by Yessi Smith
“What kind of trouble?” I want to know.
Poppa looks back at Stephanie and Amber, and Amber perks up.
“Our freshman year in high school, we were out camping with a bunch of other people when someone brought out a Ouija board. Steph didn’t want to play…”
“Not true!” she interrupts.
“Whatever. You were scared,” Amber continues.
I snicker.
“Anyway, just before we started, I dared you to act like you had been possessed when we contacted someone.”
“Possessed?” I hear a giggle, and I am shocked when I realize it came from me.
“Yeah.” Stephanie nods. “While some of our friends were asking the ghost questions, you started convulsing and mumbling. You totally freaked everyone out.”
“One girl started to cry.”
“She still doesn’t like us very much,” Amber adds.
“People bought it then?” I laugh harder.
“You don’t half-ass shit, Holl. You wanted to convince people you were possessed, and nothing could have stopped you from doing just that.”
On another laugh, Stephanie brings out her phone and hands it to me, showing me pictures of the three of us throughout the years. There are obvious changes in height, age, fashion, but one thing remains constant in each picture. We’re always smiling—not the forced smiles I put on display now, but real smiles.
“We’ve known each other a long time,” I muse.
“Since we were babies,” Amber agrees. “Our moms have been best friends since high school, and when they had us, they made sure we would be friends, too.”
I want to ask them about my mom, what they know about her, something to make her personal to me, but I refrain because of Poppa.
Instead, I turn my attention to Stephanie, who is rambling about my Facebook page that I created a few years ago. Curious, I take her phone back when she hands it to me, and I come face-to-face with what seems like an online vigil for me. For months, people have been leaving messages on my page, asking me to return, praying for my safety, recollecting fun times we shared along with posting pictures.
I miss you!
Hurry home. It’s not been the same without you.
Love you tons!
Praying for you always.
I’ll never forget the good times.
Poems, more pictures, announcements for prayer services, updates from local news sources—it quickly becomes too much. While I want to continue scrolling through it all, with a trembling hand, I return the phone to Stephanie.
Not caring how crazy I might appear to my two best friends, who are virtual strangers, I close my eyes inhale long breaths, hoping the anxiety will subside. I run my hands over my face as my heart continues to pick up in pace with each inhale and slow exhale. My saliva thickens, making it uncomfortable to swallow, as the bile rises to my throat and burns it. I force it down and resume the breathing technique Ann taught me.
I know the signs, and I fight the oncoming anxiety attack, only half-believing I’ll win this internal battle. My hands grow clammy, so I keep them from Poppa when he tries to take them in his own hands. I need to do this. I need to calm myself down on my own.
With my eyes shut, I start with my right foot, tensing it, as I breathe in and count to five before releasing the tension and exhaling. I move up to my right leg and tense it as I inhale.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
I relax my leg and exhale.
Next up is my left foot and then my left leg.
I concentrate on each muscle, on the tension dispensing my body.
I make my way up my body—my hands and arms, abdomen, chest, shoulders, neck, and then finally my face.
I take my time in opening my eyes, and I immediately regret the motion. The temperature in the room has dropped, leaving me a shivering mess, as my friends watch me. A nurse is standing just behind them, holding a syringe that is eager to break the surface of my skin. Sweat builds on my chest when I can’t explain what I was doing, so I close my eyes to them again.
My eyes once again closed off to the world, the shivering continues to overtake my body until I’ve lost all control. Cold and hot and unsure of what to do next, I escape into myself and hear a distant voice calling to me, singing to me. But the voice doesn’t bring me any comfort. Dread and fear—that’s what the voice reminds me of. Darkness, chains, hunger, dirt, pain—that’s what the voice promises. Because I deserve it. He’d torment me every day for the rest of my existence because of what I did to him. His voice carries over everything around me until it goes through me, becoming as much a part of me as the blood pumping through my veins.
Unable to tolerate the pain his voice causes me, I cup my hands over my ears and scream when a sharp pinch on my upper arm makes me stop. Heat flows freely inside my veins, warming me from the inside. The pain slowly goes away, and I slip into an abys of darkness that a small part of me welcomes. At least, in sleep, I can escape the cruelness of my reality.
Although I’m awake, I keep my eyes closed and listen to Ann speaking to Poppa. I make sure my breathing stays even, so they think I’m still asleep, and I listen for Amber and Stephanie, who I hope left shortly after my meltdown.
“I think it’s time we start giving her anti-anxiety medication,” Ann suggests.
She’s firm in her suggestion, but just like everyone else, she leaves the decision to Poppa. He might be a kind man, but he demands a level of respect you’d be pretty stupid not to give him.
“At least until she can cope on her own.”
“She’d keep on seeing you, even when she’s taking the medicine.” It’s not a question, but he’s giving her room to answer.
“Yes, of course. Her therapy sessions with me are imperative to her overall improvement. The physical therapy will give her strength, and the occupational therapy will boost her self-confidence. All of that paired with her drawing with Derrick are good for her emotional well-being.”
I shut my eyes tighter, wishing I didn’t eavesdrop. I can’t believe I fooled myself into believing that Derrick was becoming a friend when all I’ve been is his charity work. Poor little me, lost in my own brain, needs all the help and charity I can get. Pity party, table for one.
No, not pity. That won’t get me anywhere. Getting out of the hospital and completing my rehab should be my only goals. I have to get my life in order, so I can have a life outside of worrying. I have to get stronger, be stronger—both mentally and physically—so I can rely on myself without any pills and without charitable-type friendships.
“You can open your eyes now, Holl.”
I hear Poppa’s voice, but I’m too ashamed to face him. I hate what my days have become. I hate how much I’ve enjoyed Derrick’s company and our time together, only to find out it was done out of kindness rather than mutual camaraderie.
“Holly,” he says again.
I open my eyes.
“If ya don’t wanna take the pills, you don’t have to, but at least think on it. Your doc thinks it’ll help ya.”
I shake my head at him and bite my lower lip to keep the tears from falling. “It’s not that,” I speak up once I finally find my voice. “It’s nothing, Poppa. Just me being stupid.”
“Ah, so it’s something girlie.” With a twinkle in his eyes, he winks back at me. “You got that look in your eyes, like somethin’ hurt your feelings.”
A smile creeps on my face, but I cough back the laughter out of principle. What kind of principle, I’m not sure, but a principle is in there somewhere.
“I’m sure you’ve told me worse.” He tugs on my shoulder.
I relent to the laughter bubbling inside me.
“I thought Derrick and I were friends of sorts.” I pout. “I thought he came by to draw with me because he wanted to, not because I’m some sort of charity case.”
“Who said you were a charity case?” Poppa wants to know. “
No granddaughter of mine, that’s for sure.”
I skeptically look back at him and roll my eyes. “That’s not what Ann said.”
“I didn’t hear her say anythin’ about Derrick coming by for any reason. My guess is, he comes by on his own time because he wants to. He likes drawing with ya and probably enjoys spending time with you. You got some sort of crush on him?” Poppa’s eyebrows wiggle at his question.
I blush. “No, I don’t have a crush on him. He’s nice and all—”
“And easy on the eyes,” Poppa interrupts.
I laugh again.
“Yeah, sure, but I don’t wanna date him. I just liked having a friend who came by because he wanted to. Ann said him drawing with me would help me as much as therapy, so…” I trail off, my voice turns pleading when I pause, unsure of what else to say. I avert my eyes, uncertainty clashing with my foolishness and immaturity.
“He comes by ’cause y’all are friends. Nothing more.”
I nod my head and sigh. Even if Derrick does have a hidden agenda, at least I still have someone other than Poppa who accepts me in all my crazy glory. Or at least I think he accepts me since he hasn’t bolted out the door during one of my episodes.
It’s almost been a month since I was found in the woods. After two weeks in the hospital and a week and a half at a rehabilitation center, I’m free. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but I swear, the air vibrates, almost as if it knew the importance today holds for me. I’m leaving the hospital of my own volition, wearing my own clothes. I’m not going to lie. There was a time I was pretty sure I’d end up sitting in a padded room wearing a straightjacket.
It was a close call, but after daily sessions with Ann, she’s decided to see me only once a week. Small progress is still progress. I constantly feel as if I’m on the verge of a panic attack, but I’m dealing with it. I’m actually looking forward to my visits with Ann. She doesn’t have all the answers, but she is insightful, and she’s trying to help me.
I just hope I won’t be one of those patients who disappoints her. I know how badly she wants me to remember, but I don’t know how to get my brain to go back.
With her suggestion, I’ve started keeping a diary. It’s nice to write down my daily routine, so I have something to look back on. Sure, it’s mundane, and it lacks excitement, but I’m okay with that. I’m okay with waking up every morning at six and having the rest of my day already planned for me. There’s stability in the predictability.
And there’s too much unpredictability in my newfound freedom. I’ll make it work though.
I clench my hands into fists as Poppa and I leave the rehab center. There’s no grand celebration, just a few small waves and smiles. Hell, the nurses are probably happy to see me leave, so they won’t have to deal with reporters anymore or the round-the-clock security put in place to keep the media away from me. I still don’t know why they find me or my story—or lack thereof—interesting. Sure, I went missing, but people go missing all the time. I guess the difference in my story is that I escaped.
Poppa does his best to shield me, but his frail frame does little to protect me from the cold, crisp air or the reporters hungry for my story. I stand tall as Poppa walks me toward his truck, letting the media get their pictures of the desperate, damaged woman who couldn’t remember her name. Regardless of police intervention, they follow us to the truck, trying to gather even the tiniest morsel of information that they can turn into a headline. I count the steps to the truck and shoot the police a grateful smile when Poppa opens the door without either of us being ambushed.
I put on my seat belt and lean on the window as I look back at the rehab center. The staff was nice, and the therapy got better until the pain and discomfort didn’t really bother me anymore. It was the nosy onlookers who’d heard my story that irked me. But that’s over with—at least, almost over.
It’s a full-fledged circus in the parking lot. Only, I’m the dog and pony show.
Without speaking, Poppa pulls out of his parking spot while the police form a barricade to keep the media from following us. I look out the window, watching the cameras and city disappear in my side view mirror, as we make our way to his house—no, not his house, but our home.
He told me we live out in the country, so far away from civilization that the only visitors we get are seasonal hunters. I guess it was my good fortune that I found myself crashing through Poppa’s woods during deer season. I’m actually surprised the hunters didn’t shoot me out of spite for scaring game away.
But that’s in the past, and seeing as how I haven’t had any luck in regaining my memory, I’ve decided my past doesn’t matter. If it did, I’d remember, right?
A white van pulls behind us from the side of the road, and I hear Poppa swear under his breath. I look back at him, trying to figure out why he’s so upset, but he keeps his eyes on the road and the rearview mirror. I turn around to get a better look at the van, and I see a figure of two men, the one driving is wearing a cap and sunglasses. Sweat begins to build at the base of my neck as I stare back at Poppa with my eyes wide and my blood pumping loudly throughout my body.
“It’s one of those news folks,” he tries to reassure my jagged nerves.
But I’m beyond reassurance.
“Pull over,” I whisper, licking the sweat building up over my top lip.
Without hesitating, he stops on the side of the road while I pull the door handle so hard that I stumble out of the truck. I’m only able to take a few steps before I vomit on the new pair of boots that Poppa bought me. With my limbs shaking and my legs growing weary, I lean my hand on the hood of the truck to help keep me stable. I expect Poppa, my rock, to come up to me so that he can help me, but when he doesn’t, I look around until I see him trying to take the camera away from the men in the van.
I gather my strength but can only manage a limp walk toward them. After resting my hand on Poppa’s shoulder, I squeeze and say, “It’s okay, Poppa. Let’s just go.”
While the terror from earlier still holds me down, I keep my shoulders square and raise a trembling middle finger at the two men who continue to snap pictures of us. Poppa chuckles at me as he guides me back to his truck. I take a few steadying breaths as he makes his way to the driver’s side and opens his door.
I refuse to let shame over my reaction engulf me, not that I think there’s room for shame amid the fear and anxiety. But they did this. Those two men, all of the media—they all did this. They pushed and pried and invaded every inch of my personal space until I couldn’t handle it anymore. If anyone should be embarrassed, it’s them.
Poppa veers back onto the road while I rest my head on the back of my seat. Already exhausted from the day’s activities, I watch the trees fly past us. The sky, blue and vibrant, stretches past the road ahead of us, past the trees beyond us. Clouds streak the open sky. It’s light and beautiful, only darkening me further. Thick silence grows between us, and I wonder what my future holds.
Derrick continued to visit me, and I’m no longer insecure about any hidden agendas. We’re friends, and we hang out—end of story. We used to sit quietly next to each other, drawing on our own pieces of paper, but our friendship level has gone up a couple of notches. Now, we scribble adjustments on the other’s drawing, insisting we’re improving the other’s work. It’s nice since only a handful of my friends came to visit me, but none returned after realizing I didn’t know who they were. I guess my memory loss is even more stressful on them than it is on me or Poppa, not that I’m spiteful or anything.
Although, to be honest, I can’t be angry with Amber or Stephanie for not visiting again. I lost it pretty bad in front of them. If I were them, I wouldn’t want to see me either.
The closer we get home, the more civilization ceases to exist. We’re surrounded by trees and dirt roads with the occasional truck passing by. As the trees grow thicker, I’m overcome with a light-headedness that’s driven by both pleasure and fear. I choose to ignore the fear and the warnings explod
ing throughout my body, and I focus on the pleasure. Visualizing the outdoors, the open vastness and freedom it offers, I try to imagine myself as a child wandering the woods, not worrying about the dangers lurking in the darkness.
As we get closer, Poppa points to our home, and I see a figure standing next to it, leaning on a white pickup truck. Unprepared for the stranger, my heart begins to assail my chest with volatile heartbeats that I don’t think my body can sustain. Unfortunately, my tongue has thickened, leaving me unable to forewarn Poppa about the evils I can’t remember.
Thankfully, Poppa knows me better than I know myself, and he grabs my hand with a reassuring squeeze.
“It’s just Derrick.” His own eyes widen with the same fear that has taken me hostage.
I smile at him, squeeze his hand back, and listen to his consistent breathing so that I can force mine to slow to a more stable rhythm. The sound of his breathing calms me more than any other technique I learned from Ann.
Poppa drives slowly, giving me enough time to regroup, before I get out of the truck where Derrick greets me with a hug that further eases my rattled nerves.
“Missed me, did ya?” I ask him.
“Not really.” He scrunches up in his nose. “But I got a present for your Poppa.”
Poppa smiles at him, a smile full of secrecy and mischief, and then motions for Derrick to follow us into the house.
“I call bullshit,” I say, shooting Poppa an apologetic look for my loose tongue.
“Don’t you blush on me, girl.” Poppa laughs. “I’ve heard much worse come out of that foul mouth of yours.”
I stop following Poppa when I finally look at our house. It’s huge, like plantation-riddled-with-dead-relatives-haunting-us huge. I run indoors as quickly as my lingering injuries allow me, so I can explore, and I am pleased to see the inside of the house is just as historical as the outside. I wonder if my dead relatives will visit me tonight and give me clues as to who I was, so I know where to go and who I wanted to become. Maybe I inherited my talents from one of them, and they could draw an accurate portrait of my captor.