THE HOUSE INSIDE ME

by Camelia Wheatley

  “Shall we bury them?” they’d say. Over and over. “Shall we bury them?” I’d shut my eyes and try to make them go away. They stayed. I’d hear their voices in my ears and my mind.

  “Bury them!” I’d scream. And they would leave but my mind was already damaged, broken, and it drove me off the edge. The broken knob clicked and I heard a distant roar. My life unraveled. It affected my whole mind, my body, my spirit. Dead zones, mind lapses, a thousand aches and pains, black holes of time missing, sleep disorders, nightmares, panic attacks; and this was just the short list of mind meltdowns. The more I fought to keep my marriage together, the more Sam cheated outright in front of me, as if he couldn’t care if I knew or not. It was the ultimate betrayal. He continually mocked me and all my attempts at reconciliation. There were days I couldn’t get out of bed. The earth felt as if it was swallowing me, holding me in its deep dark mouth beneath the ground where no one could reach me. This would last for days, or weeks, then reverse itself as if the earth vomited me out of its stomach. Instead of bed-locked depression, my body would fill with uncontrolled energy, an atom bouncing off the walls, wanting to split into a thousand fragments. I could no more control myself than I could stop the earth from rotating.

  The breaking point came when I sat at a red light. Pulling up next to me was Sam and next to him was Cynthia Stubblefield. They weren’t even hiding it. They had to know it was me. They talked, laughed and cut up. I didn’t exist to them. Like everyone else in my life.

  Cass didn’t exist. I sat there weaving in and out of my mind. The light turned green and I couldn’t move. Horns blew, cars sped by me and yet I still couldn’t move. My mind spun, the broken knob clicked and in a waft of images and sounds, I replayed the last few months over in my head, all of the fights Sam and I had, the verbal abuse, objectification, mocking me, then the phone call to my mother, her rejection, make the bed, live the lies, the kitchen identity, the pots and pans, the drinking, the little girls asking, “Shall we bury them?”

  Right then and there, at the intersection of Trinity and Grafton, I came undone. I went straight home in a manic neurotic trance as if someone else had control of my body. Walking inside the house was like stepping inside the house of Sam. Him, him, him. Never about me. Triggers went off inside me, little bombs exploding one by one of all the bad things Sam ever said to me. Arguments, disagreements, cut-downs, pushing me away was fuel to the fire. I yanked his stupid stuffed duck off the wall and plucked all the feathers off with satisfaction. I took down the freeze-dried mummified bobcat he was so proud of killing and talked about constantly as if he was some great warrior. I hated animal trophies. I never understood it. I had no problem with hunting for food or making items of use from the skins, bones, etc…

  My dad hunted all his life, but the difference was he ate everything he killed and had no need to glorify his skills by hanging a dead animal on the wall. The more I looked at the bobcat, the more he cried out to me. It was like he needed to be sacrificed, to be set free, to go the kingdom of which he came. I felt obliged to help. The bobcat, and myself. I cut the head off the bobcat, stuffed my wedding ring inside and laid it in my purse. A plan was forming in my mind, unstoppable, and out of my control. It would set us all free. I gathered a few scattered bones from Sam’s miserable collection and made a necklace with them and the duck feathers. I placed it around my neck. The clattering of the bones as I walked sounded like applause, the spirits of many clapping me onward in my mission of emancipation.

  I crammed garbage bags full of Sam’s animal trophies, clothing, hunting jackets, T-shirts, shoes, boots, accessories, pictures, knickknacks, belts, magazines, basically everything I could stuff into a bag, until there was nothing left but duck feathers and furniture. I knew I could not stuff all the bags into my ’89 Buick, so I phoned a coworker and asked to borrow her pickup. We exchanged vehicles, and on the way back, I stopped at the hair shop and bought a long blonde number 14 wig with curls. I went back to the house, loaded up the truck and changed into black pants and a black shirt. I put the wig on and stared into the mirror reflection. My eyes were blank and lost, lonely and sad. The mirror changed to reveal an assortment of people, Maw Sue, and a whole slew of little girls of every age. They faded in and out of the silver reflections like my past self, intermingling with my future self. It was weird and oddly comforting.

  And then it appeared in the mirror, as if someone was drawing on my face. Stripe after stripe appeared on my face. In my head I heard whispers from the reflections. A warrior going into battle needs insignia, a mark to distinguish and intimidate the enemies. The next thing I knew, the seven scar on my palm was sliced open, there was blood all over the sink, the bone necklace and blood red streaks across my face.

  I could hear drumbeats in the distant calling me. Sounds and songs, tribal lyrics and music. I was ready to be free. Ready for war. Ready to battle. I was a warrior. My pupils erupted into tiny flickering flames. I saw them in the mirror image of myself. They burned hot tears as I walked to the refrigerator and took out the bowl of collard greens. I grabbed a box of matches and walked to the truck. Still crying tears and still laughing. It wasn’t my normal laugh. It was one of those long, maddening, lost-your-way kind of halfway cry, halfway laughs that never find their way back. I barely recognized it as my own, but I knew it was the broken me, the parts of me I keep hidden inside the House of Seven deep within me.

  * * *

  The next day I was oblivious to what happened. My memory was blank. My mind was catatonic. The broken knob had finally broken all of me. I remember drifting in and out consciousness, fog and feathers, faces and fire. Knock-knock. Drifting, floating. Louder knocks, over and over. Then a rush of people standing above me, circling, leaning in and back. Shadow people I didn’t recognize. I thought I heard Sam’s voice but wasn’t sure. I scanned the room but it was a mist in my sleepy eyes. I felt a tickle on my arm. I turned my head sideways until my cheeks were flush on the cold hardwood floor. There I was. Sprawled out in a pile of feathers, couch cushion stuffing and animal bones in Sam’s office. People leaned in and out, their faces big then small, their lips moving with garbled words. It was dreamlike. Until it was black. Then I woke up and I could hear them, and feel them around me, touching me, asking me question after question.

  Are you okay Mrs. Reed? Can you hear me? Are you hurt? Did you cut yourself? How did you cut yourself? Can you tell me? Did you start the fire? Mrs. Reed? Mrs. Reed?

  Hearing them speak and call me by my married name, lit something within me. I went at them like a cat. The next thing I know I’m being restrained by the shadows, who turned out to be police and paramedics. I was too far gone. My mind drifted. My lips yelled. But I had no idea what I said—my universe was muddled. They put me on a gurney and rolled me out. When my eyes hit daylight, the bright sun blinded me but I did catch a glimpse of a small crowd gathering. Sam was there and he wasn’t alone. Trembling, my fractured mind was far too fragile to touch the subject, went into denial mode. I pushed the broken parts of me deep inside, to the place of protection. The House of Seven. I was safe there. For the time being.

  I cannot be sure of how much time passed. I woke up in the hospital and for the first five-seconds, I thought for sure I was in Castle Pines. I started screaming and tossing bedsheets and pulling out wires and tubes. A policeman and nurse ran inside trying to calm me down. After a few minutes of intense questioning on my part, I understood, how I came to be here. I wasn’t in Castle Pines, but Grafton Hospital. There was a fire. I had a deep cut on my hand. Police stood guard at my door. I was alarmed but that wasn’t the worst of it. I looked down at the bracelet on my wrist with my name and the words that sent a rack of chills through my bones.

  5th Floor Psychiatric Ward

  Confused. Puzzled. Scared. I had no memory of coming here. And what fire? And why was my hand bandaged? And the guard? Was I in trouble? What happened? I began to panic, begging the nurse for answers. The next thing I know, the nurse inserts a needle
in my IV tube and my panic subsides immediately. I’m calm, subdued but still lucid enough to understand what’s going on. My mind is tossing and turning still. Some time passes before a tall, lanky gray-haired woman wearing a navy pant suit walks in with a manilla file. She flips out her badge, opens the file and fills me in.

  Arson, criminal mischief and trespassing? That can’t be me, I said. Until I looked at my palm all wrapped up and bloody. Why can’t I remember? What is wrong with me? But all I could ponder was Castle Pines and Maw Sue. My worst fears were coming true.

  * * *

  I sprang up from the couch. I was in a cold sweat. I eyeballed my surroundings to make sure where I was. It was my own house, NOT Castle Pines, and not the hospital.

  “Holy shit.” I said to myself, “I remember. I remember everything. I did it. I set the fire. I did it all. Oh my God, it was me.” There was a sense of relief and also panic. I went to the kitchen sink and poured a glass of water and gulped it down. I ran to the phone and quickly dialed Doc’s number but realized it was three in the morning. I hesitated but decided to leave a message anyway. This was different than all the times before. Pearl’s bland voice came on, then a beep.

  “Pearl. I know it’s late. I know. But this is important. SERIOUSLY, PEARL. I need you to tell Doc to call me. Or not. Hell, you can call me. Just PLEASE move my appointment up a day or two. And guess what? I know what I did. I got my memory back. I know, I know, I get it. I’ve called before with bullshit, but this, this is the truth. Okay, Pearl? Good. Okay, thanks, you’re the best, really, okay, bye.” I hung up before I could tell her who it was. I laughed out loud because she would know exactly who it was. My voice was her damn nightmare. I tossed and turned the rest of the night, barely able to sleep. It was clear to me now that I had set the fire. It was all me. Guilty as charged. I was the crazy-town arsonist. This didn’t bother me half as much as the fact Edna Rollins was right, probably for the first time in her life.

  I walked into Doc’s office full of adrenalin the next morning. Thankfully Pearl called and was able to move up my appointment since I was so urgent. She stared at me with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. I paced the floor like a caged animal. I was so full of information I was about to bust. I heard the door open from the small hallway, and Doc appeared. I rushed her like a football quarterback. I coiled myself around her like a python. I hugged her so tight I thought she was going to drop my file.

  “Cass, are you alright? It’s okay, calm down, now, now. Let’s go in my office and talk.” She patted my back as I unhinged myself from her. My eyes were already leaking as I started talking the second Doc closed the door. She quickly sat down and started writing with her hoodoo pen. I walked the floor with open lips revealing all the secrets of my past, the memories of the ceremony, the owl, the meaning of it, my mirror bin, all the rituals of the Seventh Tribe, the stories I was told, my belief in them, our locust crowns, my inability to accept the reality of my parents’ relationship woes, the seven scar on my palm, my mother showing up at the fire ceremony and freaking out about the cut, the lies she made up afterwards that I learned to believe were true, along with the horror of what happened, the trauma it caused me, the terror of the unknown. Maw Sue and the white van, her going to Castle Pines, my hatred for my mother because of it, which eventually led to me slipping in my mind, my actions, the anger I felt. I pushed the memories down. Repressed. Erased. Then over time, teen years, me marrying Sam, the cheating, the fights, the replications of my childhood repeated in my life all over again, yet I couldn’t see it even though a part of me knew it wasn’t right. I felt it deeply in my bones, probably the combined pain of having to relive it twice, first with my parents, and then in my own life. Me being the fixer type, I realized nothing was working. No fixes. Not them, not me. Nothing. Eventually, everything came to a halt. My mind, my body, my spirit could no longer accept it. I know without a doubt it started long ago in my childhood, but it increased slowly over time and trauma. I do believe it finally exploded into a full-fledged mental breakdown when I made the phone call to my mother. It was then I really knew my sham marriage was over, if it ever existed at all. When it didn’t work out like I dreamed it would, nor did I get motherly approval, that is when the little girls came in. I’m thinking to rescue me. Lead me back to my roots. It was necessary pain. My overwhelming need for acceptance from my mother went deep. Her rejection ran deeper. It triggered the broken knob to finally go off its hinge. Click. Clatter. Broke. Utter mental breakdown.

  Doc continued to write in my thick file while I continued to pour out the descent of madness which provoked me to become a pyro. A crazy person. Make the bed. Live the lies. Stalk the cheating husband. Make it work. Be the Southern wife you should be. Everything is so clear to me now, as if I see what was hidden from my mind, only now that I understand the whole picture. It was then I first saw the little girls appear, the ones created in childhood out of necessary pain and denial. I saw them take my word bones to the Hush cemetery, beside the House of Seven. Things came to a head the day I saw Sam and Cynthia Stubblefield at the intersection living a life that should have been mine. My mind snapped. When the light turned from green to yellow to red—all I could see was flames. Everyone knows what happens after that. Just read The Pine Log Gazette. Edna will give you the lowdown.

  Once I had finished spilling my guts, I felt emptied of all emotions. So much so, that I took a long-winded gasp and leaned back on the couch. I was exhausted from lack of sleep but it felt good to finally know the truth. It didn’t seem to matter to me that I was guilty and in a heap of trouble. For me, knowing the story behind it, the whole story, was more important.

  “Doc…” I said in despair, “everything the eyewitnesses said must be true. I mean, partially. I think it was typically exaggerated to a level where Edna exceeded her creative writing liberties a little too far, because I suppose from a bystander point of view, it had to be a bit odd what I did.” I laughed a little thinking about it. “But I wasn’t devil worshipping and I’m not part of some cult, although some people probably wouldn’t understand my great-grandmother’s rituals too much. But I did set that cheating sumbitch’s clothes and crap on fire. And the animal trophies make sense now. So does the bone and feather necklace. I think I was recreating my childhood ceremony, but to cleanse myself of Sam, using his trophy animals in place of the owl sacrifice. I mean they were already dead and all, but I was making a point. It fit the narrative, so to speak. It’s so weird now that I remember bits and pieces of that night, coming and going. It’s like I dreamed it, but I know it actually happened. I think it was part of my mind separating it from me, maybe to protect me, I’m not sure. But I did sing and dance. The neighbors were right. I sang Minnie the Moocher and I sang our childhood tribal song Meg and I made up. And I danced just like I did when I was a child, as if Maw Sue had just cut the head off an owl and made a sacrifice. In the only way I knew how, I was trying to put my life back together. I wanted to feel the way I felt the night before the hell that was my mother showed up to ruin it. I wanted to feel alive. I don’t think I’ve felt alive in a long time, Doc. I think I yearned to feel something good. Maw Sue was the only one who had the magic to make me feel like I was made for something bigger. I admit, there was eccentric rituals, blood stuff and ceremonies, old family stories and traditions, but it was pure magic, the kind you never want to leave you, even after you grow old. It connected me to my kin, to people I feel I know, although I’ve never met them. It matters to me. It did then. It does now.

  “I just remember feeling oddly disconnected the night of the fire, and this was the only way I knew to upright myself and find ME, the girl I used to be, or was, back then. I had a ceremony. So yes, I set Sam’s clothes on fire in Cynthia Stubblefield’s yard. I was ridding myself of my marriage and cleansing myself of myself, so I could be the person Maw Sue said I could be. Who I’ve always wanted to be. Was it wrong? Could I have done it differently, sure, I see that now, but my mind is different now too.
I think differently because of you. Therapy has opened doors that would have never been opened otherwise. Am I ashamed of what I did? Not really. Honestly, it doesn’t compare to the brutality that Sam put me through. Would I do it again? Probably not. Now I see that he’s not worth my time or effort.

  “BUT I will say this…if it was the only way back to my true self, then I’d do it all over again. Those ghost girls, the ones who appeared to me in the mirror that night, along with Maw Sue, were guiding me. Say what you want, but I do believe they did. Call it crazy or superstitious mumbo-jumbo, it doesn’t matter. In my mind, in that moment, it was real. I saw them. I listened to them. I did exactly as they said. We had us a ceremony. They were there. Because you see, they had to be. Each of them represented me at different ages throughout my childhood and teenage years. They knew me. They were all part of the process back to wholeness. They were the puzzle pieces to put me back as one. Weeks ago, I wouldn’t have shared this with you out of fear. But now I’m laying it all out. I’m telling you this, because I trust that you will help me to put myself back together. That there is some minuscule part of you that believes in magic and supernatural experiences that change a person. Could you send me to Castle Pines as mentally unstable? Yes. You could very well do that, but knowing my whole story, I hope and pray that you won’t. I mean, was I hallucinating? I don’t know, Doc, I really can’t say, because it’s a little fuzzy, but at the time, in that moment, I needed them to be real. That little girl inside me needed them all to be real. YOU, of all people, Doc, you are the one who told me of the existence of the inner child. I just happen to have an inner child that split into several pieces, that is all. Will she heal? I hope so. I hope I heal with her. I pray I can put her back together. All of it is who I am now. It’s who I’ve always been. I just didn’t know it until now. It’s like the masterpiece hanging in your lobby that I love so much. The painter has black angels. He wouldn’t be his true self without them. I am the same. I have a broken knob. And you have helped me find my outlet, my art, my blue line.”