.

Why? Why Morgan? Why not me?

The seed of survivor guilt was embedded in her psyche, and its insidious roots were well watered and fed by a conspiracy of silence, lies and wilful blindness perpetuated by the adults closest to her.

…I came in with the newspaper and there was, a, um, an article on this, um, it didn’t say names, but it said, you know, a long-haired, you know, man in his 30s, um, killed, you know, I can’t even remember what it said, and apparently I went into my mom, and I said, ‘Is this dad? Did dad do this?’

Forty-three years later, she recounts the moment that, as an 8-year-old, she discovered from a local newspaper that Morgan had not been killed in a car accident, as her mother, Marge, had told her and Stephen, her oldest brother, a few days earlier but had been murdered by their father, Leslie.

Not long after Janine and Stephen moved to Penzance Primary School, they would both be wearing school blazers adorned with colours for academic excellence. Janine was the model student, the good girl, to all outward appearances, who became a prefect and shined at sport. Stephen’s boundless intellect was well above the norm, and his many interests included practicing magic and stand-up comedy, mostly on us. In spite of the trauma they’d endured, it seemed that a world of opportunity awaited them both.

But it’s a capricious wind that blows through the lives of humans, and in our final year of primary school, it was again an ill one for the Scott family. It was an impossible-blue-sky day in 1974, as we hopped from foot to burning foot on the paving at Tesoriere Swimming Pool, waiting to compete at our inter-House swimming gala. Stephen, then in his first year of high school, stopped by with some classmates in the afternoon on his way home to watch. As is the tempestuous progression of such blistering days, a summer breeze, a welcome relief to those not in the water, drifted in and gradually built to gusting. And as we swam and cheered, it found its way to the judges’ table, lifted the beach umbrella sheltering the staff from the heat of the day and tossed it like tumbleweed towards the group of schoolboys standing on the grass.

They say that there’s a million ways to die, but how many ways are there to render a life less lived? As Janine and I waited with my parents in the bleached corridors of Addington Hospital late that afternoon, Marge was informed by the attending neurosurgeon that Stephen had a small entry wound in his forehead and an equally small exit wound in the back of his head, on the opposite side, at the base of his skull—from the puncturing stroke of an umbrella spoke.

Why? Why Stephen? Why not me?

There were never illicit drugs. But there was binge-drinking. And there was hitch-hiking alone in the middle of the night, picking up strangers in bars and taking them home. And exercise: a lot. But distractions are no match for the chthonic demon of guilt, and ultimately it would make its insidious self well and truly manifest.

The natural world appears to exhibit causal determinism and mathematical order: the moon creates the tides; geometric fractals shape coastlines; and logarithms create the breathtaking spiral arms of our Milky Way. And, it seems, we humans are hardwired to look for this order in everything, including what happens to us in our individual lives, and to ascribe meaning—even where none can ever be found, the unscratchable itch of the Human Condition. Survivor guilt is a complex condition, but is almost always underpinned by subconscious notions of causality and a search for meaning. For an agnostic or an atheist, there are no apposite words or narratives for the absurdity of an umbrella on the wind, no neat narrative arcs for those who don’t ascribe these cruel and unusual events to magical thinking or some eventual reward for religious faith. They are ineffable, merely random, and that is all. But when exploring notions of causality as to why she’s survived into her 50s without so much as breaking a bone, while her brothers endured such terrible things, even someone of Janine’s scientific-rationalistic, irreligious mindset talks in terms of angels and demons, albeit always with the qualifier “if you believe in such things”. How else to make sense of moving through life relatively unscathed while, it seems, all around you some invisible force picks off your family?

In the book Pathological Altruism, the authors suggest that “empathy-based guilt often hovers behind pathological acts of altruism, generating the considerable energy spent in sometimes futile and often self– and other-destructive efforts to help… ..empathy-based guilt becomes pathogenic when it provokes cognitive errors in understanding causality.” Janine’s survivor guilt resulted not only in her pursuit to be a perfect child, but in pathological acts of altruism that saw her deny her own mental health needs well into middle age.

So, actually, I, I, I couldn’t ever really tell anybody anything because I was protecting them. I was protecting them. I was protecting my gran, protecting my mother, protecting my dad, protecting Lorr–. Lorraine still doesn’t know what happened to Stephen!

What happened to Stephen is this: in spite of his traumatic brain injury, which caused him to speak and walk as though permanently drunk, he graduated in pure mathematics and statistics, winning the top prizes at university, only to descend into madness and, after many years of psychiatric incarceration, to be bashed to death at the age of 40 by a fellow inmate in the toilets of a psychiatric hospital. By then Janine had packed her bags, said goodbye to her family and a 3 ½ year romantic relationship in Durban, and emigrated, alone, 11 200 kilometres away, to a country she barely knew. But three months into her new life of self-created stability, Stephen’s murder would conjure up overwhelming survivor guilt, breaching every weapon of resilience and defence that she had armed herself with over the years. Afraid and suffering from terrible insomnia, she finally sought the professional help and care that she should have had as a little girl.

She describes her psychiatrist as “brilliant” and someone who, with endless patience and humour, steered her towards accepting her survival and understanding that the happy, peaceful life she now lives is not a betrayal of her brothers’ memory. To finally find comfort in the company of strangers: absurd, isn’t it? _______________________________________________________________________________KP

This text is published here with the full permission of Janine Scott.