by Beth Harden
In the morning, the cycle started up all over again. The volunteers rolled us into the day room after breakfast claiming that visual stimulation helped to reorient the confused. In truth, it was a cheap babysitter that allowed them an extra hour of chit-chat in the smoking lounge. Part of my aversion to television might have been passed down from parents who despised the invasion of this ‘idiot box’ and rarely turned it on except to watch Cronkite deliver his stately evening address. Now Brokaw’s tight-lipped monotone joined the new parade of faces. Movie stars hawking products. Housewives scrubbing shower tiles, people making fun of people, the peeks at and giggles over pretend lives. But to its credit, that piece of electronic crap motivated me more than anything else; better than the pulleys, bars, squeeze balls, adapted spoons and special grip pencils. I feared the life it promised me unless I worked harder to escape it. So inch by inch, I figured out how to reach downwards to pull the brake handle and turn the rubber wheel with one hand, jerking fore and aft to make minute progress and not end up in a full circle facing front again. The charge nurse always found me in the hallway, near the water fountain, down by the elevator and cluck, clucked her tongue at the breach in care plan. Thanks to Winnie Cooper and Kevin Arnold, Barbara Walters, Luke and Laura’s absurd General Hospital dysfunction and the dysfunction of hospitals in general, I cancelled my short-lived run as a trauma patient at Gaylord Hospital after nine weeks and went on to star in a more challenging but obscure role. The debut of my new-normal life.
#
The white farmhouse appeared, papered with streamers and balloons all bumping madly in the breeze. The lawn was lost under the feet of many people all crowded together in suspense waiting for a chrome bumper to come glinting through the stand of forest. When they finally spied it, they waved and clapped and let out a huge hurrah that echoed against the big firs at the edge of the clearing.
“What’s this all for?” I asked numbly. “Did somebody graduate?”
“In a sense, yes. It’s all for you, Princess,” Dad said. I turned and looked at him with sincere shock.
“They all know what happened to me?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Of course, this is your town. Your home,” he announced with a wide flourish of his hand. Home. We’d been wending our way for hours past tobacco barns, sluggish rivers, antique flea markets, empty fish traps and singing bridges to just that place. There was a girl who had left here just a little less than four short years ago, her white Corolla packed to the roof with hangers and lamps and a red valise with black leather piping full of love letters that would ground her to where and whom she belonged. The laminated luggage tag was a dead give-away should she ever forget. A cold panic erupted in my belly. I began to frantically claw at the door handle. That girl was gone. People would be asking questions with answers only she would know. I had to get out of here. Goddamn piece of Japanese shit! The door handle sprung back with resistance.
“Baby girl, what the heck are you doing?” my father cried out with one arm thrown across my torso to still the thrashing.
“Let me out! Let me go!” I hissed, battling the buttons on the inner door panel.
“Calm down, honey. You’ll be fine,” he insisted.
“No, I’m not!” I wailed. Dad slammed the old forest green Subaru into park, jumped out, ran around to the passenger side and swung the tinny door open. It creaked with the effort of age. An air of unease seeped in through the open door. The crowd of people sucked in their breath in one collective inhale of suspense. What would they see? How would they react? Would their horror be apparent? Everyone wants to peer at the face of near-death. Murder is intriguing, sensational even. It causes people to gape in fascination and look away in repulsion when they’ve had enough, but no one wants to lift the dirty veil of shame on a rape victim. It is a matter to be whispered about behind cupped hands and closed doors. People examine you, their eyes dart and flit without censure as if this is some kind of figure drawing class and their assignment is to sketch out the tilt of pelvis, the slope of lean thigh and the lift of dense breast. Is she a brash girl with a Brazilian, I wonder? And from there, their imagination leaps into overdrive. Did she scream? Maybe she liked it even so. Suddenly, my extremities went dead on me. The limbs that had responded so well to all those months of physical therapy reverted back to the rubbery uselessness of a baby.
“I can’t,” I mumbled.
“C’mon, don’t be shy,” my father said. “They’ve been expecting you.” My father leaned in and offered his elbow as a prop. He helped maneuver my thin legs on the warm leather until I could scoot over to the edge of the seat and tip forwards. He used that momentum to pull me upright.
“Now, look who’s here!” he announced proudly. I took my maiden steps on home soil like a wounded warrior back from battle; a hero, but a damaged one that no longer knew the lay of the land beneath the feet. Aaron took up an escort position on my left and with the help of my chaperones, I executed a pigeon-toed waltz that left the crowd cheering for more. The reaction overwhelmed me. I could have done anything or nothing at all. It was unconditional love at second sight for the girl whose face had put Gust Harbor on the media map, not only local channel WBGT but also Associated Press articles in newspapers as far away as New Jersey and Chicago. My story had even hit the submission desk of America’s Most Wanted, though it never aired. A special mutual funds account had been opened up at Bangor Savings to take in the bake and book sale profits, as well as a flood of incoming donations with all proceeds going to the Braum family medical fund.
“You look beautiful, honey,” cooed Mary Murphy. I smiled. Phony bitch! I reeled that unpleasant, unspoken remark in tighter. I hadn’t meant to think such a thing about my former Brownies pack leader. Where did that come from? Small waves of pressure began to pulsate behind my eyes. I turned to the next guest.
“We’ve been praying for you,” said Bud Grant, longest-living deacon at the Evangelical Baptist Church. Drunken bastard! The judgment leapt to life of its own accord. I was instantly appalled at my brain’s indiscretion and politely grasped the knotted hand that had been rinsing out tiny plastic communion cups stained with grape juice since before my birth announcement was posted in the Sunday bulletin. A shimmering wave of floaters cascaded into my line of vision. I blinked repeatedly. With Aaron’s steady encouragement, I made the slow procession through the greeting line that had formed around the open yard of chapped grass. The attention lured me on. I tugged my arm free from my boyfriend’s gentle grip and took a confident stride unassisted. Aaron looked hurt but stepped ahead to clear a safe path as I paraded about like regal Lady Di herself, minus the nifty wardrobe. The reflection tossed back from one of the barn windows told the truth and the spell was broken. It was a sham. The imposter was revealed for what she was, a pauper girl yearning to be lifted out of her rotten circumstances. The tottering young woman was a ghastly excuse for a royal, her tiara no more than a studded headband to hide the scars and patches of barren follicles. Her newly-sprouted hair had been swept into an awkward bob; one delicate hand clenched in useless palsy at her side. Worse, the prince who tagged behind her didn’t have the balls to tell her the real reason he was doing it. It wasn’t about passion but pity.
“I think you should rest, now. Let’s take a break,” said Aaron. He tried to steer me over to the old apple sprayer with the rusted seat.
“It’s my party!” I shouted, much too loudly. Dad was kibitzing with Rolf Clark, but turned mid-sentence with concern at the shrill sound of agitation.
“I’m just looking after your well-being,” Aaron replied.
“I don’t need a fucking babysitter!” I shouted. The sound ricocheted off the bare wall of Ty-Vek insulation that bolstered up the weathered tool shed. A shard of pain speared through my temples and fizzled into descending pulses deep in the brain somewhere. Aaron looked nervously around to see which guests might have overhead and be growing alarmed.
“Shhh. Lissa, stop! Trust me, everyone here is your fri
end.” Trust me…trust me… I was instantly appalled at the nasty language that had skittered out my mouth like stealthy beetles unearthed from their darkness.
“Nosy cunts!” I hissed, brushing off his handhold on my arm.
“Jesus, girl. Come with me,” he ordered. I gave in and allowed him to lead me to the piece of old farm equipment. He grasped my waist carefully, lifted me slightly and helped settle me on the solid bench seat of the old tractor. “I’ll get you something to drink. Wait here. I’ll be right back,” Aaron said kindly. He hustled off in the direction of the refreshment table that was obscured by a bustle of bodies. I waited patiently, watching the party-goers buzz and cackle. The people of this community all belonged to a familiar landscape where normal things happened. They couldn’t possibly comprehend the tragic figure in their midst. They had turned out to my debut to compare sandals and handbags and thank their good Lord on the drive home that the worst problem their daughters had was which hair style to get next. I was the oddity here. The niceties had been replaced by nasty comments about Ruth Bassett’s weight gain and the way Greg Thorsen kept his eyes trained on the breasts of his toddler’s teenaged babysitter. Suddenly, the ladies congregated at the picnic table all swiveled their attention in my direction. Mom waved to me. A neighborhood-sized cake dazzled on and dwarfed the old wagon-train platter. It was her homemade recipe with field blueberries and hand-whipped cream.
“Come do the honors, Lissa,” she sang.
“Speech, speech,” echoed the guests. The princess-girl heaved a sigh of relief. Finally! It’s time for me to shine. With graceful balance, she swung her legs over side-saddle and prepared to dismount the carriage. Prince Aaron came striding out of the masses to claim his love. The pauper girl knew better and sputtered in embarrassment. The back of my throat and tongue had been suddenly robbed of its moisture. My chest began to rise and fall in a rush of baby breaths. It felt like a heavy weight was tipping my skull over backwards. I had to get out of there! I propelled myself off the rusted seat but with no stabilizing surface to guide me, my body freewheeled in space for a span of about four feet. After what felt like long minutes, my chin touched down where my feet should have landed.
“Daddy! Daddy,” I sobbed. Blood eked out over my bottom lip along with a shard of enamel from the chipped tooth up front. I had taken a good knock to the breastbone. From there it went all downhill. I couldn’t stop crying, nor seemed to have the strength to roll up out of the dirt. People came running. A variety of footwear approached at eye level. Someone grabbed at my elbow. It was Aaron. He extended his palm towards me with gentle fingers pressing against my throbbing lip.
“Leave me alone!” I shrieked. The partygoers stood in an awkward semi-circle sensing a crisis. No one knew how to help the fallen princess until Dad’s strong chapped hands brought me upright.
“It’s okay, sweetie. You’ll be fine. Just a little cut,” he said, soothingly. I huddled up against his broad shirt front and refused to look back at the crowd.
“Get me out of here, please,” I begged. My father hesitated momentarily. Being the magnanimous host that he was, he wondered what he should do? Disappointed guests on one side, a hysterical daughter on the other and his wife staring in stony disbelief from the fringe of the circle. He took it all in and came up with a magnanimous apology that appeased everyone.
“Too much excitement for one day. That’s understandable,” Dad said. “Excuse us, if you don’t mind.” He needn’t have worried. His invitees had gotten more their money’s worth. A real show with Cinderella transformed into a bundle of ashen nerves within the hour. My Mom dropped in beside us as he escorted me into the cool interior of the house. I realized I hadn’t even made it inside before I was sucked into all the festivities underway. While my brothers took up the task of excusing the company early, my parents ushered me towards the safety of the back wing.
“Maybe we were a little premature on the party idea. You weren’t up to so much company. We should have thought that through,” Dad said. He squeezed my shoulders with regret.
“I’m sorry. I ruined it,” I mumbled.
“We did what we thought was best. What’s done is done, “said my mother. Life’s recent ills had bred a new strain of skepticism that had taken firm root in her garden of faith. She swung open the door. “Well, do you like it? Doesn’t it look just the same?” she asked.
The first floor parlor had been hoed out and overhauled, dusted and painted in a green pear and dusty rose décor. Apparently my upstairs bedroom had been recreated down to the smallest detail possible. The room faced westward with a view over the yellow field grass to the logging road dappled in weak sunlight before it disappeared quickly into darkness. This wasn’t mine. I would move back upstairs as soon as I could manage the slippery steps.
Mel and Russ had just driven for over seven hours to bring me back to a homecoming celebration that had fallen miserably short of their expectations. They had mistakenly assumed that the sight of the familiar would welcome their vacant daughter back to wholeness; unfortunately, she was only partially occupied, blinking on and then off in erratic inconsistency like a motel signboard in a big wind.
“It’s very nice,” I said. It was unsettling being in some girl’s bedroom with her collection of Bremer horses and Madame Alexander dolls perched on royal blue shelves exactly where she had deserted them, but without their owner present to introduce us. We eyed one another with detached curiosity; and then since I was the newcomer, I decided to break the impasse with a civil but silent greeting. Buenos Dias! To Miss Argentina with her brightly colored striped petticoat and a cool wink to Miss Russia in her red and white peasant apron and shiny black braids wound tight to her scalp. Shalom! to Miss Israel with her six-point star earrings and a subtle nod to Miss Cambodia in pink kimono, straw hat tied down tight to shield her eyes. Each one had the same beautiful face disguised in the dress of her native country. They stared at their new foster mom with global disinterest, batting their hard plastic eyelids and pursing perfect red lips.
“Are you tired, dear? Would you like to nap?” Mel asked.
“Yes, I think I’ll rest for a bit,” I said. She kindly turned down the quilt that was needed here in Maine even on a late summer afternoon.
“There are fresh towels in the basket and a new robe if you would like to change,” she said. I saw her sniff the air for any trace of the medicinal smell that follows the sick.
“Thank you. I can manage,” I said stiffly. She left then, turning on the window fan and closing the door quietly behind her. I was not going to sleep in that bed. The twin frame had been lowered closer to the floor and fitted with handrails. A bed for a sick person. It was their little girl’s bed and I did not want to be caught sleeping in it when she came back. I yanked the comforter off with pinched fingers and dropped it on the floor, and then one by one took the dolls off their stiff perch and assembled them on the bed. We all needed to get along and it was nice to have their company closer. Or if in the case anyone acted up, they were within reach of a spanking.
#
Overnight and with no warning like the fickle weather that sneaks up on the Bay, a batting of haze descended on my brain. High pressure one minute followed by a descent into socked-in fog. Peeks at fair atmosphere would arrive but invariably the gloom of amnesia would settle back in place. Bipolar, said one doctor. Borderline Personality Disorder warned another. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder with psychotic features confirmed a third. I bounced back and forth to Bangor’s loony bin for outpatient treatment. Individual therapy went nowhere. How was I to talk about a childhood that had been pulled apart and scattered like the sticks and spokes of a Tinker toy? I was a storm within my own skin. Sweet Russ drove me back and forth to each appointment without complaint. When I fell quiet with disappointment in the wake of failed medication trials or a lousy session of he said/she psychoanalysis, my father carried enough hope for the both of us.
“Trust me,” he said. Why those two simple words
caused such a feeling of dread, I wasn’t sure; but pad by pad like a big cat sliding on its dusty belly, anxiety stalked in closer. Sleep skittered farther out of range. One moved forward; the other hop-tailed out of reach until the white flag of retreat went up and bounded out of sight. Panic pursued on a full-blown run until I conceded and collapsed tongue lolling. The bad days became more frequent. Dark moods like scudding clouds came rippling out of nowhere and refused to lift. Day terrors left me paralyzed on the bed with shocks of electrical charge buzzing though my body, eyes wide open but seeing only as a third-person observer. My mind screamed to try and wake me out of a dream I was fully aware was real. Sometimes it took hours to wrestle my consciousness out of the hands of the illogical and finally startle to a full-blown panic attack; after which I was so exhausted, I would fall back asleep to another round of torturous mind games.
Despite all the pharmaceutical and psychological intervention, I still couldn’t recall a single thing about the attack or retain any detail that preceded it. There was only darkness and then there was me. Let there be light, God said, and when the sun exploded onto the scene, it revealed a creation that held little likeness to the image of what he had in mind. This version had a shorn head, dissected skull, sutured face, and skin completely sloughed off contorted limbs. A wealth of darkness stretched out over the early years. A first peek revealed nothing but an opaque net thrown over my life that had trapped whole days, weeks and months underneath it. I knew there was a teeming mass of stuff concealed beneath; important things that needed to come to light. While I didn’t understand the scientific mechanics behind the changes, the trauma had altered my visual field as if the color button was broken so that daily life played out in only black and white. Once in awhile, tiny shreds of enlightenment burst through in shrieks of color. I tried to catch them like brightly-hued moths on a barn door without brushing off the fragile beauty or destroying them altogether.
