I also found a kit containing brushes and graphite pencils, a feather beak, and a transparent plastic bag, large and misshapen, with small pots of gouache, fabric paint for painting tissues (this was impromptu), nankin, watercolor, ink and water-based.
I remembered that I did not have the full range of colors to paint my drawings, because all my utensils were second hand. I considered these color tints as my greatest treasures, some donated to my art classes in high school, others purchased by myself with much sacrifice.
Stirring up the bottom of the suitcase, I found a small, effete photo album. I felt beads of sweat appear on my forehead. I wiped them away with the back of my hand and boldly flipped through the frayed pages to recap some of my dull life.
That’s funny! Looking for those few photos where people appeared smiling, I did briefly reflected upon the world’s irony. An onlooker seeing them devoid of necessary information could really believe that my mother was a wonderful mom; that my father was not dead (that he’s still around, playing his guitar); that the girls and boys at the orphanage or at school were actually my good friends; that all tutors and teachers dealing with orphans liked us—the lost boys and lost girls of a perfect society!
I closed the album firmly. It was not good to be looking at the past. I know it. This conclusion was also true with regard to the only toy I had kept all these years—the doll that my father had given me...the one I had with me at the time of his death. I recognized her, pressed against the bottom of my suitcase...another ghost from my past. Tears welled up in my eyes. I carefully placed the doll next to the album on the couch so that I did not to have to look at it a second time. Why had I kept those things if make me so sick? I knew why. Having an unhappy past is better than have no past, which only showed me that I am masochistic by nature and I did not like seeing myself like that.
I took a few deep breaths before continuing.
At the bottom of the case I found two pairs of socks. Where are my shoes and my slippers? Wait! In a transparent baggie I found a thumb drive. This item wasn’t among my things that I remembered. I was curious. I opened the small object and turned it between my fingers. On one side was a sticker that read: “File & e-books.” The calligraphy was not mine...
I plugged it into the USB port of the laptop and clicked to access the files. Some literary classics appeared; comic books; articles on art history; images of sculptures, pictures; engravings; summaries on the major world museums—their collections and their email addresses. Wow! I was intrigued. How could this happen? There are many mysteries surrounding the frontier between Maine and New Hampshire.
I shut the files, clicked on the request to “safely remove” and pulled the thumb drive from the USB port. Wait! How did I know the procedure? I’d never had a thumb drive before. For a moment, I stared at the small device and then I shrugged and returned it to the bag.
Back to the suitcase... Like any thriller, the impact was always reserved to the end. Basically, I found sheets of various sizes—stretched and wrapped carefully in plastic sheeting. They were my drawings. Of course, I remember them!
I pulled them out, one by one. Each drawing represents my views on the bucolic scenery of Coos that marked my childhood and adolescence: the old orphanage; the hospital where my father died, now abandoned, with its ghostly stained glass windows and the sunny garden; the wooden covered bridge that crosses the Connecticut River, not so far from Dailey’s Crossing; the railroad tracks...
The next drawings had a very different theme and were more mature than the landscapes. They represented my first attempts to “exorcise” the hallucinations. There on the faded paper, red eyes fueled a spectra—shapeless, faceless—the winged monster that haunted my worst childhood nightmares.
Yes, I’d made several charcoal sketches: The creature flapping its wings on its flyby; perched on the branches of trees when moonlight hangs over them in front of the window of my bedroom. To look at it caused me a sudden and terrible malaise. Dizziness overtook me and my lungs began to fail me. It seemed like I’d been punched in the stomach. Without warning, the crisis struck me.
For one brief, lucid moment, I regretted bitterly not having heard Adrian before. I knew I would not have time to reach the emergency button. I stayed completely paralyzed, tumbled sideways on the bed with my face turned to the window. Great! So I have a privileged view of death approaching me. And here she comes, flapping her huge wings while I sweat profusely.
My heart was pumping in my ears, echoing those wings beating in a crescendo orchestrated until the monotonous sound of both became a single squealing. My vision went dark in the same proportion to the beat until the squealing dominated everything. There was a blackout...and then, silence.
Suddenly, a crazy thing happened. Images emerged from nowhere and seemed to dance in front of my eyes. Initially they were flashes of light and shadow that assaulted my sensibilities, but then became more defined. Some I recognized, others were strange and senseless. They were gone so fast that I couldn’t understand what they meant, but I saw the fragments of scenes as if I were a part of them.
So hallucinations, nightmares, and reality mixed in the life of a girl and a woman at the same time...but who was that woman? It seemed to be...ME.
* * *
Sunny afternoon...
From over the wall, I could see the trees of a thick forest. A distinctive scent of incense burned around me, brought by the breeze. I knew instantly that women from the fort were making their offerings to Vesta.
Peace enveloped me like a blanket until suddenly I noticed a shadow running through the trees. It was him. I was waiting for that confrontation.
* * *
A temple in ruins...
I was using a set of delicate veils that fluttered as if wanted to launch down the cliff. He was approaching faster and faster. I could already feel him behind me.
I turned and finally got to see him. He was magnificent in his fury. His arms seemed amazingly sculpted in the hardness of marble. I noticed that he still wore his warrior garb and the ritualistic camouflage of Celtics covered his face, making the jade color of his eyes scarier than it used to be for his enemies, but not for me.
He was screaming in anguish. I wanted to give in and obey him, if only to stop his suffering, but I couldn’t. I had to hurt him to save him.
My look to him was one of goodbye before I turned back and opened my arms to the cliff.
* * *
My father’s body was covered with a white bed sheet.
I remained seated for a long time, clutching my doll, until I understood that I was left to my own devices. Suddenly, his body moved and a spot of blood began to form on the bed sheet, soaking the fabric. I looked around desperately, but there was nobody to help me. The blood dripped on the floor, seeping towards my shoes.
* * *
The old man with scarlet eyes was smiling, but there was no kindness in his smile when they reached out to me. He had a branch of laurel on his head. He said,
“Litterae entrata non-sine sanguine.”
* * *
The ground shook with the clap of thunder, while lightning streaked across the sky the color of blood.
The gates of the mansion opened slowly, while the social worker pulled me by the arm to the front porch where the Reverend was waiting for us. That was supposed to be my new home. They guided me in and introduced me to other children. Suddenly, everyone started to laugh and sing, “Poor Melissa, nobody loves her.”
They had scarlet eyes. I wanted to flee, but I was surrounded.
“Now you belong to us.”
* * *
The celebration took place around a huge bonfire. A group of youths celebrating the harvest, singing and dancing to the sound of a sitar...
Wine glasses were empty, but for not long. Maybe I was a little drunk, but the fact was that I felt happy and relaxed. It was so good!
Suddenly, my waist was surrounded by strong, protective arms. He began to whisper gently in my
ear, making me sensual promises. I shuddered with anticipation.
His virile laughter indicated to me that he knew exactly what he was doing to me. I was like putty in his hands, but I also had the secret satisfaction of knowing that he would lose his enviable control very soon...in my hands.
I snuggled myself into those arms. Now, I belonged to him, body and soul.
* * *
The trail skirted the abandoned railroad tracks, partially hidden by the large dead trees. Autumn had arrived. It was very cold and the sky was overcast.
I was breathless, but I kept running. The winged creature was chasing me and I desperately searched for some shelter. Then a group of children threw pebbles at me, hurting my back, causing me to bleed.
“Crazy Melissa! Crazy Melissa! Crazy Melissa!” they chanted in unison.
* * *
Along the wall, a decisive battle took place.
Powerful men had their teeth bared. Armored warriors with yellow eyes fought fiercely against others whose eyes were scarlet. Yellow eyes were fewer in number, but were infinitely stronger. Something precious was at stake—their freedom.
The heads stuck on the stakes served as a warning to the dead: Don’t you dare get up! There was blood everywhere. The blood stained my diaphanous tunic.
In the distorted reflection of a shell, I saw that my eyes were no longer brown, but scarlet like the evil creatures. I also saw the image of the jade-eyed warrior. He was standing right behind me, watching me. When I turned, his eyes became yellow and his face revealed intense suffering. He dropped the blood sword on the floor.
I stretched my hand to him. He stretched his hand to me.
“You promised,” I reminded him.
* * *
The spiral of madness suddenly evaporated. The last forty days finally began to make sense as memories have emerged slowly from the dark waters of forgetfulness.
2
ON MY OWN
The day of your birthday should be a special day. It’s when people who supposedly love you gather to celebrate your birth. It means that you should be important to them. There’s a reason for your existence, which may be unknown to you inasmuch as God’s purpose for you isn’t always made clear. Scholars and holy men may well have tried to learn how one finds out what one’s purpose is supposed to be, but I think it’s essentially a matter of faith.
Birth is a real event...a fact, but it also involves faith and magic. People seem to think that any being coming into the world brings with them a divine spark—that he or she has an important role to play in a much larger plan and that plan fits in mysterious, sometimes torturous ways. Our mission on earth is to decipher the plan and apply it to our life. I believe there is a divine plan for everyone, but this is only a theory.
Lately, I’d been wondering if there was a reason for one person to live and another one to die...like me and my daddy. Why did someone who led an insipid life as I had, remain alive, breathing, while another who would have done much better is forced to leave this world? People excited by life, who enjoy the world and do good things, people who are always there when others need them...they deserve to celebrate many birthdays.
It wasn’t right that my father died while I continued to live. I was caught up in what I decided to call my “existential trap.” On the one hand, I depreciated my own existence, and on the other hand, I clung to it tooth and nail, waiting for something that would eventually justify my loneliness or fulfill my wish for the sun to shine on me.
Where did my insignificant life fit into the divine plan? What did my birthday represent? More importantly, “Who cares?” After all, I was merely the remains of my parents’ plan. The “parent candidates” preferred to adopt younger children, especially babies...preferably perfect babies with no adjustment problems. Nobody wanted a six year-old girl with a psychiatric history.
My frequent hallucinations were a puzzling to adults, in particular the child psychiatrist appointed by the state welfare department. He attributed my episodes to “severe psychological trauma” given that they started with the death of my father, on the day when my mother abandoned me.
Because of my hallucinations, other children did not want to play with me. I was subjected to teasing and cruel jokes, which led me to seek refuge in my drawings. I loved to draw. It was a way to express my anguish and longing. Whenever possible, I would hide somewhere and make up stories of adventure—portraying scenes that impressed me and imagining places that I’d never seen before. My fertile imagination made it possible for me to design the world as I wanted it to be. On the other hand, books and movies were my constant companions, carrying me away from my fears and the reality that my life was devoid of affection or the companionship of the other orphans. I had no friends, no family, no one who truly cared about me, so books and movies became my confidantes. Through them, I was able to “know” the world that I knew I’d have little chance to see and experience for myself.
So time went on. I grew up and shut myself away. There was one point, a line that I crossed when I became the one who didn’t want to be adopted. I no longer believed there was a chance to find parents who might really love me. To be honest, I thought I didn’t believe in any kind of love; but even more, I believed that I didn’t deserve to be loved. Voluntary isolation was a way to avoid feeling what hurt me most, what filled all the nooks and crannies until it reached the deepest recesses of my life—the hurt of abandonment.
Of course, reaching my 18th birthday, becoming an adult (at least according to the law) would not help to change this panorama. In fact, it was quite the contrary. I felt as if suddenly I’d been thrown overboard from a ship at sea on a stormy night. The huge waves would toss me around like a dog plays with a toy. I would be at the mercy of nature’s fury until the sea swallowed me. Because I would be 18 years old tomorrow, I would have to leave the orphanage and give my bed to a new child—another lost child, another rejected child. Would they have better luck here than I had?
The panic enveloped me as I walked to the Director’s office. I had always had managed to have an apathetic attitude whenever I’d visited the Director’s office, but this was the first time I had difficulty disguising my nervousness. I think it was because I’d finally realized the seriousness of my situation. There were no good prospects in sight for me, which I knew was partly my fault.
For starters, I had no qualifications. Although I’d finished high school, my academic records did not indicate that I was a good candidate for college. Throughout my high school years, I had not been involved in any school activities, nor did I participate in any social events—no school dances, nothing whatsoever. I had completely estranged myself from everything. I did not even try to get into any advanced courses that might have helped prepare me for college. I didn’t participate in the science club, the chess club, or the reading club. I was not enrolled in any independent studies that were offered periodically. In short, I did absolutely nothing to help my academic career or my social life. Now, my only hope was to get into the nearest community college.
At that time, I guess that I thought that exempting myself from all events was the best way to keep people from noticing me. My art work brought me a little attention, so I tried to restrain myself so that people would not my talent or ability. I wished for people not to see me, not to remember me, but in such a small community, people don’t let you forget.
Starting in my first year of high school, and with only slight variations, all of the years that followed while I attended that school, I was known as the “Bride of the Flying Monster.” Other nicknames emerged—evil and creative, like “Carrie.” That was the most interesting one, as far as I can remember. My terrible colleagues spent their precious time creating all manner of humiliating treatment with which to torment me. I don’t know which was worse—the beatings, the stones thrown, or the bullying humiliation.
The only nice thing about my school days was the advisers never pressured me to excel. After all, everyone knew that I h
ad mental problems and they didn’t think that I could learn anything beyond the basics. Some adults believed that I could be a dangerous person and that my place was not in mainstream education among “harmless children.” Oh, yes, they were very harmless! Not!
How did I know what adults thought about me? Well, I did not intend to listen to their conversations from behind doors, but as is so often the case, the stars conspired to make this happen. Although I didn’t feel comfortable about the situation, I had to recognize that spying on the adults there had its advantages because, in the end, you always find out what they really think about you, even when they hide their thoughts behind artificial smiles. Eavesdropping gave me an advantage over them—they couldn’t fool me, much less hurt me with false displays of affection.
I lived as if I had an alter ego. In front of adults, I acted like Peter Parker, but when nobody was looking, I turned into Indiana Jones. Melissa Baker, who didn’t open her mouth and didn’t relate to anyone, but when she was alone, she invented great adventures which she carried out in the forest and surrounding rural properties. I was always saving the world from aliens, finding treasure buried by pirates and conquerors, or chasing villains created in my fertile imagination, and occasionally spied on adults—accidentally, of course!
As an invisible being, I felt powerful and also unattainable. Because I was unfettered, I mapped all of the area’s byways and created my own hideout in an abandoned barn, a long-forgotten place in the woods that was still standing. It was there that I established my drawing studio and where I kept my treasures and “spoils of war”—books, comics, toys, and my drawings. The barn was my “fortress of solitude.” Unfortunately, my double life could not prevent what was about to happen. My hideout could not hide me from life.
Hadrian's Wall Page 5
