Broken and Beautiful

by Ryan, Kendall

  My tummy is warm and satisfied, but I pour a glass of Pinot Gris and carry the carton of Pad Thai back to my bedroom along with a fork. I’m curious about this strange manila folder, and I wonder why I’ve never seen it.

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of my closet, I pull the folder onto my lap as I hold the carton above it to eat my dinner and read.

  Mariska Renee Heron, Age 6. Diagnosed with a brief yet severe case of HERV-X, a retrovirus known to cause hallucinations, dissociative disorder, and in worst cases schizophrenia.

  I feel the bite of Pad Thai I’ve just taken stick in my throat. Setting the carton aside, I change positions. My back is against the wall, and my knees are bent. My entire focus is on this folder I’m holding as I dig deeper into a story I’ve never been told.

  Flipping forward a few pages, I read more of Dr. Endicott’s notes.

  Patient’s symptoms include hearing voices. She indicates hallucinations of color around individuals’ heads and recounts vivid dreams believed to be real.

  Tentative diagnosis is schizophrenia with dissociative disorder, however patient’s grandmother refuses treatment. Against medical counsel, patient’s guardian removed her from our care and insists on home treatment and managing patient’s care through homeopathic remedies.

  My face is hot, and my insides simultaneously flash hot and cold. What the hell is this about? Reaching for the journal, I open it to the beginning and examine the date. The entry is around the same time as these notes, and it’s written in Yaya’s script like a diary.

  I can’t remember everything that happened that day. Mishka was playing outside when she started complaining her head ached. She was tired, and I believed she had become overheated, perhaps needed water or tea.

  That night, her fever spiked so I gave her aspirin. She began having seizures and convulsions, and I was so afraid. I had to take her to the hospital.

  Men in white coats tried to take her from me, but she cried and screamed. They let me accompany her back, but she soon lost consciousness. When she was no longer aware, I slipped away to the chapel and prayed until a nurse came and found me.

  Her fever had broken. They were sure she had made it through the worst of the mysterious virus, but we were only at the beginning of our journey.

  I took her home and we resumed our life as usual. We would go to church, go to the store. Mishka would go to school, where she always made good grades. She was an imaginative child, creative and whimsical, so at first I paid it no mind when she said the voices told her to do this or that.

  One day I passed by her bedroom, and she was sitting on the floor playing with her dolls. All at once she dropped the doll she was holding and pointed into thin air.

  “No!” her little voice was brittle. “I won’t listen to what you say. I’m not a failure!”

  Naturally, I was disturbed. I went into the room and asked to whom she was speaking. Who would tell my beautiful girl she was a failure? She answered so surely, “The people. They talk in my ears.”

  We are gypsy folk by heritage. If someone claims to hear the voices of our ancestors, no one questions this. If someone sees a vision of the future or dreams a prophetic dream, no one bats an eye.

  What was happening with my little granddaughter was something different. I took her back to the men in white coats. I asked them what was happening to my baby, and they said they needed tests. Tests upon tests upon tests. They needed the blood and the urine. They wanted the video and the hours upon hours of interviews and case studies.

  My little girl was so tired after the first month. She cried and begged me to take her home. The men gave her medicines to stop the voices, but the medicines changed her as well. Her beautiful golden eyes dulled, and her happy disposition flattened. The medication transformed her into a daytime sleepwalker.

  When I went to see her in the hospital, she no longer had a personality. Her face was pale, and her glossy hair hung in dull brown locks over her shoulders. Her eyes sunk into her young face, and she was like a living corpse.

  Dr. Endicott talked of hydrotherapy and lobotomy. I couldn’t allow this to happen to my beautiful girl. She was so full of life. I went to the men in the white coats and told them I was taking my Mishka away from their madness. Yes, I called it their madness for they had taken her confusion and turned into their experiment.

  I would care for my little girl. She would stay at home with me, and I would home-school her. I would bring back the light to her eyes. She would paint and sing and dance, and together we would conquer these voices.

  Dropping the book, my shoulders quake as the dreams I had flood my brain. Running from men in white coats, the water, the hands, white room with the bright metal that hurt my eyes, the restraints and the voices talking to me, telling me I’m a failure.

  Yaya’s journal doesn’t say if I ever tried to escape the hospital, but she wasn’t there all the time. Could my dreams be memories? Could they have happened to me?

  Pushing off the floor, I go to the bathroom and switch on the light. Leaning into the mirror, I stare deeply into my eyes. I don’t know what I’m looking for. A break? Some sign of insanity?

  I do hear voices, only it’s different now. I have dreams. Sometimes I see colors when I think of my friends’ names. Messages appear in my mind when I look at coffee grounds. Yaya said it was a gift, but is it actually fissures in my sanity? Are they tremors? A warning that something bigger, a breakdown far worse is lingering out there, around the corner?

  My gaze travels to my hair hanging over my shoulders in long waves. I look at the line of earrings up my ears and the necklaces I’m wearing. Stepping back, I look at my clothes, the rings on every finger.

  “It’s all a lie,” I whisper.

  All this time, I believed I had a gift. I believed what my grandmother had said about being able to read auras and predict the future. It’s why I never saw a clear message in the coffee grounds. There was no message! Perhaps it was a lie told to protect me, but it doesn’t change the fact that it was a lie.

  Walking to my room, I go to my dresser where a square, red-satin jewelry box sits. Opening it, I remove every ring from my fingers and drop them inside. Next I reach up to my ears, carefully pulling the backs off one earring then the next and the next. I drop each one into the box. I lift the necklaces from around my neck.

  Turning away, I go to the bathroom and pull open the cabinet under the sink. A silver basket holds hair ties, tampons, and headbands. I dig until I find a pair of pointed scissors. Standing in front of the mirror, I lift a long lock of hair. I hesitate only a moment before pushing the blades closed, cutting it.

  A ribbon of chestnut falls into the sink and I release the lock of hair I was holding. It now skims the middle of my neck. Grabbing the next clump, I repeat the procedure, only this time I must have grabbed too much. I have to saw-saw-saw with the scissors before it cuts. Still, the ribbons of chestnut fall away, dropping into the sink in a soft heap.

  I move to the next piece, and as it falls in silky locks, I see Stuart’s hands holding them, cupping them away from my face in the strong breeze. Pain cramps my insides. He was the man of my dreams… Only, it’s not true now. If my dreams were all a lie then we were a lie, too. It’s why we couldn’t last. It’s why when something really awful hit us we couldn’t survive it.

  Oh, God! It hurts so much! I lift another piece and I see my hand shake. Still I cut and cut and cut until my insides shudder, and my heart rips open. I drop the shears in the sink on top of the mound of brown hair and sit on the floor, my face in my hands as tears flood my eyes, spilling onto my cheeks.

  Believe

  Stuart

  The silver axe head splits through the pine with a satisfying CHOP! Two split-yellow pieces fall on each side of the large chopping block, and I straighten, evaluating the pile of wood stacked under an eave at the side of the house. It’s at least three or four cords, a good start on the winter, and the muscles in my arms and upper body are proof of h
ow hard I’ve worked this last month.

  Starting with the tack, I cleaned and oiled all the leather and polished the metal, dragged and watered the outdoor arena, cleaned and scrubbed all the water troughs, replaced the rotting boards along the outside of the barn, picked up enough feed and lime to last through the winter, unloaded and stored it all, laundered the blankets and saddle pads, swept the aisles, and changed out the hay in the loft. Then I trimmed all the horses’ hooves and had them reshod, rubbed them all down and checked for lumps or any signs of infection, de-wormed them, and called out the vet to have them vaccinated and their teeth checked.

  Working with Ron, we emptied all the stalls, cleaned them, and changed out the hay…

  All except one, which Ron handled by himself. He actually had it done before I arrived in the barn that morning. We never discussed it.

  Ron and I never speak about that day in the barn, and as far as I know, no one has seen any signs of the little horse that ran away since then. I work my ass off every waking moment trying to forget. When I finish one thing, I find something new. I do more and more and more, but nothing takes away the memories. I dream of Mariska every night, and I ache for her every day. The hole in my chest where she belongs refuses to be filled no matter how punishing the tasks. Everywhere I look I see her face or I find something that reminds me of her. The scent of jasmine almost rips me apart.

  I have to accept it. This pain will be with me to the end. As I drag a heavy tree limb across the yard, I think of my mother’s words. Maintaining this ranch is a fucking shit-ton of work. It’s too much for Bill at his age, even with Ron’s help. I pick up the axe and slam it down with a hard chunk into the block. Then I do it again. The ache of longing in my stomach is fierce today. I miss Mariska so much it hurts. Lifting the axe, I carry it to where the tree is lying. I’ll cut it up, and I’ll be finished with the wood. After that, I haven’t decided.

  A while later I’m done. My muscles are loose with exhaustion, and I’m thirsty. My boots thump on the wooden slats as I cross the porch. Bill is inside talking to Winona, planning her monthly trip to the store. I give them a nod as I go to the fridge and grab a bottle of water. My sister returned to Chicago a while back, right after… My mom flew back last week. It’s only Bill and me here now, besides Ron and Winona.

  “Finished with the wood?” Bill grins at me.

  “For today,” I say. “You’ve got about half what you’ll need to get through the winter at this point.”

  “I don’t need any of it, truth be told.” He goes to the fireplace and leans his elbow against the hearth. “The heater does all the work. Fire’s just for show.”

  “Still, you like having one.” Even though I’ve decided not to stay, I don’t want Bill out there hauling limbs and chopping firewood.

  “You’re a mess,” he laughs, and I look down at my sweaty tee covered in flecks of wood. “Get cleaned up, and we can go into town for dinner. I gave Winona the night off.”

  Nodding, I head to my room to shower and change into something clean. It’s been a month since my life went to shit. I confess, I stopped caring at that point. If it weren’t for Bill holding the reins, I’d probably be off in the cabin a drunken asshat right now, but my uncle won’t tolerate such behavior. So instead I’ve spent the last four weeks on as much grueling manual labor as possible.

  As a result, my body is one lean strip of muscle. My hair is too long, and my beard is fucking Grizzly Adams. I couldn’t care less. There isn’t a person in this world I’m worried about impressing. Correction: The only person I care about is long gone.

  Stepping out of the shower, I rub the fluffy white towel over my body. My uncle is an interesting contradiction. He’s all hippie and one with nature, but this house is as five-star as it comes. The bedding is Egyptian cotton, eight hundred-thread count. The towels are the softest terry. I guess it’s for my mother or maybe being a hippie doesn’t always mean sleeping with five other people in a tent. Either way, I’m not complaining.

  I moved my things to a bedroom on the same side of the house as Bill after my mother left. I couldn’t take the pain anymore of walking into the bedroom I’d shared with Mariska and seeing the gaping holes where her stuff used to be.

  Stepping into faded jeans, I pull out that grey Henley she stole from me last year. I found it in her luggage and thought it would be funny when she saw me wearing it. It was. Then when she left me and left it behind, it was like being kicked in a gunshot wound over and over and over then dunked in acid. I’m a fucking masochist that I haven’t thrown it away, or better still, burned it, but it reminds me of her.

  “Ready?” Bill only glances at me from the newspaper spread on the counter. He still reads the newspaper.

  “Sure,” I say. I’m still not much for long conversations.

  He drives us to Bert & Ernie’s, the restaurant we visited with Evan and his boys. I guess the name’s supposed to be funny. We find a seat at a booth in the back, and a little strawberry-blonde waitress takes our drink orders. I have a beer; Bill has a Pepsi.

  “You’ve been working hard,” he says, sliding a finger down the side of his glass. “Come to any conclusions?”

  “Nothing I didn’t already know.” He knows why I’ve been working so hard.

  He also knows it isn’t working. My mind drifts to my nightly ritual. Every night after dinner, once Bill retires to his suite, I walk the short distance to the little thicket behind the trees. I sit beside the grave under a sky filled with stars. The small headstone my sister ordered is there now, and I trace my finger over the name engraved on it, Jessica Renee Heron-Knight.

  Every night I do it, and every time it’s another kick to my bleeding chest wound. Every time I relive the moment I lost her. Sometimes I stay there all night and dream of Mariska. I touch her silky hair, and her floral dresses and jasmine scent surround me. I miss everything about her. The pain is like a broken bone, jagged and puncturing the skin. Still I go back. Every night.

  My uncle is talking, but I’ve missed the question. Now he only looks at me, that calm expression on his face. “Given any more thought about taking over the place?”

  “Yes.” I study the pint glass in front of me and tell him the truth. “When I came back from the hospital that day, I wanted to get as far from here as possible. I hated this place.” Leaning back, I meet his eyes. “Now, I think it’s the only place I belong.”

  In addition to suffering, as I’ve worked I’ve begun to see a life where I stay out here, work hard, and live alone. It’s a variation of my original plan. Before my injury, I thought I’d spend the rest of my life in the service in the desert. An IED ended that dream. Now I’ve found a new one.

  “I told you once before, take as long as you need. I’m in no hurry.”

  “Aren’t you, though?” I think about him and my mom, their age, and their situation.

  He shifts in his seat. “Given any more thought about going to get Mariska?”

  Every day when I’m working. Every night when I’m at our baby’s grave. Before I can answer the waitress returns to take our order.

  “What’ll you two ole cowpokes have?” Her voice is bubbly and light, and I glance up to see her blue eyes twinkling. Her hair is tied up in a high ponytail and a few pieces curl around her cheeks. She’s wearing a tight white T-shirt that has “Try a Pork Slammie” printed across her pushed-up breasts.

  “A Pork Slammie,” my uncle reads, thinking. “Tell you what, Josie, I’ve been dreaming about that Hades Burger since the last time I was in here.”

  “It really stays with you,” she nods, giving my uncle a wink. “Especially the next day.”

  Bill laughs, and she turns to me. “How about you, handsome?”

  I order the Pishkin Burger giving her barely a glance, and she does a little hip swish as she turns and walks away. She’s a cute girl with a nice rack, and her flirtations remind me of a time when I didn’t believe in the kind of love I had with Mariska. Back then I’d have taken her h
ome, used her for my purposes, and walked away without looking back. Now the idea of that kind of life leaves me cold.

  My uncle doesn’t miss a thing. “It’s not good for you to be alone. I’m sure that little girl misses you.”

  Images of the last time I saw Mariska fill my mind. Her injuries were covered and healing, but she pulled away as if to protect herself from me. It hurt so fucking much.

  “I don’t know what to say to her,” I confess. “When it all happened, I thought I knew, but now after all this time… I feel like I’ve lost everything.”

  “You haven’t lost anything. Go claim what’s yours.”

  Shaking my head. “It’s not that easy anymore. It’s all spoiled.”

  My eyes are on my beer, and I wish it were a whiskey. All this talk has me wanting to return to the cabin, spend a night killing the pain with hard liquor.

  “Just because things change doesn’t mean they’re spoiled. It means you have to learn to change with it, together.” I want to argue with him. He didn’t see her face, but he doesn’t give me the chance. “Your old man was the same way. He thought he had to be strong in order to give strength, in order to help others. It’s not the case. You grow stronger by giving when you have nothing left to give. You grow together.”

  I wonder if he’s speaking from experience. The waitress is back with a busboy, setting plates of burgers in front of each of us and an order of poutine in the center of the table. She gives me another little wink, but I look away.

  Bill keeps going. “I told you before. You’re not your father. You’re all you, and the choices you make now are yours.” He takes a moment, tilts his Pepsi to the side, and adds, “In the same way, Mariska’s not your mom. I might be overstepping, but I think you need to hear this. In all their time together, I never once saw your parents share what you and Mariska have.”