THE HOUSE INSIDE ME

by Camelia Wheatley

  Maw Sue was spiritual, one with nature and the otherworldly unseen. She believed in presence, in shadows and visions, things others just shrugged away. Her belief was old belief, that of another time and place, taught by sages and seers, and ancestors with stories as long as the encyclopedias she kept on her shelves. She had vision, a gift she said, passed from family bloodlines, a gift allowing her to see things beyond the curtains of the pines, to a world only few have the heart and eyes to see. I never understood what she meant by that, until much later in life, but knowing this about her, made me love her more and drew me to her with its primal energy, like fingers curled up, pulling me closer and closer.

  She kept Kool-Aid for us to drink, and gave us money to rake leaves, then treat us to pop and candy at the local store. I knew she loved us because even in her ever-changing moods, she was present, available, to talk, tell stories, take us for walks, help us draw, or read, or answer stupid questions kids have. She was always there. An eternal fixture two houses away, we only need step out our door and walk the dirt path to her porch. That is, until her mind wanderings. At times, she’d be troubled, agitated, pre-occupied, and even scarier, vacant. As if she was somewhere else, altogether. It reminded me, of me.

  She first introduced us to the pine curtain by taking us on long walks through the forest of the big thicket. The dense canopy of Texas loblolly pines and sycamore trees muscled their way in like brute giants towering over us. Undercover were the yaupon, sweet gum, white oak and others. Maw Sue told stories of the boom days, before loggers trudged these woods to harvest the longleaf pines. She said it was a sight to see: spectacular giants at least four feet in diameter dominated the forest. This was where my love for the woods began, with the beautiful trees, the strangeness of plants and flowers, their origins, their uses. It was in the thicket she introduced us to the baby Jesus. Meg and I were little, seven or eight years old, but this was a story we would never forget. We’d take it with us, as if the sap from the pine trees stuck to our skin, absorbing to our roots, making us one with the forest, one with the unknowns, the things we teared up and cried about without understanding why, things that would take years to work themselves out.

  Sure, we learned about Jesus in vacation Bible school once a year, and occasionally on a Sunday when Maw Sue took us, but church Jesus was a whole different Jesus than the one I learned about in the woods behind the pine curtain. I didn’t know it then, but this would begin an immense internal struggle within me, a defining moment in my life of confusion, of spiritual awareness, of innocence and belief, and the sabotage of man-made religion on my mind, my identity and my journey of wholeness. It would take years to return to that place of innocence and discovery, of mysterious and majestic, and it would be upon the pine needle path, I’d come to know the truth.

  Meg and I were anointed there, after all. A Southern sap of the sacred and holy still sticking to our skin, even today. We were queens of the pine curtain. We each had a crown made of locust thorns, green leaves, honeysuckle vines, brambles and Southern sap from a wounded pine tree. The hardest part was digging into the bark of the tree to release the thick sap. I felt as if I was gouging my own skin, but it was tradition dating back to our ancestors and a necessary part of the seeker ceremony. It signified we had powerful gifts and unimaginable purpose. Meg and I were proud Seekers, the promised seed from the Seventh Tribe, a great generation of yesteryears. To wear the ceremonial crown meant we accepted the gifts which created something magical, explicit and splendid, wrought by no other method on Heaven or earth. The crown was to ward off evil, and empower us with the visionary gifts of purpose, and the sticky pine sap bound us all together, crown, tribe and tree. Everything was to remind us of the suffering servant she called Jesus, His purpose and more so, ours. We had been chosen by the blood of our ancestors to bear the great, horrible, tragic, splendor of the precious gift. We had our crowns and we had our kingdom.

  Behind the forest of the pine curtain, we learned the art of medicinal herbs tucked away in plants, trees, shrubs and various seeds used by our ancestors for survival and well-being.

  Deep within the belly of the thicket was a place of wonder. Tall, drooping mulberry trees were the sweet gift of the gods. The burgundy berry was sugary on our tongues and what we didn’t eat, we mashed and used for face paint and pretended we were tribal warriors fighting unseen battles and winning the hearts of all mankind like some female Robin Hoods. The blackened dewberries were the edible jewels of a long-lost princess. If we found foam on the leaflets surrounded the vines, it was a warning a snake was nearby. Maw Sue long considered dewberries and blackberries a holy plant, as well as one of the earliest known foods for man. She often wore a wreath of brambles, woven with ivy and honeysuckle because it was known to ward away evil spirits. Brambles of blackberry were always planted around graves to prevent the dead from rising as ghosts. Legend has it, Christ himself used a whip of bramble to drive away the money changers in the temple. I used to cover myself in it but it never worked for me. The darkness always came back. Shadows and voices rose up to haunt my mind, and I was continually running from them. Either I was doing something wrong, Maw Sue was flat-out Bessie bug crazy, or everything I’ve ever heard is a lie. My bets on all three.

  Not only was Maw Sue a forest fanatic, she was a Southern-fried Farmer’s Almanac full of whimsical, fascinating information. Chicken poop mixed with good soil was the magic ingredient to grow luscious strawberries as big as our palms and sweet as molasses. Honeysuckle was the sweet syrup enabling visionary empowerment, a gift from the vine gods and the forest fairies. Once again, it didn’t work on me. I only saw darkness, shadows and strange slinky things. The nectar was indeed sweet—but the darkness bitter.

  Maw Sue had a lot of tales but one struck me deeply. The story of the pine tree. I considered myself the barefoot queen of the pine curtain. I was one with the forest, one with the trees and one with my tribe. I was a Seeker bleeding the Southern sap of my nature. Like the many acres of pines surrounding the land where I grew up, I would become like the pioneer species Maw Sue always talked about. Loblolly pines are the survivor trees tolerating low nutrients, shallow soils, fluctuating weather and drought. Where other trees fail and die off, a loblolly pine tree will regenerate naturally on disturbed sites where fires have occurred, or old croplands have been abandoned, or left vacant. Where everything else has died off, these seed saplings adapt and thrive. When Maw Sue told me about the tree’s origins, something inside me broke and bled. It wasn’t blood pouring out, but tree sap. Hearing the origins of the tree broke something inside me, and I felt a deep belonging. Maw Sue said a person can learn a lot from a tree’s nature. When a pine tree is cut, or wounded, it oozes a thick, sticky sap from deep within the heart of the bark. Although the damage from the cut is permanent, something remarkable happens. The bark of the tree begins to grow over the scar, completely disguising it, yet beneath the tree’s skin, the scar remains. The wound is ever present, but the tree still grows strong. It learns to adapt and survive. I didn’t know it then, but one day I would need, more than ever, this resilient nature of a pioneer species in my own blood, my balm of Gilead, my own Southern sap.

  As a child I believed without knowledge or understanding, but now as an adult with deep cuts, I am beginning to understand the meaning of it all. Back then, it was a warning. A prophecy of gifts and curses. Having life experiences in such matters, Maw Sue knew more than anyone that I would need this pioneer species, this core in my blood, this Southern sap nature.

  To adapt. To thrive. To Survive.

  3

  The House Of Seven

  When you look into an abyss,

  the abyss also looks into you.

  ~Friedrich Nietzsche

  I’ve had several therapy sessions and my life isn’t better, it’s worse. Pandora’s box has been opened and dealing with old problems is new to me. There are emotions and memories attached to them that I don’t know how to process. I can no longer sweep them un
der the rug or pretend they don’t exist. But I can’t tell Doc everything yet; I have to know I’m safe and right now, I trust no-one. Therapy has opened a dozen doorways to my past, and behind every door is either Maw Sue or my mother. I embrace the memories of Maw Sue but it’s different with my mother. I struggle with her. As much as I want to refuse the memories coming, along with the terrifying emotions they bring, a deeper part of me wants answers. A part of me has to know her now, more than ever—some form of her, real and touchable. I need to know my mother exists. Is Gabby Collard who she says she is? Or who I think she is? I feel she is hiding something. I tried to know her as a child but she kept her distance, silent and brooding. A walled fortress. No one could get close to her. Just thinking about her causes wreckage inside me and today is no different. Just like all the times before, it arrives in a fury. The bursts, flashes, the images of fire and blood, snapshots of time, the terror of the sounds, the child’s scream, me falling into darkness and then silence. The gentle rain comes as a prelude to the memory. The flashback to my past arrives, and with it, Gabby. The mother I loved and hated. The mother I tried so hard to figure out.

  It’s one of my earliest memories in the battle for my own mind. I’m couldn’t have been more than six years old. Meg is tucked almost underneath her blanket asleep on the couch. The living room is dimly lit, the light of the television outlines my purple paisley flower nightgown. I’m sitting cross-legged on the rope rug in front of the television. My eyes glaze over staring into the cartoons. I drift inside the field of animated characters, inside the pasture where Elmer Fudd chases Bugs Bunny with his rifle. I can almost feel the green grass on my toes. A door slams in the hallway behind me. I am startled. My shoulders stiffen and lurch upwards. The air is charged like electricity. The soft fray of hair on my arms lifts up. An army of fingers marches up my spine till I shiver. My skin begins to buzz to the point I can almost hear its hum. My breath suspends itself. My back locks up. My hands draw up into fists. My boney knuckles grind into my thighs, making slashes of red on my pale skin. My body is on high alert. My spirit is alive, restless inside. It needs to escape, run away. When it cannot, I am forced into a ritual I can neither avoid nor stop. My body starts to rock forward then back, swaying as if someone nudged me on the back, my torso with invisible springs attached, bobbing back and forth, my eyes glazing over, my mind freezing up and then melting. I will myself into the animated forest of the television, my only escape for what I know is coming. Behind me in the dining room, my father sits unaware. He drinks his coffee and reads his newspaper in front of a half-eaten breakfast plate. I manage to turn my head just in time for the stalky shadow to appear on the wall, growing larger until I hear its voice. It’s shouting, but I will my ears to only absorb a whisper.

  “Where were you last night? With her? With the boys? LOOK AT ME! Why won’t you look at me? Aren’t I enough? Talk to me, damnit!”

  My eyes expand. I see the shadow clearly now. It’s in full form standing inches from my father, naked and plump with rolls of tender fat. His eyes never leave the newspaper. He is avoiding the shadow, like I will myself to do, but cannot. The smell of stale beer, burnt toast and overly fried bacon permeates the room.

  “Goddamn you! Just damn you!” The shadow screams and slams her fist on the table. The walls shake and dismantle. My mind wants to escape, so it seems to melt and merge into the cartoon. But yet, I am still able to see the chaos of my parent’s arguments too. There is no escape, but I try. A sign hangs on a tree. It says RABBIT SEASON OPEN. Boom! Elmer Fudd shoots his rifle. I can’t breathe. I realize I’ve been holding my breath. An animated cartoon symphony of music plays. In reality, a few feet away, my mother stands disrobed, naked and angry with intense eyes. She starts pacing the dining room like a panting horse after a race. Huffs, snorts, fumes. To see her in the flesh disturbs me, as if I shouldn’t be here. Don’t they see me? I want to run far away to the thicket, but I am heavy and weighted to the floor. There is a trickle of wet spit on my mouth. It dribbles down my chin. My teeth hurt and my saliva tastes like copper pennies. I untangle my knotted fingers to wipe it away, now realizing I’d bit my tongue. The blood pools in my mouth and I can’t seem to release my teeth from the grip. Not until it stops.

  Yelling. Arguing. Cartoon symphonies. Elmer Fudd. Bugs Bunny. Daffy Duck. RABBIT SEASON OPEN. Two worlds collide in my mind, a cartoon and real life. I feel myself falling…without falling. A slow descent into the worst of the worst. The place of nothingness. The gut-wrenching absence of everything. Silence. A silence that takes prisoners. Unspoken words, deep stares, eye cuts, slashing sighs, stomps, slamming, crashing and banging—but seldom words. My parents’ squabbles always ended with a stewing silence. A war with one weapon. Battle lines drawn but no shots fired. Outbursts, arguing, yelling, objects thrown but always, always followed by an intense, unresolved silence. The horrible silence, the sword that cuts and rips away your flesh before you even know you’ve been sliced. Subtle movements, slight actions of the hand, desperate eyes, blank facial expressions, ignoring, avoidance, jerking away…but not words. Rabbit season was open in the Collard household. But it didn’t have anything to do with rabbits, only the killing of souls.

  Watching these battles between my parents quickened something within me. A need to fix and fill in the silence with words that I imagined should have been said, to make things right, to heal, to end the war, to sign the peace treaty, to take down the open season sign. It was an honest gesture, one made out of love, but what I didn’t know was how it would turn against me. As a child, I didn’t know I had no control. In my imaginary mind, I became a caretaker of the unspoken words, the words to fill in the silence. I didn’t know it would lead to destruction.

  Inside my mind, inside the house deep within me, construction began. I began to collect the vocalization of letters, a place to store and keep the unspoken words. I observed and watched. I absorbed everything and anything that could help. I tried to be a fixer. I imagined what I would say to mend the argument, being my mother or my father, and by this I could see a final end, a happy one, but I didn’t realize it wasn’t real. The reality was my parents fought and there was nothing I could do about it.

  But I resisted. Maybe this was my first subconcious run-in with denial. Instead of pretending things aren’t happening, I interjected myself into the problems and created a solution, but it wasn’t real. This was my denial. To fight it, I had to become someone stronger, resilient and brave. I must be more, I told myself. But my mind began to clack and clang and splinter with all the verbiage I had hoarded up, and I began to fall apart. But I resisted. I shall keep the words I collected and I shall make a place for them, I told myself proudly. So, I created a cemetery and named it Hush and I was the caretaker. When my little mind and body could no longer contain all the words that should have been said, could have been said, but weren’t—I adapted. Thrived. Survived. The only way I knew how. By my skilled imagination, and my great-grandmother’s vivid realistic storytelling, I willed them to life, created something that worked for me. The House of Seven inside me was erected. A shelter for the little girl who was strong, brave and resilient, and beside the house was the Hush Cemetery, a place to bury the word bones that had become to noisy to endure. Skeletons began to appear one by one at my command. My little hands carved the words, etched, painted, scribbled and tattooed every word I collected onto the bones like they were chapters in books. Word bones; the unspoken, the broken syllables, the simmering confessionals unuttered, the resolved, the forgiving, the redemptive.

  It was then a little girl who looked identical to me appeared next to me, to help. She did everything I couldn’t. She raked all the shattered word bones up in her hands and hoisted them onto her back. The words made the bones come alive, rattling and clacking and whispering from their boned teeth each word. Due to my parents’ dismantling, and my inability to fix them, this was my coping mechanism. I knew enough to know the world around me was falling apart. But no matter how young
I was, I believed I had the power to help, to save, to go inside myself and work things out. Words had power. Maw Sue taught me that, and I was prepared to use them to fix anything I could. I used all the resources she taught me. It was part of the ceremonial tradition of our ancestors, the seven sisters, and the Seventh Tribe. The family chronicle and mystical belief that says we each have a House of Seven inside us, where we build rooms of our own making based on our life’s events, our journeys. The house is there—we merely need to claim it, build upon it.

  The story came from Joseymae, being the seventh-born child, experienced in both life and death, and those places in between, the here and the now, the then and there, the world we see and the netherworld we can’t. It was said she had traveled through them all and it was in her blood, the same blood passed to me. Being seven meant wholeness. The fullness of self. The absolute. Oneness. Totality. Complete. And in my world, I needed to be seven, to be whole, more than anything.