The Eye Unseen

by Cynthia Tottleben

  Aunt Evelyn took the time to report on the current atmosphere of this section of Mexico. Apparently the wind itself had set the hairs on Evelyn’s arms on end. She could feel Maria hovering in the area; she could also detect that not much had changed in the hearts of the local men. Watching the women, she understood that they still suffered in their marriages, their eyes silent yet pleading for her to leave. No one appreciated her questions, the interpreter she had hired, the suitcase bringing her modern effects into their isolated home.

  The photos depicted a land of scrub and sand, a dryness that extended to the people’s hearts. The odd individual nodded in her direction. Most information was gathered by Evelyn’s hired man, an elder who lived close enough that he was treated as a tolerated visitor and drunkenly shared stories with the men in town as they put back tequila and whiskey late into the night.

  Maria was still regarded will ill repute, her name a curse among her people. The villagers despised her and those who held but a vague memory of her in their veins. Women, in their world, did not kill. They capitulated. Women surrendered their will, their passion, their very souls to the more brutal sex.

  But not Maria. Since her act of unprecedented carnage, no female in her village was allowed to share her name. She was an outcast even among the women.

  Men, much like her husband and father, felt she had wronged her husband when the baby died. They chortled as they discussed her punishments, first at the bar and later when Maria was locked in the outhouse and offered to anyone who used it.

  When her confinement in the fly-infested shack had ended, Maria was no longer sane. Her mother came to help her bathe and prepare the house to please her husband. She encouraged her to conceive again, but Maria was unresponsive. Almost comatose. Except for the hatred in her eyes.

  Later her mother would recall the tales passed through her family but would deny knowing that Maria was the marked woman. Until the husband told survivors that as he butchered his once beautiful wife, her eyes changed, became possessed.

  “One turned black,” one man explained. “He told her to make it stop and when she wouldn’t, took a rock to her face. The witch never stopped staring at him with that vile eye. After she died, he spit on her, told his friends that he wouldn’t have treated a dog so badly.”

  As for Maria, she knew her demise was imminent. She was prepared. The woman knew exactly how to avenge her own death and cause many more.

  “Mother dreamt of dark water. She wouldn’t even tell us what had frightened her so much, she woke up screaming and spent the entire morning in church, wailing. When she came home she forbade us from drinking anything the animals wouldn’t touch. Several of our goats died, because we stole all their water.” Her sister later admitted. She was among the few who lived once the contaminant was in place. Maria’s family and the men in the bar who had ravaged her. They neither used the local water to bathe nor drank it, preferring their liquor to quench a thirst that never ended.

  The sister alone knew what Maria threw in the town’s water supply, passing the information to her daughters one night when she had imbibed too much of the booze her husband bottled and sold to the old men in town. The toxin was fitting. A festering, rotten chunk of flesh that upon birth had resembled her own mother, right down to the spot in her eye that had infuriated Eduardo. Maria chucked her stillborn daughter into the water and let nature take its course, the bacteria building as the baby’s body decayed, the well a source of death for the wives and children of the men who had touched her.

  Aunt Evelyn made many notations on her report, including a three-page journal entry describing the women still living in the village. Forlorn, she called them. Their faces disfigured by scars and poorly healed bones. She understood that the only medical help any received came from the other women in town or their families, if they were even allowed to speak to them. A collection of battered women, who had witnessed their own mothers endure punishment after punishment at the hands of their husbands and sons, saw this life as their destiny, their silent acceptance keeping the abuse alive generation after generation.

  Evelyn couldn’t wait to escape the village. She had never married and was fiercely independent, unlike the women she encountered in Mexico. Their passivity almost incapacitated her. My aunt, the powerhouse of all women in our family, left her documentary trip and hid for three months in Europe, “redirecting her energy,” as she wrote. She did not seek refuge in the arms of a lover, the cold stone walls of a cathedral, or even the vast libraries that she spent weeks exploring. Evelyn sought the earth, sitting for days on end watching waves repeat their steady trip to land, or hunkering down in the forests, her skin coated in mud to ward off infestations of mosquitoes. I loved reading her passages on wind and rain, how she equated thunderstorms to county fairs and preferred a downpour to sunshine any day of the week.

  Evelyn had to heal. She held it all for us: our family’s history, the explosive guilt and fascination that propelled her every day to solve the enigma of our women. She alone could stand up in front of God and defend our ancestors or help Him point the finger and send us all to the burning fires below. I could feel her heartbeat just by reading her words, recognize it in my own chest, the muscle matching the rhythms of the water, my body’s energy ebbing and tiding with each gust of wind as it flowed over my skin while her papers sat still on my lap below.

  In my adulthood, Evelyn had crawled back out of her grave, just to distract me. She crept from the photo I kept on my bedside table, rummaged through my dreams. For years she had just passed time, watching, sitting in the background of whatever scenario my REM sleep created. Occasionally pointing me in a direction I didn’t even know existed.

  But now I could sense Evelyn sitting beside me, her arms alive as she gestured and clapped and made little movie shows with her hands while relating her stories. Inevitably she turned to me, glared. Demanded to know when I was going to get off my ass and get my work done. Rambled on and on about how she had easily predicted that I would give birth to the final one, the destined child, and how I would never be able to take care of things myself.

  I showed her pictures of my dead husband.

  Raised my shirt and displayed my left breast, the scar a pale tattoo that forever reminded me of my past. Showed my Aunt how I had once been brave, but that I had given all my courage away in one fell swoop. That horrible night.

  “Hmmph. Get over it. How many years are you going to milk that wound?” She waved her hand.

  Her written words kept me rooted, gave me purpose. Aunt Evelyn’s spoken words just plain hurt.

  I shut the journal, put her to bed. Didn’t bother answering her question as she disappeared beside me. Yes, I struggled with my chore. But at least I was brave enough to live. Evelyn had chased the past, escaping the future; even my dead mother had seen through her bravado and understood that by not marrying, and presumably dying a virgin, she never had the opportunity to spit out an ugly female child of her own that she would hold and love and then a few years later have to kill.

  Better not to love them in the first place.

  Chapter 16

  Lucy

  I was barely off oatmeal and bouillon when Mom woke me one morning, told me to take my shower and put my hair up in a bun before coming downstairs.

  Tippy and I exchanged worried looks, but neither of us had a clue what she wanted. I hurried to avoid any accusations of dawdling, which would instantly send Mom into a rage that I didn’t want to witness. My shower was momentary, my hair dried in three minutes flat. My bun was efficient and secured with two elastic bands, not a hair stylist’s idea of beauty but quick and easy and mother-pleasing.

  My legs had gotten steadier, but my hips hated the stairs, and I struggled with my balance while descending.

  “Showered and bunned.”

  “Good. Have a seat.” She pointed at the kitchen chair centered in the room.

  “And take your sweater off. You won’t be needing it.”

  I
gave Tippy a sideways glance, for I had lost so much weight that I had stopped wearing a bra. Neither of us knew how Mom would react to my lack of undergarments.

  But I did as told. I stripped off my heavy wool sweater, oozed into the wooden chair, wincing at the cold.

  Although I was afraid Mother would think I was hiding something, I wrapped my arms around my bare chest anyway. I didn’t want her to see me this way. Naked. My flesh vulnerable.

  Mom walked to the counter by the sink. From my days cooking with Brandy, I recognized the smell of the sage before I saw it. She had mashed some in a bowl with a whitish paste and had a big bundle of it sitting in a pan near the stove.

  “God hates you, Lucy.”

  My heart plummeted. Mothers, by definition, were supposed to be encouraging. Hopeful. Confidence builders.

  Mothers weren’t supposed to drop such shrapnel-laden bombs on their children, even if it were true. Even if God Himself had come to tell Mom that He despised me, she should have sugar-coated it. Taken His words and spun them toward the positive. Not dumped this news like it meant nothing.

  “He’s always hated you. Ever since you took your first breath.” Mom knelt in front of me, the bowl on the floor at my feet. “Probably long before.”

  I gave way to the shakes as she put her hands on my kneecaps, bowing her head in prayer.

  “God, please forgive my child. We have discussed her for years, and now her time has come to be cleansed. To open herself up to You. So that You will finally accept her as Your own.”

  When she stood, Mom scooped some of the sage from her bowl and rubbed it across my forehead, in what felt like a cross.

  “Forgive her her sins.” Another line of the herbal mixture coursed down my cheek. “And the sins of those before her.”

  I dared not move. Tippy sat silent, her eye wide. I imagined mine looked about the same, the fear I felt more from Mom’s instability than her antics. Why wouldn’t God love me? I had never been anything other than good. I had tried so hard to make her tolerate me that I wouldn’t chance her affection for even a moment’s glory of being bad.

  Mom ranted on. Talked to her version of God, a deity that despised me, while decorating my skin with her balm. The smell was overwhelming, the sage crushed and close to my eyes and nose. I had no idea what else she was putting on my face, just that it burned slightly and made my eyes water.

  My face covered, Mom moved on to my neck, arms, and shoulders. When she finished, she went to the bundle on the stove and turned on the burner.

  I sat, perfectly still, although I desperately wanted to run. Kick out the windows and flee.

  Jump off the chair and declare that God did not hate me. How could she say that? How could she believe that?

  With the blue flames dancing around the burner, Mom lit the sage and fanned the heavy smoke it created. She held it like a cigar and for a second I was afraid she was going to make me smoke it.

  “Forgive this child, Lord. Take her back under Your wing. Cleanse her soul. Make her pure again,” Mom rattled while she blew against the smoldering herb and coated me with the miasma.

  “Oh, this is bullshit!” I heard myself scream. I pulled up from the chair, but Mom flattened me with her hand.

  “That’s Satan talking. He lives under your skin, Lucy. Let him be as vulgar as he wants! He’s suffering! Hearing him curse means it’s working!” She puffed more sage and choked me with the smoke.

  “He does not live inside me. If anyone houses him, it’s YOU.” I couldn’t believe my own mouth. I had never spoken to her like this.

  “You’re possessed. God has always known this. That’s why the devil tainted you. Devil-girl.” Mom raised her hands to the ceiling. “I could feel his touch on you when you slid out of my body….”

  Mother ran her hands up her thighs, over her crotch. She was speaking so loudly I thought that the Hanleys could probably hear her, but then I realized I was causing most of the racket. Panicking. Huffing out my tension. Yelling at her to keep away.

  “…You were so hot, you slithered out of me like a snake covered in oil, and I could feel how he had already held you, I could smell his stench on you, a whore straight from my womb….”

  “SHUT UP!”

  “…That beastly red hair of yours….”

  “WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? WHY CAN’T YOU JUST LET ME LIVE LIKE A NORMAL TEENAGER?”

  “…Just one look at you and I understood. All of those horrible cramps I’d had while pregnant with you were just God’s hands trying to push you out….”

  This time Tippy chimed in. She hustled over to nip at Mom’s heels.

  “I should have killed you then. Before you were born. Let them suck you out of me like venom, I would pay again and again for someone to cut me open and haul you out and throw you on a burning pile, but no! I had faith that God would forgive you! Harlot!”

  I stopped yelling. I didn’t even know what a harlot was.

  How could I ever win this battle? Fight her disease and get Mom to see that she was utterly mad? What could she possibly want from me?

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t…realize I’d done those things. Will God ever forgive me?” I whispered, trying another tactic. When Mom had switched to talking about aborting me, I knew we were driving down an entirely different street. For a second my empathy swelled and I realized that her craziness had much deeper roots than Brandy and I had ever imagined. But then my spine stiffened. Had she really had this perception of me since I was a fetus?

  No wonder she hated me. Mom had always been drawn to Brandy, had such ease around her, shared laughter with her like they were best friends at a slumber party. With me she was stiff. Controlled. Anything but comfortable.

  My eyes watered as my face heated. Whatever substance Mom had used to smear the sage gave off fumes that made it almost painful to breathe. I used this and acted as humbled as I possibly could.

  She embraced me. Mom welcomed my tears and met them with her own.

  “We’re going to do this together, Lucy. You and me. We’re going to clean you up, let God see you in your pure form. Let Him understand your stupidity.”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  I let her pull me up beside her, the sage starting to dry on my face. The herb itched, but that discomfort was nothing compared to my humiliation at being half naked and the victim of another of Mom’s crusades.

  When she opened the basement door, the panic instantly set in. Mom walked behind me, closing us in, this space in the house still much larger than the shed. I thought of my sweater left upstairs and how goosebumps were swarming my skin, the cold air almost tangible.

  She was escorting me to my tomb.

  “Keep moving.” Mom poked me in the back with the herbs in her hand. I hadn’t realized that I had stopped on the stairway. “Go over there, by the window.”

  I knew where she was taking me. Brandy and I hated this room. We hadn’t opened the door in years. The last time we did Tippy slinked in and barked at the air, something she never did. The dog’s reaction had terrified us.

  But Mom had altered it some. The floor was no longer covered in coal dust, and two old comforters had been thrown inside. My quick assessment also revealed six jugs of water and what looked like a bucket in the corner.

  She pushed me in. I expected her to slam the door shut, but Mom joined me. Tippy was nowhere to be seen. She always hovered beside me, and I was practically hyperventilating when I couldn’t find her.

  “Stop looking for your dog. I left her upstairs. This is about you and God, and that damned dog doesn’t have any part in it.”

  I stood with my hands wrapped around my chest. Not knowing what to expect. Despite the cold, I had been sweating so hard I could smell my own body odor under the scent of sage.

  Mom left me for a second and powered on a machine just outside the door. She didn’t explain and I didn’t ask, but I could instantly discern a change in the air. Somehow she was pumping heat into the coal room! I looked
up and saw a hole cut into the woodwork above the door, a tube inserted from the other side.

  She lit the sage again. Puffed smoke at me. Walked around the small space and seemed to light it afire, fanning the bundle at the walls and back again at me. I choked, and her eyes crackled with joy.

  “I can see the devil in there, Lucy. In your soul. You must let him out.” Her finger touched my chest, my heart freezing upon impact.

  Mother danced in the cramped space, her hands clutching the herbs, the smoke spinning through the room. The vision itself was astounding. For a second I pictured her chanting around a bonfire, a witch doctor trying to heal my wounds, and realized that maybe she actually had good intentions. This didn’t seem like punishment. More like a last ditch effort that Mom had concocted to save me.

  “I will, Mom. But I don’t know how.” Thinking of Mother as someone trying to salvage me, I felt a huge weight lifted from my shoulders.

  “None of us know how, sweetie. You have to find it within yourself. Let go of the devil and let God in. He will help you.”

  She worried the sage through the air again, touched the concoction stuck to my forehead, and left me alone in the coal room.

  When the door shut I half expected demons to jump out at me. I imagined them as children playing hide and seek, watching me, giggling, waiting until I was unaware before they attacked.

  But thankfully they never showed.

  I let my eyes adjust to the darkness. In my bedroom, Tippy and I had every inch memorized and lived as easily in the pitch black as we did at high noon. But here, with no lights, and the window boarded up, I stumbled over the comforters as I moved away from the door. The heat was really pouring in and I was thankful, for the blankets were stiff with cold. I sandwiched myself between them, shivering, wishing that I not only had Tippy’s companionship but her body heat as well.