Resolved, I dipped my tin cup into the sparkling waters of Mnemosyne. Breathing deeply and closing my eyes, I drained the cup. The cold water was refreshing. But now what?
I drank the dreaded drink, but had no idea what would happen after. I never had given it a thought – just knowing I would remember things, (not where I left my car keys, but things I had forgotten because I could not bear them), was as far as my thoughts went, before they stopped.
I have done what was required of me, now it was for the water to do its work. Meanwhile, the work of daily life always needs to be done. Dishes and laundry and tidying up can fill the time. Then there is knitting and mending, and finally, the creative pursuits that tie me to sanity.
Nothing.
On a whim I picked up my journal and began to read, happening on this passage…
“…my odd disjointed dream. It was like a slide show of memories, I recognized everything – the unfinished room where the lathes showing through the plaster; the dormer window, painted shut, a fly buzzing madly against the grungy glass; doors locked to keep me in, keep me safe, but what was on the other side could unlock the door; the leaning tree which was so easy to climb; the burned forest behind the house oozing smoke like pus from a wound; the dim, pungent interior of the privy house; six ducklings shivering in a corner of the horse trough, peeping desperately; cattails rising as walls along each side of a gravel road; a black snake, thicker than my arm, twice my height, undulating at my feet; the dizzy height of the corn crib; wood ticks; planting a penny packet of seeds that I would never see grow…’
I remembered the first forgotten terror.
It happened sometime during my kindergarten year, spring time I think. I was walking down the gravel drive hoping to find my Mommy and new Daddy. A lady was with me, I don’t know who she was. Looking back, she was probably a girlfriend of one of my new Daddy’s friends. They played in his band and lived in the roof over the corncrib. Whoever she was, we walked the long drive at my insistence. Cattails rose up on both sides of the drive like walls. Half way to the road, where I knew I would find Mommy, a huge snake came flying across the road, nearly over my feet. I believe it was the first time I ever saw a snake. I was terrified. I would never go near the driveway again, except safely in the car.
Sometime later there was a fire. We were away. When we came back the woods around the house were smoking ruins. The house was untouched, as was the little house outback. The view from the outhouse was one of blackened trees and dirt.
Sometimes my little brothers and I were locked in our room. It was a barren room. Bare wood floor, lathes showing through the plaster. The widow could not be opened, at least not by us. Our cots and mattresses on the floor were the only furnishings in the room. The room would get very hot making us very sleepy. We couldn’t see much through the windows. Flies congregated there, however, and they were interesting. We played with them, having nothing with which to play. We took them apart, at least I did, my oldest child’s fingers having the best dexterity. I don’t know why we were locked in our room, only why we innocently tortured flies.
I don’t where my little brothers were when the terrible memory happened. Mommy and the new Daddy were gone. One of the men from the corncrib was looking after me. I played gaily in the yard, climbing up and down my favorite tree. It’s wide trunk sloped gradually up to a fork where I liked to sit, looking out through the leaves. The man told me to come down and go potty. I obeyed like a good little girl.
He had to go potty too. He was so ugly, fat, red and covered in black hair. He told me to take my clothes off so he could check me for woodticks, then to turn around so he could check my back. I looked out at the blacken carcasses of trees while he did painful things to my bottom, ridding me of ticks.
After that he bought me candy, aqua colored mints wrapped in clear cellophane. I hated them. I still hate them.
Once I was offered some at a friend’s house. I accepted one, put it in my pocket. When I reached my car I took it out and dropped it on the pavement, then pulverized it under my heel. The flashfire of hate and rage left me trembling, yet feeling strangely triumphant.
I am trembling now. How can someone be so foul to a child?
I look at a picture of my first grade self, smiling shyly. That child had already forgotten that terrible day. And was blissfully ignorant of the terrible days to come.
Shortly after the day in the outhouse, I planted a package of seeds, given to me by my teacher, along the side of the house. Before their shoots pushed through the soil, Mommy, new Daddy, and his friends above the corncrib were arrested for burglary. My bothers and I went to live with my grandparents on their farm. There flowers blooomed in profusions of colors and scents. I climbed apple trees, flew in a tire swing in an oak. I held eggs warm from the nest, picked strawberries, road with Grandpa on the tractor – flocks of seagulls following the plow. Grandpa let me bring a barn kitten into the house for my own. Blessed Grandpa! I was safe and loved. Days were honey gold. Childhood was an enchanted forest of delights.
Until sixth grade. We lived in town then, kitty-corner from the church where my grandparents attended with my little brothers and I in tow. Mother and new Daddy #2 did not. My grandparents had left the farm, and lived across town. When Mommy beat me, or when she threw me outside by my hair, I would run to my grandparents. No one hurt me there. No one ever intervened to prevent my mother’s violence.
Right across the road from them lived my best friend, Margaret. In my grandparent’s basement we created a palace. We danced to Peer Gynt with partners made of romance. When danger threatened, we rode our bicycles, manes flying. Margaret’s barn became the cloisters we escaped to, fleeing wicked knights. We served mudpie delicacies from the abbey kitchens, until we could regain our thrones. In the evening we pulled up lawn chaises to watch the sunsets, crowned with wreathes of summer flowers.
At night, at home, I had no place to flee. Many nights I was safe. But I never knew when a piece of cardboard would raise the hook from its eye inside my door. I squeezed my eyes tight and held my breath, pretending nothing was happening.
I remember going to the nurse’s office, ill from anxiety. What if I had a baby? How would I know? Who could I ask?
No one.
I could not ask the kindly nurse. I could not ask my friends, blushing with pride over their blossoming bodies. I could not ask my mother, or grandmother. I couldn’t ask my teachers. Shame made me mute.
I told my diary, then befriended a little girl with a reputation of duplicity. She read my diary and told my secret for me. My teacher asked me if it was true. I nodded. The principal called the police.
My brothers and I didn’t go home that day, or ever again. The police went to our house and took new Daddy # 2 to jail. They emptied our drawers into garbage bags and gave them to our Real Daddy, who took us far away.
There was a custody battle. I remember telling some man, judge, psychologist, I do not know who, that I would kill myself before I went back to live with my mother. I looked him directly in the eyes and spoke calmly and quietly. I do not remember anymore of that conversation.
My mother lost, of course. During one of his night visits, false daddy took Polaroids. Imperical evidence that convicted him.
I think his sentence was a year of parole. I don’t know for sure. There is no one to ask. My great aunt told me later my mother was not married to him at the time, but married him after his arrest or sentencing or sometime around then.
My mother told me I was a liar, that my dad cooked this up just to get us away from her. She wasn’t going to let me ruin her life, so she married him. She called me a slut. “I take after my mother,” I hissed. She slapped me.
Even in memory, my face feels the force of her hand. Blood drains away, my hands grow cold. My sternum twists, and I cease to breathe.
Memories come flooding… each a stinging serpent bite of the bitter interactions with my mother.
I remember, Mnemosyne, I remember.
Now what do I do?
