by Emily Asad
Chapter 16: Inward, Not Onward
Statistic: Children of divorced parents tend to be "impulsive, irritable and socially withdrawn" as well as "lonely, unhappy, anxious, and insecure."
With the school play and fall concert over and finished, I had little distraction from my somber thoughts. Darcy’s funeral reminded me of how futile my efforts had been. I had really liked her. True, I only knew her for a few days, but we had discussed the most intimate secrets from the deepest parts of our hearts. And now my secrets were buried with her.
I decided to focus my energies on my animals. They were all going to die anyway, since they were being raised for food, except for the milk goats and the horses. I devoted myself to Zia, my goat, and to my filly.
Although they took up a good deal of time and affection, it wasn’t the same. Darcy had needed me as much as I needed her. The goat could care less, and Gallant Rose wasn’t very cuddly. Often I would stand underneath her neck with my arms draped around her in a sort of hug, but she didn’t like to hold still for very long and usually pulled away before I had extracted any comfort from her.
Having a horse of my own wasn’t quite what I had envisioned. Somewhere in my dreams, we were supposed to be able to run in a flower-covered meadow, my hair waving in the breeze. We would drink fresh water from a stream. We would go all over the countryside, sleeping out under the stars in front of the campfire, taking body heat from each other and being absolutely free. That’s what a horse was supposed to be for.
Reality was completely different. In the first place, Minnesotan winters are far from being romantic. I doubted if any of the flowers in the snow-covered meadow had survived the first frost. It was impossible to roam free across the countryside, because people always got upset about trespassing on their land. And if you’ve ever had your hair wave wildly in the breeze, you know that if it’s as long as mine, it gets tangled easily and takes hours to brush out. So much for the adventure.
Even so, I loved Gallant Rose and Charlie. Charlie was Mom’s horse, so I wasn’t terribly fond of him, but he was the only one I could ride. Galli and I worked on obedience courses in preparation for the State Fair in August. One way or the other, I wanted the blue ribbon.
I also threw myself into being the busiest little me I could possibly be, since being busy kept me from excessive grief. I did keep Darcy close by checking out a book of chess strategies from the library to study. Sometimes I would pretend that Gallant Rose was the stereotypical evil Russian opponent, and I was the American defender – the last hope to bring honor to my country and win the world chess tournament. Sometimes I imagined her as a child genius, and I was the old chess master trying to teach her new moves so she could defend herself against the adults at tournaments. It sounds corny, huh? I knew I was too old for imaginary friends, but real people and real life were too taxing.
I have an overactive imagination. I’ll be the first to admit it. It often gets me into trouble, too. For example, in early December, Mom and Roger enrolled Matt in tae kwon do classes so he could learn how to control his anger. He was forced to go twice a week, like it or not. At first he was upset because he hated being around other kids even more than I did, but once he realized that he would soon be a lethal weapon and could murder someone in their sleep, he applied himself whole-heartedly. He used me as a punching bag, too.
“Stand here, like this… no, spread your feet more. You’re trying to get a solid stance so I can’t knock you over.”
“Matt, I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
“No, trust me. Let me show you what I learned today…”
He would proceed to try to knock me over, which was usually successful. In turn, he expected me to push him as hard as I could to test his stance and see if he had balance or not. Both of us could be violent when the occasion arose. For me, it was easier to repress my anger instead of letting it get the best of me. I knew that once I started hitting, it was harder to stop. Quite unfeminine, I know – but I did enjoy giving a good kick or two from time to time. The authors of my favorite books would certainly have been chagrined at my unladylike behavior. For Matt, however, the quickest way to deal with stress was to knock his opponent flat on the ground and pummel them into oblivion, which was not exactly a good strategy for dealing with future employers and co-workers.
You’re probably wondering how that got me into trouble. Well, combine an active imagination with the desire to tear someone’s arms off, and you get a thwarted ninja. Yes, I considered myself a thwarted ninja.
I practiced stealth in the secrecy of my sanctuary. I became so good that the horses never heard me coming until I poured their oats into their buckets. The sheep hated me. They startled easily, and it was always a riot to get them to bleat from sheer terror. I walked on the dividers between the stalls as if they were a tightrope so I could practice my balance. In my own limited way, I did stretching and breathing exercises, trying to copy what Matt showed me each week.
Toward the middle of December, I was standing in front of my horses, knees bent the way Matt had shown me to afford me a solid stance, pretending that I was about to face an army of samurai on my own. The scenario was dismal; if I were killed, the city would be burned to the ground along with all the citizens, whose lives depended upon me alone.
I am calm, I thought. I cannot be frightened. I am aware of everything around me.
A tap on my shoulder made me scream like a three-year old girl. The horses bolted but had very little room to run, so they ended up knocking a hole through the divider.
I turned around. It was Matt. He laughed so hard I thought he would pass out from lack of oxygen.
Of course, I was furious. With him, for disrupting my secret thoughts and figuring out what I was doing, and with myself, for being a bad ninja. Especially, ninjas did not scream.
The parents never found out what made the horses kick the hole through the wall, and I never told them.
Well, that did not deter me from my daydreams. The next day I meditated again, listening to everything around me. I felt steady on my feet. Nothing could knock me over. With my eyes closed, I found I could concentrate better on the sounds around me. I heard a drop of water echo off the barn walls, and I was able to gauge the distance to the nearest wall. Nothing got past me. I was ready for anything.
A tap on my shoulder resulted in swift action. See if Matt would get away with that twice in a row! I whirled around and delivered a full-force punch into my opponent’s stomach.
It was Roger, not Matt.
Oops!
I covered my mouth with both hands, apologetic beyond expression. “Oh, my gosh! I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!”
He regained his breath within seconds, but I noticed he did keep his distance from me. “Looks like we put the wrong twin in tae kwon do,” he grunted.
Most of my other fantasies were not as drastic, but I took extra care to make sure that they stayed private. I found fulfillment in creating my own world, of which I was always in control. I was always the heroine who saved the damsel in distress (or the knight in distress, rather, since I was something of a feminist). In my kingdom, my word was law and nobody challenged me. Nobody raised their voices or hit another human being. Everyone said “I love you” twice a day, and meant it, too.
I suppose that daydreaming was a natural progression of the List, but it started to affect my schoolwork. Just before Christmas vacation, I emerged from Social Studies and realized that I hadn't heard a single word that had been said. The entire period was a complete blank. I know I had answered questions, and asked them, too, but I had no recollection of the past fifty minutes. That was the end of my uncontrolled daydreaming. I forced myself to focus on my schoolwork during class, and allowed myself to play between and after.
In any case, the New Me Project seemed to be a failure, name-wise at least. School was halfway over and I still didn’t have much of an identity. People still stumbled over my name to the point where I r
eally did answer to “Whatever.” Or “Hey, you” – that was a favorite for people who couldn’t remember what to call me. Darcy had proposed “Margerly” or “Bevaret” as a sort of compromise between the two names, but I couldn’t use them without missing her. I still had trouble signing papers, not knowing what to call my own self, and ended up using my first initial and my middle name.
I needed a friend. One that needed me. But I didn’t dare make any more. Once or twice I considered starting my own group, like a secret club, but that would have gone bust since I was the only person who would have joined. And as much as elderly people protest to the contrary, it’s really no fun to talk to yourself all day long. So I finally decided that people didn’t matter and I was fine on my own and there was no use in trying any more.
And then, just as Christmas vacation began, I met Mouser.
It was late at night and I couldn’t sleep, especially with Mom and Roger arguing downstairs in their “try to keep quiet, the kids are sleeping” fighting voices. I sneaked downstairs, heated some milk, and took it out to the barn.
I poured some milk into the lid of my Thermos, but it was too hot to drink so I set it aside to cool. I walked away, braided Galli’s tail, and then returned. I stopped several yards away from my intended target, for there, drinking my now-cool milk, crouched a gray-and-black tabby cat who probably had not eaten in several days.
My stealth training served me in good stead that evening. My footsteps were so light that she never suspected she was being watched. As soon as I saw her, my heart went out to her. She was pitifully thin and she constantly checked around her as if she expected something to attack. My nose betrayed me with a sniffle. Her head shot up at the sound. When she saw me, she bolted, leaving half the milk still in the Thermos lid.
I felt downright sorry for her, and something else, too. I felt as if she needed me.
She needed something, in any case – nutrition. That I could provide in abundance. Suddenly, my life had purpose again. I wanted to make friends with this scraggly, terrified animal who didn't trust people. She avoided me the way I avoided Naomi and the others. Our strategy was the same, to flee in the opposite direction.
I had to laugh at my own analogy. I certainly didn't consider myself an animal, but I did see myself in the cat. I decided to follow her.
She had jumped up on some hay bales that were arranged like stairs, and disappeared into the hay loft through a hole in the ceiling. The hole was far too small for me to climb through, so I took the ladder.
A tiny, faint mew from the corner on the opposite side caught my attention. I found the tabby cat nestled around a single kitten. Decaying carcasses told me that there had originally been five kittens, but they must have died from starvation. I judged the survivor to be perhaps four weeks old, since his legs were still stumpy.
The tabby hissed at me and would have dashed away if it had not been for her protective instincts. Ha! I had the hook I needed to earn her trust.
I backed away, climbed downstairs for the milk, and returned, moving as slowly and quietly as I could so that I would not appear to be a threat to her. Careful to not violate her space, I set the Thermos lid down where she could see it, then retreated to a safe distance. I didn't leave, however. I waited.
I could tell that she was considering her options. She had already had a drink, so the edge had been taken off her hunger. Even so, I knew she wanted more. She could see me and knew that I was connected to the milk. But was it a trap, or was it really free milk?
Apparently her first drink had not satisfied her. Slowly, cautiously, ready to dart away at the least provocation, she crawled toward the milk. Her shoulder blades made furry triangles in the air as she kept her body as low to the ground as she could. She also kept her eyes fixed on me at all times, never blinking once. Even when she reached the milk and began lapping at it, she continued to watch me. She didn't finish the entire cup, though. It was probably too nerve-wracking for her to even be drinking with me within eyeshot.
My controlled movements would have pleased the ninja master as I rose, collected the cup, and returned downstairs. Now that I knew where she hid, I would be able to feed her twice a day with infinite patience until she learned to trust me.
I made an ultimatum with myself. It was, after all, almost the New Year. I decided that, if I could get the cat to voluntarily come and cuddle in my lap, then I would venture out into the world of human relationships again. Until then, it would be just me, Gallant Rose, my juggling, and my books.
