Blind Delusion

by Dorothy Phaire

  “There’s no need in involving your worthless father. I'll take care of this myself.” She’d just returned from the doctor’s isolated cottage tucked away in a York, Pennsylvania countryside, and Renee was staring at the rosebud border encircling her pale pink bedroom walls and crying. She jumped at the sound of Aunt Clara bursting through her bedroom. “Stop this foolishness right now, Renee Janette Curtis! No sense in you lying around here moping. The whole bucket of milk is spilled and you want to put it back.”

  At 16 she hadn’t understood what Aunt Clara meant about the spilled milk but now she did. They had snatched her unborn baby from her body twenty-nine years ago while she slept in an anesthetic coma. Like spilled milk, her baby couldn’t be put back. The churchgoing Aunt Clara had looked Mr. and Mrs. DeWitt in the eyes and lied. She had told Randolph’s parents that Renee started hemorrhaging in the middle of the night and had to be rushed to the hospital where she lost the baby. It was best for all concerned if Renee and Randolph stopped seeing each other. The DeWitts agreed with her and promised to keep their son away from Renee. Like everyone else in their middle-class Northeast neighborhood, Renee feared Aunt Clara. She’d kept quiet about their family secret just as her aunt ordered. Over the years, she’d completely erased it from her memory until now.

  “I’ve wrestled with an unknown guilt for years but didn’t understand why. Now it’s all come crashing down on me. I don’t deserve to be happy.”

  “You’ve been suffering from a type of post-traumatic stress, Renee. That’s how you were able to lock away the trauma of losing your baby. It’s been deep within your subconscious for so many years.”

  “Perhaps, this is the reason you tried to adopt a baby without your husband’s agreement,” Helen continued, “You saw adoption as another chance at motherhood.”

  “Yes. I know how Bill feels about being a father but I thought I could get him to change his mind. I suppose I have to accept the fact that motherhood is just one more part of my life that will have to go unfulfilled.”

  “How are things at home between you and your husband?”

  Renee hesitated for a moment and then opened up to her therapist. She was surprised at her candidness in confiding to Helen the intimate details of her marriage. Although, she respected her as a colleague and mentor and even considered her a friend, Renee never had any close girlfriends to call on when things became emotionally rough. Her entire childhood and now adult life had involved keeping her true feelings hidden. Years of psychotherapeutic training had taught her how to be evasive while compelling others to face the truth. Add to that, Aunt Clara’s constant admonitions to always present a respectable and private demeanor. But this time, Renee didn’t mince words when she answered Helen’s personal questions about her relationship with Bill.

  “My husband competes with me and resents my success. Right now, he’s occupied with some joint venture he’s involved in and he’s not concerned about how I feel about anything including adoption. He doesn’t have time to listen to me. I’m nothing more than a warm body to him. We haven’t made love in over a month and when we did I was just an outlet for his built-up, sexual tension.”

  “What about your own built-up, sexual tension?” said Helen, “Are you doing anything about that?”

  “Like everything else in my life, I’ve learned how to block it out,” said Renee, “Sex with Bill is predictable. I know what he’ll say, which is nothing. I know what he looks like, feels like. I know how long it’ll last and exactly what happens afterwards. He’ll go back to sleep. I don’t feel special to him. I don’t feel loved or cherished.”

  “Honestly Helen, I’d rather get up early and watch the sun come up and sip a good, hot cup of coffee than linger in bed with him. I’m afraid he probably feels the same about me.”

  “Well, Renee, you’re still a young, attractive woman. What are you prepared to do about this situation? Are you going to demand changes in your marriage or are you going to end it and seek happiness elsewhere?”

  “I’m not sure I follow what you mean?”

  “Happiness comes to those willing to fight for it. Are you up to the battle, Renee? Or do you intend to just stay numb the rest of your life? These are questions that only you can answer.”

  Renee told Helen how she tried to do something completely out of the ordinary. She described her preparations in arranging a surprise, intimate evening with Bill. But the plans blew up in her face. Now she didn’t have the desire after he brushed her aside on her birthday.

  “It’s time you discovered who Renee Hayes really is, what she wants, and how to get it,” said Helen. “Two negative emotions will try to stand in your way, fear and guilt. Don’t let them. Release your fears of not ever being truly loved and not experiencing motherhood. Then get rid of the anger and guilt from things that happened to you in the past.”

  “This may sound cliché, but that’s easier said than done,” said Renee, trying to hold back her tears.

  “Renee, I believe you’re experiencing the long-term effect of losing both your parents at a young age” said Helen, as she continued, “I believe this has affected all of your adult relationships from what you’ve told me over the years. Your mother died when you were seven and your father simply wasn’t there for you. To me, you appear to be manifesting symptoms similar to children of divorced parents. Then, there’s your recent memory of a teen pregnancy that ended without your consent or knowledge. You do realize that you’re suffering from anxiety because of all this?”

  “Yes, I know Helen. But, I thought I had it under control.”

  Helen rested her clasped hands on top of her desk as she looked Renee straight in the eye. “Honestly Renee, what would you tell your patients in this situation?”

  “I would first suggest the behavioral approach. I’d teach them breathing desensitization and relaxation techniques to ease their anxiety.”

  “Well, there you have it! Have you tried these exercises that you would advise your patients to follow?”

  “Yes, I’ve tried that. It’s not working for me. I need you to prescribe something.”

  “I can prescribe an anti-depressant. Zanax or perhaps Ativan. Do you have a preference for any particular type of the common benzodiazapiens?”

  “You and I both know those will take 3-4 weeks to work! Why don’t you give me some Lexapro? That will work much faster.”

  “Of course, you’re right. I can prescribe Lexapro for you, but you know that medication is addictive.”

  “I know, but it won’t be a problem. I won’t be on it that long. I just need something to get me through this. I need something to stop these horrible intrusive memories. I’m actually afraid to go to sleep.”

  “Very well,” sighed Helen as she unlocked her desk drawer and removed a prescription pad. “Listen to me, Renee. You must free yourself from all those fears—fear of loss, of change, and of being hurt. It’s a liberating sensation when you do.” Helen ripped the filled out prescription from the pad and held it up, away from Renee. “Don’t be afraid to change.”

  “I’ll work on it, Helen,” said Renee, holding out her hand for the prescription. “You know, a friend said something to me last night and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. She said live until you die. Up until now, I haven’t really been living at all.”

  “Your friend’s right. I’d like you to come back early next week. If you can get your husband to come with you, that would be helpful to your progress and to his. You will need a lot more help than this one session to get through this, Renee. You don’t have to do it alone, you know.”

  Renee nodded, but she knew it would be a cold day in hell before Bill would come with her to see a psychiatrist. It was about one thirty when Renee arrived home after her session with Helen and after getting her Lexapro prescription filled at the pharmacy. What was left of today’s stack of mail sat on the pier
table in the foyer. Bill had already picked out his mail but she knew he was not home because his sports car was missing. That’s the only thing he drove these days. Renee wondered if he received her scented, mysterious envelope. She grabbed her mail and headed downstairs to her office.

  Before unlocking the door to her office, she turned back and started towards the stairs leading to the first floor landing. A dark-pined, hidden alcove under the stairway caught her eye and she stopped. Renee had passed by this alcove hundreds of times when coming down to her office without giving it a thought. Now she couldn’t ignore it. Pull yourself together, Renee. For God’s sake, you're a trained psychologist, she tried demanding of herself. The narrow, 26-inch staircase snaked around a column that reached to the attic floor. The sun emitted a shaft of light through a small window above the alcove. Renee passed through the swirling dust gnats that bounced off the light as she slowly climbed the uncertain stairs. She approached the staircase in a trance-like state as if some spirit hovered about, warning her to go back. When Renee almost reached the top landing, she lost her footing and nearly tumbled down the rickety stairs. She grabbed hold of the banister and continued forward.

  The attic housed a tower of cardboard boxes and a chest full of her high school and college graduation gowns, yearbooks and memorabilia. Aunt Clara’s cedar chest stood in the middle of the floor, and had not been opened since college. Whatever had been tucked way in its cedar chipped linings had moved with her from house to house, untouched and buried. Renee looked around and flinched upon seeing her mother’s full-length, mink coat draped around a life-like mannequin. She dropped the handful of mail on the attic floor. Then, walked over to the mannequin and stroked the coat’s fur collar, and thought of her long-deceased mother. Renee recalled how thrilled her mother had been to receive it from her jazz musician lover, who was Renee’s father, after one of his more profitable gigs when he performed onstage with Lena Horne in the early fifties. Her parents had never married, but no one who saw them together ever doubted their love and commitment to each other.

  Renee wiped a tear from her eye as she thought about how much she still missed her parents. Her mother, Tina Joye, beautiful, willful, and smart, would have been more than a loving mother had she been alive today. She would have been Renee’s best friend and confidant. Renee remembered her mother as she was just before her death, a petite caramel-colored, twenty-five year old beauty with silky, black hair. A true free spirit who had been a singer and showgirl until a tragic accident took her life. Renee’s mother had been killed instantly in a bus accident on March 5th, 1959 while traveling with her tour group when Renee was only seven years old. Her father, LeRoy Curtis, an alto saxophonist and composer never made it big in the music business but toured all over the United States and Europe, thirty-five to forty weeks a year. Growing up, Renee rarely saw him. With her father on the road most of the time and her mother dead, Aunt Clara begrudgingly took on the responsibility of raising her.

  Renee put on her mother’s mink coat and suddenly felt a bit flirtatious and carefree just as if she had taken on the persona of her feisty, showgirl mother. Here was a woman who managed to slay her own dragons—the biggest one of them being Aunt Clara. If only she could be more like Tina Joye, she wouldn’t be afraid to fight for her own happiness. Renee twirled around in a half circle then bumped her ankle on the large cedar chest.

  “Damn,” she cursed aloud rubbing her ankle. Renee took off the coat and gently laid it down. She knelt in front of the chest, and brushed away its thin blanket of dust and spider webs. She struggled to open it. Eventually, it gave way and creaked as she pushed the lid up. She pulled out her black high school graduation cap and gown. Next came her yearbook, and piles of cards. A stack of bound letters stuck out from under an indigo blue, satin prom dress, poi de silk pumps, and elbow-length evening gloves. She remembered hating that dress, which her aunt had bought for her senior prom, but Aunt Clara said she was too dark-skinned to wear pastel colors that light-skinned girls could easily wear.

  She took out one of the letters from the chest and examined the return address. She could tell from the return address that the letter was from her old boyfriend, Randolph DeWitt. It had not been opened. Renee surmised that Aunt Clara had kept it from her and after awhile it had been long forgotten. He wrote it when he was staying with his grandparents in Greensboro, North Carolina the summer she got pregnant. Renee’s hands shook as she opened the folded letter. Randolph had been her first and only love at Coolidge High School when they were both sixteen years old. Her palms felt sweaty as she played with the paper’s folded edges. Renee closed her eyes, and the memories rushed back in panoramic color.

  Renee held Randolph’s unread letter as the scenes from the past replayed before her like a bad movie. Sitting on the attic floor before the cedar chest with her legs tucked under her, Renee opened Randolph’s nearly thirty-year old letter, written on lined school paper and stained yellow from age and she cried. She recognized his handwriting, even after all these years. Reading it now she struggled to make out his immature handwriting, through her tears.

  Dear Renee,

  I got your letter on 8/13/72 and mailed mine on 8/13/72. Excuse my sloppy writing but I've been nervous lately. I still wish we could seek our future together but I know it's out of the question. I was very hurt when my folks told me you lost our baby and I felt that life wasn't hitting on nothing. It's okay down here in Greensboro with my grandparents but I wish I was still up there in DC with you and the gang. When my Pops told me that your Aunt, came to see them and wanted me to stay away from you for good, it hurt me to my heart. I'm sorry our little baby didn't make it, Renee. But does that mean you and me have to break up? I know I promised my Pops never to talk about it to you and I hope this doesn't make you cry but I still love you and I don't know why your Aunt hates me. My Pops said I should leave you alone for awhile like she wants. They don't want no more trouble for her or for you. I heard she transferred you to that school for girls in Northwest Washington, Maret, starting in the Fall. We start school September 4 back at Coolidge and my folks said I will have to stay down here until the end of August. So I guess that means I won't get to see you much anymore. I plan to go into the Army after I graduate high school next year. I guess you will go on to college like your Aunt wants. I remember you saying that you wanted to be in show business like you Mama was. I really liked you in our school play about Romeo and Juliet. I could never get up in front of all my friends, teachers, and parents like you did last year. I was proud to tell everybody, that's my girl!

  I put your picture in my wallet, so when I open it up your picture is the first thing I see. Hey! I got good news, Pops gave me the Wildcat and we drove it down here. I guess he felt sorry for me. It's a nice car but it's eating up my savings. I'm going to give it back to him when I get my Volkswagen. A V.W. is much cheaper to operate. Well I would send you a picture of me too but I don't have any, plus I have gone from bad to worse. When Mother Nature was giving out faces she left me out. (smile) Other than that I'm OK I guess and my brain is still the same, increase No! Decrease, Yes! Well, I guess I better go before I bore you to death. Plus Grandma is on my back, she wants me to go into town to the store. Now I wish I couldn't drive at times but if I couldn't drive she'd probably make me walk the five miles. Take care of yourself and I hope you find peace of mind.

  Yours Forever,

  Randy DeWitt

  P. S. I liked the pink paper and perfume in your letter. It smelled like the roses in my Mama's garden. (I dig it). I miss you a lot and think of you all the time.

  Renee’s tears spotted the frayed letter so much that she had trouble re-reading it. She went back over the part of Randolph’s letter that said she had once wanted to be in show business. She had completely forgoten about her childhood dream to perform on stage just like her mother. But as with so many other things she wanted, Aunt Clara had squashed that idea. Aunt Clara told Rene
e that acting, singing and dancing were all useless ways to earn a living. “Look at where your parents ended up. Besides, what talent do you have? You’re lucky my church lets anybody join the children’s choir.” These were words she recalled hearing over and over again.

  Renee put everything away in the cedar chest, picked up her mother’s fur cost, and swung it over her arm. She carefully maneuvered the steps going back down with one hand on the banister and the other holding onto the mail and the coat. She decided to send the coat to the furrier’s for cleaning. Then, she’d keep it in her closet as a reminder of her mother.

  After returning from the attic, she hung her mother’s coat upstairs in her closet and then headed towards Bill’s study to see if he had come home yet before leaving on his trip. Perhaps, Helen was right. She needed to fight for happiness. Bill didn’t appear to notice her come into his study. The smell of leather and polished mahogany dominated the air in his office. A glass-covered cabinet contained a wall-size case of ancient classics, textbooks and software manuals. Bill’s notebook PC sat flipped open on top the desk and his eyes studied the screen. Just then his cell phone rang and when he picked it up to answer it, he spotted Renee standing in the doorway. He waved her in and pointed to a chair, while talking and nodding into the phone.

  “Hey, man. Yeah, it’s about that time, Cliff,” he said, with a quick glance of his watch.

  While he talked Renee noticed a wastebasket filled with ripped open envelopes and lots of unopened junk mail. She saw her manila envelope sticking out of the trashcan unopened.

  “Umhum, that’s right, buddy. The driver should be here in about an hour. I’m taking Air France’s flight 27 out of Dulles at 6:40 this evening and switching planes in Paris at Charles de Gaulle Airport,” he said, studying the passenger itinerary ticket. “I land in Paris at 8:10 in the morning their time. Right,” said Bill, nodding. “Then from Paris I hop on Indian Airlines at 10:30 AM and arrive in Delhi at 10:15 PM.” He paused. “Yeah, there’s a layover. I’ll have to stay overnight in Delhi and take a 6:35 AM flight straight to Bangalore. That’ll put me in Bangalore at 9:10 AM on Sunday.”