by June Ahern
Earlier that day, Mrs. Gorzalkowski heard the delightful sound of a child’s giggles. Curious to see who it was, she squinted through her kitchen window to the back porch. She saw a small silhouette sitting at the table with a doll on the opposite seat. The little girl was chatting away to her stuffed friend.
Before she could call out a greeting, June turned to face her neighbor and shouted a cheery “Hello!”
Mrs. Gorzalkowski came out of her kitchen and the girl jumped up to stand in front of the old woman. At that moment, their eyes locked. It seemed as if June saw her own image in Mrs. Gorzalkowski’s fathomless dark eyes.
A jolt of energy flooded the old woman’s senses, pumping blood through her veins and quickening her heartbeat. In a sudden flash the old woman saw herself young, inspired, and innocent, much like the little girl standing before her. For many years, she had a good life. Sadness filled her soul as she recalled what was to follow that happier time.
There had been a time for Lechsinska Gorzalkowski when it had been safe, not frightening, to see what others could not.
Her grandmothers had predestined Lechsinska’s life from the second they saw the newborn’s dark, inquisitive eyes staring back at them. They tenderly washed her plump body and coal-black hair and swaddled her in pure white cotton cloth on the frosty fall morning of her birth.
“An old soul. A magical child,” the two old women agreed, shaking their gray heads in a way that only the wise can do.
They devoted their lives to teaching Lechsinska the age-old craft of herbal healing and the sacred art of visioning. In the years to come, the girl grew in beauty as well as in psychic powers. Her reputation as a seer was respected far and wide. Farmers listened with deference as she directed them to avoid crop failure. People young and old, seeking successful unions, had success through her visions. The villagers agreed that Lechsinska was more accurate than the local matchmaker.
That was before the horrors of war had robbed her soul of her true identity. She was terrified into denying her sacred gift of prophecy.
It started with death.
When she heard that the invading German army had hanged her husband and sons in the village square, Lechsinska violently tore at her clothes, ranting to God she would never serve Him again. She fervently denied her life of mystical service. Still, her highly developed psychic mind, trained to hear and see beyond the physical world, heard the pitiful nightmarish cries of dying people begging her to guide them to peace. Fearing insanity, she forced herself to focus only on the survival of Tesia, her last remaining child. Lechsinska and her daughter hid in a damp cave-like room under the floorboards of a barn owned by a sympathetic farmer. There they survived the war.
Eventually, the voices stopped seeking her wisdom and Lechsinska had accepted a life without visions and spiritual guidance. That was until she met her spirited young neighbor who stood before her, announcing, “I’m June.”
Joyful memories of life before the cruel war flooded Lechsinska’s soul. June’s presence was the sun that penetrated the dark cloud of spiritual exile. Once again, Lechsinska heard the voices guiding her to share her sacred magical gifts. Like her grandmothers, she understood that she was to guide and encourage psychic abilities and her student stood before her.
In a husky, accented voice, the old woman introduced herself to Cathy. “I’m Mrs. Gorzalkowski,” she said. She extended her gnarled hand to Cathy, who stuttered over the pronunciation of the woman’s name.
“It’s okay. Nobody in America can say it right,” she laughed. “Call me Mrs. G.” She pushed a chair toward Cathy. “Sit.”
A joyful feeling, like being welcomed home by a loving grandmother, spread over Cathy and she allowed herself a glimmer of hope. Taking in a whiff of the incense, she asked, “Isn’t that frankincense?”
Mrs. G nodded, “Yes.”
“I recognized the scent. They use it at Benediction Mass,” Cathy said.
“We’re Catholics,” declared June. She sensed her mother was comfortable with Mrs. G. Maybe Mammy can be friends with her, too, she wished privately, thinking of how many hours her mother would sit staring out the window toward the ocean.
Mrs. G said, “Your daughter, she…I say in my tongue, wizjonerka.”
“What’s that mean?” June asked, intertwining her tiny fingers around Mrs. G’s weathered hand.
“Your mind sees many things different than most people,” said Mrs. G, tenderly stroking June’s rosy cheeks.
“Aye, right you are!” Cathy rolled her eyes at her young daughter. The women laughed.
Mrs. G poured black tea while Cathy opened the photo album on the table. On one page was the photo of a man, a woman and some children. Mrs. G pointed at it with a teaspoon.
“Husband, gone. These boys,” Mrs. G waited for Cathy to get a good look at the photo, “my sons. Gone. All dead. The war.”
She took the top off the sugar bowl and handed Cathy a spoon.
“I’m so sorry.” Cathy gave the old woman a sad half-smile. “It was a horrible time, wasn’t it? Thank God it’s over,” Cathy said.
Mrs. G pointed her finger at her heart. “Not over here. You, too, family lost in the war?”
“A brother,” she answered.
“Husband? Baby?”
Cathy busied herself arranging the teacup on the saucer. “No, not my husband. You’re right about a baby. Two. Daughters. They died, but not in the war. After.”
“But you have other daughters to love,” Mrs. G said, her wise eyes piercing through the vapors of the steaming tea.
Wanting to be part of the conversation, June said, “I have three sisters. Annie, Maggie and Mary. They go to school. I’ll go to school soon, too.”
“Four girls. You are a lucky woman. You see in time. Your daughters bring you much happiness,” said Mrs. G. She adjusted her arthritic body into the chair and took a long sip of tea. Slowly, her eyes came up from her cup. “You still sad like me.”
“Yes, of course. No wonder. After seeing so much,” Cathy said. “Oh well. You know what I mean, don’t you.”
“Yes. This old lady know much of tears and death,” said Mrs. G.
June broke the slight pause of conversation between the women. “My Mommy can play with us instead of watching television. We didn’t have a TV before Daddy bought it so Mommy wouldn’t be so sad.”
“June! That’s enough.” Cathy shook her head. “Well, she’s right. I do watch it too much. Couldn’t afford one in Scotland. Like everyone else we knew.”
“America. So much to have. In Poland we have not television. We have each other. Time for friends,” said Mrs. G, handing Cathy the creamer.
With the ease of a gentle breeze on a spring day, Cathy and June settled in with their new friend as if it had always been that way.
They would have stories of their homelands to share.
Every school morning after walking the older girls to school with her mother, June tromped happily down the old wooden backstairs to be with Mrs. G. Mostly they talked and laughed. Their strong affection for each other surpassed the difference in their ages. Mrs. G kept the chatty girl busy with easy household tasks, or they would tend to the flowers in the small garden at the back of the building.
June’s education in the realm of magic began with her wise old Polish friend and started in the small garden at the foot of the backstairs. Mrs. G said the weather in San Francisco, mostly sunny days coupled with moist, cool fog, was perfect for the flowers, tomatoes and herbal plants she grew. She sang in Polish as they gardened. Curious, June wanted to know what she was saying.
“I tell them how much happiness they bring. How they help us be healthy.” Mrs. G returned to pruning back a lavender bush. “This one help if you have headache. It also can heal sadness of the past.”
June sniffed it. They moved on to a lemon tree. “She make your stomach good when sour,” Mrs. G said.
“How’d you know it’s a girl tree?” June asked.
“I talk to th
e garden angels.”
“I’ve got an angel, too,” June said proudly.
Mrs. G kept working, pulling off old dead leaves. “I know,” she said.
“What do your garden angels look like?” June asked, squeezing a firm lemon.
“You can see them. But you must be still.” Mrs. G put down her shears and motioned for June to stop touching the lemons. “Close your eyes,” she instructed.
Being still was not easy for the rambunctious four-year-old. But, wanting to please her friend she squeezed her eyes closed, held her arms straight down with her fingertips pointing at the earth and remained motionless. She breathed in the bountiful scents in the garden. The fragrance of the lilac bush relaxed her.
“Listen,” Mrs. G said softly.
At first, June only heard the rumbling of a plane overhead and faint sounds of distant hammering and sawing. After a moment, she could hear the buzzing of insects visiting flowers. Then the air around her moved with a light swishing noise. It gently disturbed a corkscrew curl that had escaped a bobby pin at the side of her head. The curl danced in the breeze, brushing across her cheek and tickling her nose, yet she continued to hold still. She felt the grass move under her feet. Maybe its ants going to work she giggled to herself, thinking of an army of tiny black ants with lunch pails like her father had. Then it seemed something touched her leg. It felt like a small warm hand. She jumped. The garden was full of life.
“They’re here. Wee tiny green people,” June whispered.
“The garden angels,” Mrs. G whispered back.
It was there in the garden June learned to communicate with nature’s energies; seen and unseen. She would stand in front of a plant, listen for a few minutes and relate to Mrs. G what it needed, whether it was pruning, water, less water, or a song. The old woman would consider what she said, and usually agree.
On colder days, the two would stay in Mrs. G’s living room with the gas-burning fireplace blazing. There they would drink tea made with heavy cream and spoonfuls of sugar. June asked if they could talk to the wee green garden angels inside the house. Mrs. G explained they could enjoy the garden without even being there. She said the mind has great abilities to see places without being present physically. June knew about going to other places in her dreams, but wasn’t sure how she could go to the garden using only her mind. To help, her old friend suggested they play a fun game she learned as a child.
Mrs. G would imagine a place she had been to and June would attempt to describe it, as though she were walking alongside her friend. As the description was given, Mrs. G would say “Very good!” or “Close enough,” or “Look again.” But never once did she say “Wrong.” June’s confidence in her psychic abilities was bolstered with each game and her mind’s eye became keener. Visiting places inside her mind became easy to do.
* * * * *
Chapter 13
REMEMBERING HELEN
LIGHT FILTERED THROUGH the stained glass windows at Holy Savior Church. The pure voices of the many children singing hymns at Mass sounded heavenly to Cathy. She wished the singing could have continued as she watched the priest ascend to the pulpit. During the sermon her mind drifted like the fog over Twin Peaks and out to the ocean. The priest began to read the names of the dearly departed souls. When he said, “Let us pray for Helen Marie MacDonald,” the words pierced Cathy’s heart like a dagger. As she bowed her head, her black scarf slipped forward, threatening to cover her eyes.
On Saturday afternoon when Cathy arrived home from confession, Jimmy told her that he had petitioned a Mass in memory of Helen the following day––Sunday. Cathy did not respond to his announcement, almost as if she hadn’t heard. She still couldn’t believe it had been a year since her sweet wee lassie had passed on. The grieving mother berated herself for not doing enough to save Helen. She felt responsible for not going straight to Dr. MacFadden as soon as Helen began having troubles, but as usual, she had listened to Jimmy. If she had been stronger and had taken control, then maybe her precious little girl would still be alive.
The move to America was supposed to relieve her grief. Instead, it only caused a greater feeling of separation. She wiped away the tears that began to seep out from her closed eyes. She wondered if Jimmy felt guilty also. She glanced in his direction. She saw that his face was downcast.
Consumed with guilt, she pulled her hand away when June’s small fingers tried to engage her. Her thoughts were too dark and moody. She felt she didn’t deserve her children. Helen’s death was her penance for the wrongs she had done. Looking to the statue of Our Lady holding Baby Jesus, Cathy wondered if She had felt helpless and without hope at her son’s death, as she had felt with Helen’s death. The distraught mother prayed to Our Lady in hope of finding some absolution, but found none. God’s mother had been a virgin without sin and that is where their differences started. Cathy’s lips moved as she silently prayed another “Hail Mary.”
June sat in the pew, squeezed between her mother and Mary. She anxiously swung her legs back and forth as her eyes roamed around the church, looking for some sort of interaction––a smile at least. No one paid her any attention.
As she stared at the dancing light of the sun shimmering through the stained glass window, she saw her angel appear. The angel was raising her hand as though in a blessing. June was certain she was sending a message that she would see Helen at Mass.
She looked first at her father, but his eyes were closed and his hands were clenched tightly on his lap. She knew he missed Helen a lot, too. She then turned to her mother. She could feel her sadness. In hopes of alleviating her sorrow, she lightly touched her mother’s hand, only to have her push it away.
Her hurt at the rejection lasted only a second. A happy surprise made June gasp at the miracle appearing before her eyes. Standing alongside the statue of Our Lady was Helen––waving! She pulled on her mother’s sleeve and pointed to her sister. “Mommy, wave at Helen,” she said. But instead of making her happy, as June had hoped, Cathy began softly sobbing into a hankie.
Mary’s voice was the next to interrupt the quietness of the Mass. “Mommy, why are you crying?” People in the pews nearby turned toward the MacDonald family.
“Mommy won’t say hello to Helen,” June said loudly.
“Be quiet,” Annie hissed.
People shook their heads at the disruption.
Jimmy leaned across Mary and June and whispered, “Let’s go, Cath.” The girls followed him as he stepped outside the pew to give their mother room to pass. He motioned for everyone to follow and quickly whisked his family out of the church. Jimmy gave his arm to his wife. She clung to it and leaned into him for support. Annie took tight hold of June’s hand to keep her away from their mother. Outside the church she warned her sisters to say no more about Helen. She reminded them of the sadness of the day.
The walk home was a somber affair. The usual chattering and skipping was replaced with silence and trudging feet.
As they walked down the street, they passed Andy’s Donut Shop with its scent of baking donuts permeating the air around the red-framed shop. Jimmy suddenly stopped and clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention.
“How about donuts and hot chocolate this morning?” he asked.
The girls looked at him aghast. Mary questioned her father’s odd offer, “Daddy, won’t we be too full for Mommy’s Sunday breakfast?”
Everyone was ravished, since they never ate on Sunday mornings until after they had taken Holy Communion at Mass. Once they got home, Cathy would cook a big breakfast of eggs, sausages, potatoes and lots of buttered toast. They wouldn’t eat again until Sunday dinner was served, which was another special event.
But the donuts looked good anyway. Jimmy raised a questioning eyebrow at his wife. Her small smile was an affirmative reply. The family walked happily into the sweet-smelling donut shop.
As soon as they arrived home, Cathy told the girls to change out of their church clothes and she went to do the same. Jimmy entered the
ir bedroom as she was changing. With her dress and slip laid out on the bed, he watched as she rolled down her stockings below her knees and removed her garter belt, exposing her waist. She was still slender, even after birthing so many children. She caught Jimmy’s reflection watching her in the mirror. Modestly, she turned her back to him.
“I made plans with Sandy to take the kids to the beach today,” he said.
She screwed up her face in a worried frown. “I really don’t feel like going to the beach.”
Quickly he said, “No, of course not. Why don’t you lie down and take it easy?”
He pulled the large brown bag that held their beach things out of the closet. “I’ll let the girls have some rides at Playland, too,” he said.
Cathy loved going to Playland as much as the girls did. The amusement park at the beach had some wonderful rides, although they were very costly.
“Can we afford that?” she asked.
“It’s a special treat today.”
She knew he was trying to make the day easier for her. She had cried that morning while they were still in bed. She had told him she couldn’t face the day. Jimmy had held her, stroking her hair and told her not to worry. He said he would take care of the girls. But still she worried.
“What time will you be home for dinner?” she asked.
“Don’t bother. I’ll bring home fish and chips,” he said readily.
She sighed deeply. “I don’t know, Jimmy. The girls look forward to their Sunday dinners.”
“Let’s try to make this a good day. Please.”
Jimmy finished hanging up his Sunday suit and pulled a vest over his shirt.
She went up to him and without words, pulled him into her arms. For a moment their grief mingled together.
A tiny rap on the door cut short their embrace. Jimmy warned the intruder not to enter.
Cathy grabbed her Capri pants. An overwhelming weakness engulfed Cathy’s entire being. She collapsed onto the bed and curled into a fetal position.
