Mephisto Waltz

by Bridgett Kay Specht

  Mephisto Waltz

  a novel by Bridgett Kay Specht

  Copyright Bridgett Specht, 2012

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to Sara, for all of your help and encouragement, and to Matt, for your unwavering support.

  Nada te turbe,

  nada te espante;

  todo se pasa,

  Dios no se muda.

  La pacientia todo lo alcanza.

  Quien a Dios tiene nada la falta:

  solo Dios basta.

  Let nothing disturb you,

  Let nothing frighten you,

  All things are passing away:

  God never changes.

  Patience obtains all things.

  Whoever has God lacks nothing;

  God alone suffices.

  -The Bookmark of St. Theresa of Avila

  Prologue

  Even though I was only 16 when it happened, the death of my brother, Mark, was the death of my childhood.

  The details of that night still invade my mind from time to time, as fresh and raw as yesterday. If I’m careless enough to close my eyes, I’ll find myself transported back to the evening before it happened- to my old bedroom where I sat on my canopy bed and watched the sheer white curtains as they wafted back and forth in the light breeze of my ceiling fan. I was trying, in vain, to soothe my mind, and get rid of the feeling of dread that had welled up in my stomach.

  The feeling only intensified, though, when my mother came and stood in the doorway, with a haggard look on her usually serene face.

  "I'm at my wits end. Try to talk to him, Miranda; he likes you better than he likes anyone."

  I had never seen my mother look that way. She was small and blonde, like Mark and I, and usually appeared to be much younger than her years, but that day I could see the strain on her face, and it aged her.

  She’d been standing in the hallway by Mark’s bedroom for most of the day, trying to get him to unlock the door. Coaxing and threatening in turns, she’d tried every method of dealing with his latest mood swing except the one method that always worked.

  “Why don’t you call Aunt Elizabeth?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “We need to start dealing with him on our own,” she said firmly.

  Aunt Elizabeth, my mother's sister, was a very accomplished pianist as well as a mentor and friend to Mark and me. We went to her house twice a week for piano lessons, but she also taught us about a myriad of other subjects, as well. She was a temperate influence on Mark, who often experienced mood swings which could be sudden and dangerous. Most of the time, he was a kind, if somewhat passionate, boy, as fierce in his loyalties as he was earnest in his affection. Sadly, at other times he would be seized with sudden bouts of depression. At these times he would retreat to the solace of his room, without speaking or attending school for days on end, and would lash out at anyone who tried to help him. When he was in such a state, only Aunt Elizabeth was strong enough to handle him, and my parents would often send him to stay with her until the tempest had passed and he was himself again.

  I debated whether I should argue with Mother, and insist that we call Aunt Elizabeth, but the look on my mother’s face told me it would be of little use. I obeyed, and went to Mark’s door.

  I knocked. "Mark, it's Miranda. Can I talk to you?"

  For a few minutes, there was only silence. Then, right when I was about to try again, I heard the click of the lock.

  I went inside and shut the door behind me. The room was a mess, with empty food containers and dirty clothes littering the usually clean floor. Mark sat on the bed, flipping idly through channels on his TV.

  Mark and I were twins, and though we were only fraternal twins; as children, Mark and I looked very much alike, both with large, green eyes and wavy blonde hair. Lately, however, our differences had become more pronounced. Not only had maturity hardened the lines in Mark’s face, but there was a change in Mark’s eyes that had not occurred in mine. The vibrancy of his eyes had faded, somehow, and the change unsettled me.

  For a while I sat on his desk chair and watched his pale, impassive eyes reflect the light of the TV. Then I spoke.

  "Mother's really worried about you, this time. Won't you at least clean up and come downstairs for dinner?"

  He flipped a few more channels, and then said, "What's the point?"

  "Well," I considered, "it would make Mother happy. She doesn’t look very well; we should try to help her. Plus, you must be hungry. You haven't had a decent meal since Wednesday."

  He put turned the TV off and lay down, turning his back to me.

  "Besides," I continued, "I miss my brother."

  He sighed, and then said something in a muffled voice.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't hear that."

  He turned to face me. "I said I'm sorry for hurting you. I don't want to. You and Mom and Dad and Aunt Lizzy- you all deserve better."

  "Don't worry about us, Mark. We're fine. You're the one who's hurting. We just want to help you."

  "No one can help me," he said resolutely.

  "Are you willing to let us try?"

  He turned over and said nothing.

  "We all love you, Mark. Please do this little thing for Mother's sake. I'm sure that after a bath, and a good dinner, you will feel a lot better."

  He sighed again and sat up, running his hand through his messy hair.

  Encouraged by this, I continued. "It's summer vacation now. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to have some fun. We'll do whatever you want to do tomorrow, so cheer up."

  He managed a wry smile at this, and I left the room, hopeful that I'd succeeded.

  #

  That evening, Mark came downstairs, freshly showered and wearing a clean shirt, and sat down with the family for dinner. Mother had made Mark's favorite foods, and Daddy was lighthearted throughout the meal, telling jokes and being his usual funny, engaging self. All signs of Mark's dolor seemed to have passed. He ate his dinner eagerly, laughed at Dad's jokes, and was especially kind to me, helping me clear the table and wash the dishes with none of the usual nagging from Mother. He and I talked and laughed together as we worked, and when the evening was over he gave me a warm smile and said "Thank you for caring about me, Miranda," before he went to his room for bed.

  I should have gone to sleep that night happy, and with a sense of satisfaction at the newly reclaimed familial peace, but I could not. Something about Mark's sudden recovery seemed too easy, almost unnaturally so, and It weighed heavily on my mind.

  It was an especially hot night- oppressive and sticky with humidity. It had been threatening to rain ever since school ended, and even though there were clouds overhead, and a distant rumble of thunder, no rain came. I was wearing only a light cotton chemise, but my long hair stuck to my neck and I couldn't find a cool place on my pillow. When my bedside clock read 11:30 I got up to pull my hair up off of my neck and get some water, but it didn't help. At 11:45 I opened my bedroom window to let in a breeze, but the hot air was maddeningly still. I sat up, all pretense of trying to sleep gone, and fanned myself with a magazine as I gazed out of the window at the lightning in the distance.

  My window opened to our backyard, which was a lovely place in the daytime. It sat under the shade of live oak trees and was filled with the fragrance of the honeysuckle that grew in a wild tangle over the fence. That night, however, the honeysuckle hung like a dark and heavy veil, and the trees were motionless in the breezeless night. The clouds hung heavy and low, and the lightning cast strange shadows resembling ghastly, laughing faces among the clouds and trees. The dark scene mingled with the troubles I already had on my mind, and I began to feel an oppressive sense of fear.

  Eventually, the lightning subsided, and the night became
still. I began to grow drowsy, but I tried to keep my eyes open, knowing that only nightmares would await me if I attempted sleep. Suddenly, there was a sound down the hall- a loud thump followed by a snap. I tried to stand, but my vision was clouded with a red miasma as I suffered a bout of vertigo, and I fell back on the bed. After I regained my senses, I sat frozen with terror. Then I heard a scream and I felt myself running, out of the door and down the hall to Mark's room.

  My mother was already there- she was the one I'd heard scream. Before I could enter the room, my father came and blocked the door. His face was covered in sweat and tears, and his eyes were wide with horror.

  "Don't go in, Miranda. Don't look. It's Mark. He's hung himself."

  He took me in his trembling arms and turned me gently away, but on the other side of the hall I saw a shadow, slowly swinging back and forth.

  #

  My memories of the rest of that night are strange and scattered, lacking any cohesion. My mind could only register vague images and feelings, like the bright red flashing lights of the ambulance, the ticking of the kitchen clock, the sound of voices, or the warmth of the mug of tea Aunt Elizabeth, whom I didn't even remember arriving, had made for me. I was later told that I didn't speak that night, but merely sat and stared. By the time my mind began processing things normally we had been left alone to our grief, and the sun had risen.

  The next few days passed in a haze. I was unable to cry; I was unable to really even understand Mark was gone. I didn't go near his room. I didn't want to see how empty it was, or see the chair he'd broken when he kicked it out from under himself, and relive the night he was taken from me. I didn't want to accept that a part of myself, my best friend and playmate from childhood, would never smile at me, or argue with me, or even look at me scornfully when I said something silly. I didn't want to face the whole summer alone, let alone my whole life. I wasn't around to comfort Mother or Daddy, and I let Aunt Elizabeth make all of the arrangements for Mark's funeral without offering to help her run the household. She was grieving like the rest of the family, but she stepped in to fulfill the duties we were still too numb to perform.

  The evening before Mark's funeral I began to see how selfishly absorbed in my own grief I was becoming, so when Aunt Elizabeth left to do some last-minute shopping, and Mother and Daddy were upstairs resting, I went to the kitchen and started dinner. I was almost finished, and was putting everything on "warm" so it would be hot when Mother and Daddy were ready to eat, when Aunt Elizabeth returned. She looked approvingly at the finished food on the stove, and sat at the kitchen table with a sigh, betraying how tired the work and grief had really made her.

  "I made spaghetti," I said a bit lamely. "It's not much, but it's all I really know how to make."

  "That’s just fine, Miranda. By the way, this is for you." She handed me one of her shopping bags. Inside was a black skirt and blazer, cut simply and modestly, which I understood to be for the funeral.

  "I think I recalled correctly that the only suit you own is your school uniform."

  I nodded. "Thank you for remembering." I wanted to thank her for more than that, for taking care of the family and being our strength, but the words failed me. I think she understood, because she gave me a weak smile and patted my hand.

  "Your Mother still has a strong desire to shield you from painful truths, but you aren't a child anymore. You are a young woman, and you have the ability to handle a great deal more than you're given credit for." She reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a piece of neatly folded white paper. "This is addressed to you, too, and I think you have the right to read its contents."

  I took it from her and held it gingerly. "This is the note, isn't it?"

  She nodded, "You don't have to read it, if you don't think you're ready. Your mother didn't want you to read it at all, until you are older, but I convinced her to let you make the choice. It's up to you."

  I took a deep breath, and opened the letter.

  Dear Mother, Father, Miranda, and Aunt Lizzy,

  I know that what I am about to do may be incredibly selfish, but I want all of you know that I am thinking of you. My problems have made me a terrible burden on the family, and I can see how much pain I cause all of you. I try so hard, every day, to be a better son and a better brother, because I don't want to hurt any of you. I sometimes feel as though there were a demon inside of me- an uncontrollable darkness- which at times takes control no matter how hard I fight it. I'm too weak to keep fighting, and I'm too tired to continue, even for your sakes. You have all fought for me for many years, but you all deserve a chance for normal, happy lives. Don't cry for my sake, because I won't suffer anymore. My only thoughts now are for you. Mother, Dad, Miranda, Aunt Lizzy, I'm sorry for hurting you. I love you.

  Goodbye,

  Mark

  With this piece of concrete reality in my hands, evidence of the pain Mark had suffered, I finally wept. As I cried the numbness I'd been feeling faded, and a sharp pain flared up in its place. I could now feel the raw, gaping emptiness Mark's death had left. Aunt Lizzy sat quietly and let me cry a moment, then came and put her arm around me. Eventually, my sobs subsided, and even though the raw pain was still present, I was left with a sense of relief. I handed Aunt Elizabeth the note again and thanked her. She gave me another hug, and we got up to set the table.

  "I know you will grow tired of hearing this tomorrow, and what you believe is your choice, but I think you will find a great deal more comfort if you can believe you will be with him again in another life."

  A sudden, bitter thought seized me. "How could I ever face him again?" Tears came again, unbidden. I put the plate I was holding down and covered my face with my hands.

  "Miranda, you can't possibly blame yourself. How could you have stopped this?"

  "I could see how dangerous his mood swings were getting. Why was I too stupid to talk to Mother and Daddy about it, and ask them to seek some sort of professional help?"

  "It would have done no good, Miranda. I asked them the same thing myself, and they refused."

  I looked up at Aunt Elizabeth. I'm certain that shock and anger must have shown on my face, because Aunt Elizabeth quickly said, "You must not blame your parents for this, either. They did what they thought was best for Mark and for the whole family, at the time. We humans may know a lot now, but we are still basically ignorant creatures; we can never know all of the consequences of our actions."

  "But still," I whispered, "They knew how bad it was. He needed help."

  "Your parents worried that a doctor would not understand Mark the way they did, and might criticize their parenting methods. They also worried that, if they sought professional help, the doctors might put him on drugs that would make him more prone to suicide. There are always unforeseen consequences to any action, and the best any person can do is try to weigh their actions carefully, and, when they do act, to act out of love. If you were to push away what little family you have left, you would hurt yourself as much as you would hurt them, and it wouldn’t enable you to turn back time and save Mark. Act out of love, Miranda. That what your parents do, and that's all I ask of you now."

  I sat at the table for a moment and let her words sink in. Though they were devoid of comfort for me, I could see reason in them. When my parents finally came downstairs for dinner, I was able to face them without showing my anger. I could see the physical signs of their grief, how dark their eyes were from lack of sleep, and how deliberately they ate everything in front of them. Still, Mother made a special point to praise my mediocre cooking, and Daddy was watching me carefully to make sure I ate enough. My mind went from compassion, back to anger when I thought of how their pain might have been avoided, but the pain I saw now was too real to dismiss. Even through their guilt and grief, they were still acting out of love for me. I knew that the only thing I could do for them was to forgive them, even though I knew it would take time. I did the dishes that night, even though I had been the one to cook, and let my parents go t
o bed early.

  #

  The next morning was cloudy and hot, again. The humidity filled me with a languid feeling which, when combined with the sadness I already felt, made it difficult to get out of bed. I forced myself through my morning routine anyway, because it was the day of Mark's funeral. Attending was the only way I had to honor him.

  I finally went downstairs, dressed and presentable, and quickly ate a small breakfast Aunt Elizabeth had prepared for us. As we finished, friends and distant family members began to arrive, offering food, flowers, and words of condolence. We sat quietly in the living room for a while, my mother getting up from time to time to greet some relative I hadn't seen since I was a small child. At 10:00 we went out into the hot, sticky morning to proceed to the cemetery, to Mark's simple graveside service.

  We were sitting around the grave on metal folding chairs, listening to the pastor, when there was an almost deafening boom of thunder. The skies opened up, and the rain which had threatened for the past week finally came. For a moment the pastor was silent, and he looked up toward the tent canvas as if the pitter-patter of rain was the voice of God. After a few moments, he seemed to remember himself and went on with his sermon. I wept along with the heavens that day, and though the pastor's sermon was very good, and one of Mark's favorite teachers gave a moving elegy, all I could hear was the voice of the rain.

  After we had made our way back to the car, I sat next to my mother and stared out of the window at the sky. The sky was not gray anymore, but silver, and the sun shone through the clouds. Light danced off of the water droplets and made them sparkle like crystal.

  "Mark always loved the rain." I sighed under my breath.

  The clouds continued to break apart, and the sun grew brighter. The raindrops no longer looked like crystal, but like bright, dazzling stars. For a moment, I was breathless at all the beauty around me. As I let the beauty sink in, I finally felt a small sense of peace. The world was still the same as before; there was still beauty in spite of the horror.