WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1)

by Fowler Robertson

  “Willodean. Willodean. Willodean.” They say. Pitches, tones and various voices. “Come to us. Come.” I am scared. I am overwhelmed with their pain which mixes with mine. I don’t want to go to the Mason room where the petal people are, bodies long dead and gone, yet inside the house, inside the room, inside me, they are evermore alive. In my room, they come to life as wilted roses, talking, whispering and moaning their insidious words. I am cursed with their voices, their blood running through my veins, their stories, legends and tales pricking my heart, and laboring my soul. They are my ancestors, yet I don’t know them, they are long, long before my time, but yet they still talk, whisper, scream and it drives me insane.

  “Willodean, are you okay?” They say. They’ve never asked me that before. Why are they concerned?

  “What has happened Willodean? Tell me.”

  I realize it’s not the petal people concerned, it’s Doc. When she touched me on the arm, I jump out of my skin, startled.

  “I—I’mm...” I said mumbling incoherently. I twist around, confused and then feel the edge of the couch where I always sit, so I make my way around it. I sit down, unstable, still caught up with sights and sounds, so I grab my sidekick pillow and squeeze it with both arms around my chest. I fight the smells, the sounds, the voices trying to take me, and pull me into their bag of pennies, Mason jar nightmare.

  “Willodean. What is it? Do you need some water? Are you alright?”

  “No. No—thank you.” I said wiping the sweat from my forehead and gathering my wits about me. Stop it Willodean. You are a pugnator, remember, fighter…now fight. Show yourself worthy of being a Cupitor. Do it. Now. More voices. More struggles.

  “I’m fine.” I say trying to be convincing. I don’t think I can fool Doc. She reads me well, too well at times. “Just tired I think, I mean, not fine, I just...” How do I explain this?

  “It’s okay.” Doc said. “Just take a few breaths. Take your time. Lay back and close your eyes for a minute.” She gets up and gentle guides me back to the cushion, my head falling like heavy rocks. I take deep breathes and close my eyes. I fell into a zone past the dark places that held me. I am inside the house. Doors slammed, locks clicked shut. Make your bed. Live the lie. Punishment of my own sins. Pay the piper. Tick-tock. I screamed, wept and railed but Doc couldn’t hear me. I’m a pugnator! I’m a fighter! Let me out! I beat on the door but no one hears me. I see eyes staring back at me and a disgusted grin. A scent of whiskey and menthol rises up. Branson? My skin pricks with flight or fight and I don’t know what to do. He’s here. He’s there, he’s practically everywhere. Tacked up on the walls, picture after picture, imprints and images of him, a collage of Branson wallpaper, wall to wall, ceiling, doors, floor. I looked down at my feet and I'm standing on his shoulders. I jump to the side and land on his back, then again, on his eyes, his chest. My knuckles were raw and dripping blood from beating on the door to get out. I turn and the blood drips downward onto his pecks in a tattoo of dots that spell out Unlovable. It reminds me of the paddle talk I had as a child. Red lettered prophecies. I skittered across the floor like hopscotch, on his cheek, then his head, his leg, until there was nowhere to step that he wasn’t there. My head sung the Hotel California song by the Eagles, the verse, “You can check out anytime you like…but you can never leave.” My marriage was like that. I had checked out or tried to, time and time again…but never left. Why? Why couldn’t I leave? I’m gone, we’re over, yet I’m still here. I glanced around the room. Wallpaper Branson, wallpaper everywhere. My emotions went wild and I desired him again, or maybe it never left me but I couldn’t help but go to the wall, and reminisce, touching my hand across the grooves of his face, his ears, his nose, down his neck, yearning for the love I never got, then getting angry and wanting to wrap my hands around his neck, strangle him, make him pay, punish him for making me hurt so bad. I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. Side to side, limb to limb, wallpaper Branson. Remembering. Hurting. I screamed like I had never screamed before. An animal had clawed its way out of me and it was not going to be silenced. The yell spiraled around the room hitting Branson like a boomerang time and time again, with nowhere to land. When I could shout no longer, I collapsed onto the floor right onto Branson’s side. Instead of embracing me, he turned his back, as usual. I tried to erase the madness. I tried to talk with Willodean, the hopeful with a hope chest Willodean, the never gonna amount to nothing Willodean. I vented. I raged. I hated him. I loved him. Why? Why was everything about him? My life was always about him. What he did to me, or didn’t do, the hurt I couldn’t stop, the pain of wishing I was dead. His problems, his issues, why he drank, why he was unavailable, why he couldn’t love me the way I needed to be loved, why he cheated with women, why I wasn’t good enough, why, why, why, him, him, him. This enormous responsible for him, his feelings, his happiness, his anger and his sexual needs—every single erratic behavior he bore in me, was attached to me. Still attached and alive within me. It didn’t matter that I hated the way he chewed his food, smacked like a pig, snored at night, or talked ugly to others for no reason. I hated the way he drank beer, four large sips right off the bat, followed by a loud, obnoxious gasp, then a burp. Or how he wanted sex when he was drunk and how horrible it was, the alcohol smell reeking from his pores, spilling out in his semen. Duty, hope chests, responsibility. But mostly, I hated the way he looked at me with those cold, uncaring eyes—like I was a gnat to be swatted or the way his lips turned upwards in disgust as if I was the reason for every filthy thing in the world.

  “Willodean.” He said. I lost my breath. Branson was speaking inside the room, his voice a million echoes. I flew into a rage.

  “What? What do you want?” I couldn’t believe he had the gall to talk to me inside my own house. I mean, he has his own room, for God sakes, and why? How did he get in here to begin with? His collage of images, wallpapered door to ceiling, floor to corner stir things in me, as I watch. Thoughts ravage me and I acted out a long, terrifying scream. Behind me a door slams. I turn quickly to face the Bastard but it’s not Branson, its Doc.

  “Doc? How did you get in here?” At this point, I’m not sure Doc is real, or if any of this is real.

  “You let me in Willodean.” Doc says. “I am extremely surprised. You have never once, not once, let anyone inside your house. This is a great step towards healing.”

  “I did?” I looked at her puzzled. It scared me because I don’t remember letting her in.

  “It’s okay to be upset Willodean but you’re in a safe zone to confront him now. And I am here to guide you. You are not alone.” Doc said holding her clicking pen and my huge encyclopedia file. I was lost in two parallel worlds. The one in her office and the one inside my house. A chair suddenly appeared in the middle of the room. Doc sat down.

  “Okay, Willodean. What about you?” Her voice was soft and delicate like a wind slap on my cheek. “This isn’t about Branson.” Click, click, click. Her finger presses the pen and with the noise, Wallpaper Branson grows irritated and mad, so he drinks beer and slams the wall. My body fills with old fear and shudders. I’m next. I know I’m next. The hell clock tick and tocks and turns into pen clicks. I want to flee, remove myself.

  “This is about you Willodean.” Doc says. “This is your session. Are you paying me to talk about him?” She points to the wallpaper. “Help him or help you? Branson is a part of your life and yes, you will never completely erase the memories but you can rise from them and make yourself better BECAUSE of them. Use this part of your life as a lesson Willodean. Learn from it or you will repeat it in the future with someone just like him and God knows you don’t want that. Whatever dark is in you—defect or damage, you name it, whatever it is, made him attractive to you. You must find that, heal it, deal with it, learn from it and move forward. Be better because of it.”

  “Forward!” George screamed in revolt. The petal people rose up and marched. They chanted a long list of stories, tales, and haunts. Focus Willodean, focus. My
head spins. Branson wallpaper yells and spits out critical words.

  “You created this room inside yourself.” Doc says. “You live here. I am but a visitor. I can leave anytime…but you can’t, not until you deal with it. You made this Branson room—and only you can tear it down. I can help you but I can’t stop you from returning. It begins by confronting. It is NOT about him, Willodean. It’s about you. It begins and ends with you! Now…HOW DO YOU FEEL?”

  Branson wallpaper slams his fist into his palm, pops open a beer, drinks it, burps, then curses me, and calls me names, and puts me in my place until I make the bed, live the lie.

  “Willodean.” Doc says bringing my attention back to her. “Look at me. Look at me…not him.” I couldn’t do anything but scream. I wailed something deep and disturbing, something that felt and sounded like dying.

  “You. It’s about you.” Doc says enunciating the words. In my head I saw Willodean climb out her bedroom window and up the wondering tree. The day I chose to be me—fully me—all of me—if only for a brief moment. The day I entertained the neighbors. The day the little girl with the childlike heart simply took over and lived, despite all. It was her. I was her—the simple girl I’ve always wanted to keep, to be, to cherish and hang onto. The girl who lived only from the heart. The one who believed in grit and courage, moons and stars, faith and hope, crumbs, and seven.

  “Willodean…” Doc said in a softer tone. “Do you realize you haven‘t mentioned yourself during this entire conversation or any of the other sessions?” Her voice was nectar dripping in droves. Southern sap, the willow tree enduring though it was in pain.

  “You are divorced. You are no longer attached to this man but emotionally he might as well be attached to your hip because he is still controlling you. Look around. You are nowhere in his world…do you see that? This is the room you created of him, because you don’t exist in his world, never did. Can’t you see that? That is why He is all you talk about. This session is for you to get better, not him. Who cares about him now? It's time for you to care about you.”

  My body shook in little ticks forward and back. Wallpaper Branson spun, slurred and laughed.

  “Yes. He treated you wrong, horribly wrong. He’s a jerk but this isn’t about HIM. You can‘t change him. You can’t change anyone for that matter.” She sat her pen and folder down and walked over to me.

  “Look at me.” She nudged my face towards hers with her motherly hands. “You can’t change your past or what happened to you. It was horrible, yes, but you can change yourself. Your life—right now. Yours. Not his. Yours. So let’s do that. Okay. Just one step. That’s all. One step, then the next. You don’t have to make the bed or live the lie anymore. It wasn’t your fault Willodean. None of it. So, answer me this. How do YOU feel? What about you?”

  I was caught off guard. Her words were like hornets attacking. I didn’t know how to answer. Me? How I feel? I feel only pain. Tipping over…on the verge of going over….pain, crushing pain. Oh God this is too much. I wait for a crumb to drop from heaven and save me. I wait for the gardenia king to drizzle succulent petal kisses so I can survive another day, another day. I wait for Maw Sue’s voice to rush in like the sound of crushed leaves and remind me of the old stories, the legends, the gifts, the curses, teaching me, guiding me. I wait for the little girl to appear with a crayon and draw me a window of escape. I wait to run. I wait for a girl of grit and courage, moons and stars, faith and hope to come strumming in like a mandolin of music, blaring out her eccentric charms and living life vicariously through me.

  I wait…

  Hope deferred. Instead, the shadows swept in and told me what I knew to be true. Three lines. Twelve words. God doesn’t speak. Maw Sue is dead. No one can save you Willodean. Not a crackle, not a feather, not a rock. Nothing can save you. The little girl is not real. You are just crazy, always been crazy. The family secret, the tragic pink elephant. You are a nameless namesake. You are failure. You are nothing and you will never be enough.

  I am crying now. Frantically screaming. Doc is back in the chair writing like a speed demon. Wallpaper Branson is laughing, louder, harder. In my vision, in the eyes of wallpaper Branson, I see my fate strewn across Maw Sue’s bedroom, amidst blood, desperation, peppermint bombs, and petal people. Forward! George’s voice of fortitude calls me, leads me, pushes me—but I can’t move. I am stuck between the little girl and the adult, the realm between us, the void between the fingertips. I hate her…but I love her too. Inside the house, the internal tick-tock continues. My thoughts turn to Maw Sue. God-didn’t-save-her. He won’t save me either. She wasn’t rescued from the horrible shadows, the Amodgian darkness that consumed her nights and days, endless aches and pains, and mind torments. There is no hope for me. Let go. Just end it now. Give in. Give up. Die!

  The voice of the enemy pierces my ears. The Amodgian shadows are thick around me, fully engulfing Doc that I barely make out her form.

  “No. No. Don’t listen to the enemy. Listen to Doc. What do you feel Willodean? What do you feel?” I hear the words in my ears but Doc’s lips aren’t moving. She isn’t the one speaking.

  “Who is that?” I said looking around. “Answer me. Show yourself.”

  “I am showing myself.” The voice said. I spun around trying to fight the shadows, their whispers, their cruel intents, all inside a wallpapered room of Branson. It was too much.

  “No, no you’re not…I don’t see you.”

  A worried look appeared on Doc’s face. “Willodean.” She said. “Who are you talking to? Do you see someone else?”

  “Show yourself.” I screamed and jumped up. I marched around the room, slapping the wallpaper that was Branson’s face, repeatedly over and over, and kicked him for good measure. Then I stomped on the floor as I made my way around the room. I tell myself I am a fighter. I am a fighter. I am a pugnator. I am a Cupitor.

  “I still don’t see you.” I said stopping behind Doc’s chair. I was determined to face my enemy. Doc lifted her chin in a half spiral as if she was scared to look behind her.

  “Willo…”

  “No…shuuushh.” I said cutting her off. The room fell crisp…silent.

  “I am you Willodean.” The voice said softly breaking my heart.

  “What do you mean?” My voice was angry, confused.

  “You are me. Don’t you get it?” The voice said squishing my heart to mush.

  “Don’t play games with me.” I shouted. “No. No. I’m not.” I say nodding my head, in unbelief and twisting my hands together. “Stop it. That doesn’t make sense…” I could not, would not accept her words. “I can’t be you."

  Suddenly I felt a film, more like an invasion shrouding me. It wasn’t the Shadows, and it wasn’t Branson. I fell to my knees, right on top of Branson's body parts, all leery and crude. I couldn’t stand the thought of him touching me anymore, so I ripped at the floor, shredding each piece of wallpaper in slices, until there was nothing but bare wood to lay on. And then I fell apart with the realization of what I knew to be true. “Oh. God.” Everything sunk in, meanings, stories, words, everything. The adult Willodean broke into a million busted stars and moons. Broken kite. Blood and tears. No Wind. The child inside the house, the little girl did too, of me, in me, for me, all of me. Grit and courage, moon and stars, faith and hope. Simultaneously—we were together. Broken, but one.

  I heard Doc’s voice drift inside our gifted, cursed ears. “What do you feel Willodean? Tell me what you feel.” What do I feel? What do I feel? My mind screams the questions but I don’t know if I can answer.

  “But that’s just it.” I screamed. “I don’t want to feel. It’s too painful to feel. Don’t you get it? I’ve always felt—felt—felt.” Click, click, click. The crazy pen is clicking. We are no longer inside the wallpaper Branson room. We are back in Doc's office. I'm on the couch holding my pillow just like I was when it began. Yet, in the same eye, my vision sees two alternate realities. I see my vision and the little girl’s vision and both o
ur visions run together. Childhood images flash in, I feel over the top, extreme panicky fear of dang near everything; fear of falling asleep and never waking up, fear of being alone, abandoned, a fear of crowds, fear of light and the lesser light, fear of people, fear of love, fear of God, fear of the devil, fear of the dark, fear of rejection, fear of closeness. She makes me see parts of her that I kept hidden—she kept hidden.

  Elementary, junior high and high school was the worse. I hated eating in the cafeteria because it was a crowd of people, or waiting in line, talking out loud, anything with eyes on me. I feared the known and unknown. I feared the shadows and what they told me, about myself, my family, almost every situation, bringing life to my doubts, my fears, my worst nightmares. I hated their control of me and why God allowed it, why I was born with this awful, terrible curse, this house inside me, a harbinger of oppression for my soul. I feared I was terribly damaged, broken and that no one would ever want me. I'd be a discarded toy.

  In the midst of remembering all my fears, a peek of salvation enters in. The stories, the legends, the great and marvelous mirror bin of hope, of dreams, of pugnators and Cupitors. I really believed that seven was the sum of the whole person, the good, the bad, the ugly, a mirror bin unto ourselves, our genetic makeup of all that we were created to be, one not functional without the other, child and adult. God created a special design, a purpose to be fulfilled for my life and if I didn’t do it, no one else could. My purpose is as unique as a fingerprint and I loved the way my grandmother weaved the stories together to make my life seem important. I thought of the poem, Seven and the words and what they meant. I want it to be real. True. I want to enter into the realm of seven, touch the fingers of God and be made whole, forever. What happened to that girl? Where did she go? A sadness emerges inside me. Somehow, long ago, I stopped functioning in this realm of belief. I left all the old tales behind, the little girl behind. I exchanged faith for fear but I can’t tell you how it happened. Sure, I could easily tell you how others felt. I fed off their emotions, feelings and attitude, all of it. Especially Branson. And here I go again. Talking about him. He is attached to my hip like some cancerous lump just like Doc says. Why can’t I just stop? I don’t know how to stop. The shadow of fear and numbness settles on me like an old friend, a safe harbor shielding me from things I never wanted to confront. Somehow I have lived with this feeling bottled up inside me since childhood, a shell shock methodology of some sorts, a survivor tactic that automatically came out. I was scared to move forward…scared to go back, scared to accept, scared to make a decision, so I just remain stuck. A ship not leaving harbor. A bird not seeking flight. A queen without a crown. A star not twinkling. A moon not shining. A kite not shown the blue sky. A little girl not finding her centerpiece. No one makes lovely their losses. I stared beyond Doc's figure in her throne chair. My vision slipped into another realm. I got up and walked, circled the room and paced like a scared panicked horse. I held my heart as if it would literally fall out of my chest. It pained me, grieved for things unknown, recollections of no memories.