The Bright Unknown

by Elizabeth Byler Younts

  “So, it’s true then? You were born there?”

  I carefully open the old envelope and slip out the few photographs inside. In the first I’m sitting, smiling, in a washbasin for a bath and the young, thin arms of Joann hold me steady. Her face isn’t in the picture, but I know she’s on the other side of the yellowed edge. I also know that my mother was probably somewhere in the room. Oh, how I long to move the frame one way or another to see them. To see their faces. I’m taken so far back. But instead of the terror, what I see is love and hope. What is more hopeful than a baby?

  “Photographs only capture a small square of a scene and there’s so much a photograph can’t contain. My mother and I both had dirty-blond hair. She had blue eyes and long, elegant fingers—like she might’ve played the piano if she’d had a different life. I will never forget those details. A photograph cannot serenade me with the voice of my mother saying ‘Brighton’ over and over after she delivered me.”

  I turn over the image to show her, even though I know she’s seen it before. I feel my own eyes twinkle. The memory of Nursey telling me this story as a little girl has always brought me joy. I know now that children love to hear the story of their birth.

  I speak slow and steady and share myself in a way I never have before. “It’s almost like I remember my birth—though I know it’s not possible. But there are people who say that babies have a way of remembering things that happen to them. My husband is a doctor and he’s told me as much.” My eyes linger over the photograph. “I was at Riverside from birth until I was eighteen, and I rarely repeat or revisit the memories from those years.”

  “Was leaving what you expected? Freedom how you expected it to be?”

  Oh, that word. “Expectations can be dangerous things, and freedom isn’t easily defined.”

  “It’s like a fairy tale. It doesn’t seem real,” Kelly says.

  I smile at her. “More like a Grimms’ fairy tale. I’ve looked for answers my whole life. Why I was born to a mother the doctors called mad and why most of my friends were what the good old days called feeble-minded or imbeciles.” That sentence is peppered with those fancy air quotes and laughter. Laughter hurts less than anger that might otherwise build up. But it doesn’t reduce how I feel about all of the lines we draw between one another.

  “So you don’t think the patients needed treatments? They were misdiagnosed?” she questions sincerely.

  “True mental illness should be treated—but the treatments were barbaric and degrading and often unhelpful. Mishandling of the human mind breaks the spirit in anyone.”

  “Do you still keep searching for understanding?”

  “No, I’ve just been trying to forget.”

  “What will happen if you decide to remember?” And she pushes the pillowcase bag filled with images of dark and light closer to me.

  1941

  Stranger, Stranger

  When I was about six years old I found a caterpillar outside. It was dark brown with a little orange stripe along its back. When I first picked it up it curled into a fuzzy circle in my hand. I thought it was dead, and since death wasn’t foreign to me but something to be understood, I watched it so closely I nearly went cross-eyed. But it wasn’t dead; it was just getting used to me. I petted it gently and eventually it woke up and started to crawl around my hand and up my arm.

  I named her Sister, and when it was time to go inside I tucked her in my little curled-up palm and didn’t tell anyone. Joyful had once given me a jelly jar for my little found treasures—mostly pretty rocks—so I put Sister inside and hid her in the corner of the room under my bed. After two days Joann found Sister and made me put her back outside.

  That afternoon during our outside courtyard time I cried when I pulled Sister out of her jar and set her on the edge of the sidewalk—close to where I’d found her so her family might find her again. As soon as Sister touched the concrete she curled into a circle like she had that first day in my hand. Maybe she was nervous again. Maybe she knew that people walked on the sidewalk and she could easily be stepped on. I didn’t know.

  Sister never unwound. The next day she was still on the sidewalk like a small fuzzy circle. The day after that she was there. I called to her—“Sister, Sister,” I said. But she didn’t move. The third day she was uncurled like the letter C. I picked her up, but Joann slapped her out of my hand, saying it was gross because it was dead. Until then I didn’t know that dead was gross or that staying in the same place without moving meant death. Sister was so afraid to crawl across the sidewalk that she died where I left her. And I cried about her dying because I knew I had caused it by holding her captive.

  I thought I’d done the right thing by putting Sister back in the world where she belonged, but all of my keeping and touching had ruined her. She’d been gone from her world for too long.

  That morning as we boarded the train with a few other people, I felt like Sister being returned to my rightful world. All I wanted to do was curl up on the sidewalk because I was so afraid. But knowing I had a father and maybe an aunt out there—could this strange new world actually have inside of it a Pollyanna life saved just for me? I tried to consider this and reminded myself of my new freedom even when everything was strange.

  Angel took my hand, and we walked on board the train with our small bags. His eyes were wide and open, and he didn’t seem to notice that the man with the funny hat stared at him. No one stared at him at the hospital because we’d all grown used to him and the way he looked—his bright, white self. Out here, however, was different.

  But Angel moved us forward and I kept breathing. When I had to let go of Angel’s hand and follow him down a narrow aisle, I grabbed the back of his coat instead. I was afraid he would disappear if I let him out of my sight or let him get out of reach.

  “Here?” He turned and pointed at two seats.

  I looked around before nodding my head. I sat next to the window, then Angel sat too and we held our bags on our laps. Then we just had to sit and wait. Under Angel’s vigilant gaze and with him holding my hand, I finally let myself fall asleep. I dreamed I was playing with Angel at the graveyard. I was young and innocent. My young self stopped in front of the gravestone marked H. Friedrich and it startled me awake.

  When I opened my eyes, the recurring wave of grief cascaded over me.

  “I want to go back,” I said to Angel, and my breathing sped up.

  “Don’t, Brighton.” He was firm but not mean.

  I shook my head. “No, not to stay there. But I want to see Mother’s gravestone.”

  Angel squeezed my hand and gave me a small, understanding smile. His smile was always filled with hope. I memorized it, fearing that one day he would also be gone like everyone else I loved. But he did say he loved me and promised not to leave me.

  Promises are the minions of love. I heard Joann’s words in my mind. I shook them away. Angel would not leave me.

  When I wasn’t asleep I was taking in everything around me.

  There weren’t many in the train with us. The smiling train man with the funny hat and striped shirt said a cheerful good morning to us when he took our tickets and stamped them. There was a mother with a young son. An older couple a few rows in front of us, both had canes and spoke too loudly. We learned they were visiting their daughter who had just had a baby.

  The landscape flashed by us so fast my stomach turned. I’d never gone so fast before. But eventually I got used to the steady, rocking pace. I took in the fields and farms. Would I ever be known in this big world? Grace had told me so much about its wonders . . .

  Oh, Grace.

  Guilt rose in my throat like vomit. This city—Pittsburgh—might as well be another planet. I would never be of any help to Grace so far away. I would write to her once I got to my father’s home. I didn’t know how to mail a letter, but maybe my father could show me. And would Grace even get it? I would have to try.

  “Cows and horses.” I pulled at Angel’s arm so that he would look thr
ough my window. I’d only ever seen pictures of these animals. They were smaller than I’d imagined. The old red barns were nearby with what looked like goats or sheep—I couldn’t tell the difference. Would I ever learn what I needed to know about this world? Even farm animals were new to me.

  A boy rode his bike on some small dirt road that ran alongside the train. He waved and pumped his arm and the train choo-chooed.

  The sky was a white-blue behind the trees and fields, above the roofs of houses, and in the great horizon that we moved so quickly toward. For years there was no movement at all, then suddenly everything moved at once.

  1941

  Chase Yourself

  Just as the green landscape and rolling hills of the farmlands calmed me, the rush of buildings and concrete spurred my heart rate to a gallop. The entire world went from green to gray, and it wasn’t only because of the weather. The buildings were gray, the sky had turned gray, and the haze in the air was gray. Was this Pittsburgh? Nothing looked as pretty as the willow tree outside my small balcony, especially when it bloomed and the petals fell like raindrops. Nothing looked as bright as the row of tomatoes that could woo anyone to bite into one like an apple. Nothing was as familiar as the tiled floor that I’d learned to walk on and Joann’s bright, red-lipped smile.

  The rhythm of the train changed, and I sat straighter. We were slowing down. I reached out a hand to touch the window. The chill from the glass spread through my body. My other hand gripped Angel’s. I looked out the window and could feel Angel’s breath on the side of my neck. He was looking out too. But was he afraid like me? He didn’t grip me as I gripped him. But at least we were looking in the same direction—taking the same road.

  Before I knew it we had stopped underneath a domed roof in what I could only assume was Pittsburgh. I rolled the name around in my mouth without saying it, trying to make the rough, concrete sounds familiar and real. The few folks around us began to stand and stretch. It was time to get off the train. But I couldn’t get up. Suddenly I longed for the weight of the familiar and the security of knowing who cared for me.

  Angel let go of my hand when he picked up his bag and stood. But I still sat and kept watching the flow of people through the window. On the sidewalk were a man and woman looking toward the train expectantly. They were both dressed in tailored clothes, looking the very opposite of the billowing asylum gown I was accustomed to wearing. My palms smoothed my waistline as I suddenly remembered that I wore clothes like that now too. The suited man had a firm jaw that clenched and unclenched, and the woman’s eyes were filled with anticipation.

  Suddenly they both broke out in bright smiles and a young man joined them. He wore what looked like a uniform from head to toe in dull green. He greeted the woman first, and her porcelain face broke in half and tears fell through the cracks as they hugged. The man patted the younger one’s back as his own face twitched and stuttered.

  The shared hug aged the woman. Or maybe the tears had. Tears had a way of doing that.

  “Brighton, it’s time.” Angel sounded so sure of himself.

  I inhaled deeply as I grabbed my bag from the floor. I followed Angel down the narrow aisle and carefully down the steep steps. I was afraid to leave the train and walk on the concrete of this city that didn’t know me.

  When we stepped off the train, no one noticed us. Didn’t we have the story of our escape written on our foreheads? I looked down at myself again and was reminded that I looked more like the woman I’d just seen than Mother. My face twitched at the thought of her. I was fake. I was supposed to be wearing a sack-like hospital gown and look like myself instead of like a lady.

  Angel squeezed my hand and brought me back.

  I looked up at him. The hat made him look older and so handsome and like he knew how to handle himself. His shirt had a collar—I’d never seen him wear something like that before. It didn’t seem to bother Angel that we were walking, talking liars.

  But after a few minutes, some people did gawk at Angel. We pretended not to notice and kept walking.

  “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” He said it like he’d read my mind. “You told me the first time we met that you’d be my guardian; now it’s my turn.”

  I searched his violet eyes. I knew them better than my own. These were the eyes that had looked at me with such fear that first time in the graveyard, but now there was strength in them. He didn’t need me like I needed him, and that scared me. A weak smile crossed over his lips. I nodded my head and together we walked into a building unlike anything I ever could have imagined.

  My mouth opened, and both Angel and I said, “Wow.” We dropped our hold on each other and took in our surroundings. I looked up and my eyes filled with the sight of a bright dome. It was ornamented with decorative squares and made the most beautiful ceiling I’d ever seen in my life. Sunlight descended through the skylights and lit my face. The lights that hung from chains were so large that I didn’t stand underneath them. What would happen if one fell? And there were tree-trunk-size pillars that went floor to ceiling of what I could only figure was marble. And there were benches built in a circle where one could sit and enjoy the beauty for as long as desired.

  “This is a train station? It doesn’t look like the one in Milton,” Angel said.

  I shook my head. No, it didn’t.

  My shoulder got bumped as I turned in place, still looking up. Then I got bumped a second and a third time. The large space was filling up fast. I spun around to find Angel but couldn’t see him in the sudden crowd.

  “Angel?” I whispered it at first but after only a few seconds I said it louder and then louder yet. A man gave me a dirty look and then a woman too. Then another woman said to me, “Oh, chase yourself.”

  Because of Grace I knew it meant get lost. Well, I was lost. Why a strange woman would tell me that didn’t make sense. Grace hadn’t really explained that part. But I was chasing myself. I was always chasing after my real self and never catching up.

  Before I could panic further a hand took mine and plucked me from the crowd. We sat on a bench catching our breath until the crowd thinned out. Then without a word of warning, Angel pulled me up and began walking toward the large section of doors. I could see that familiar gray through them. I wanted to resist, but this was the only direction we could go. Into the daylight and our new lives. Toward Ezra Raab, my father.

  1941

  Father

  The brightness outside the train station hurt my eyes. I squinted at the dull white, and my nose found the scent of smoke and sewer all at once. I wanted to pinch my nose like I used to do as a child, but my hands were full.

  This world was so large. So colorless. So tall with buildings reaching high into the foggy sky. The road ahead of us was filled with vehicles moving too fast, but like magic they didn’t run into each other. It was so loud and I couldn’t look anywhere without seeing too many people and too many things. I saw all of them but they didn’t seem to see each other. They didn’t look up from their newspapers. They walked fast around corners without care.

  There were yellow cars mixed with the more quiet colors, cream, black, tan, dark green. Joann had mentioned something about the yellow cars, right? Green-uniformed men and women walked around in groups. Their strides were firm and sure, and they looked so smart. So different from me.

  It started to drizzle, and the drops dotted everything around me. Black umbrellas popped up everywhere. We scooted beneath the awning of the building.

  Angel rummaged through his pocket and pulled out money.

  “Dr. Woburn said that we should ask one of the yellow taxis to take us to your father’s address.”

  “How do we do that?”

  Neither of us spoke, but we did what Joann told us to do—we watched and learned.

  “You’ll have to be my eyes, Brighton. The rain is making things a little harder to see.”

  A woman in a raincoat and heeled shoes ran toward the street, waving a hand over her head and
yelling, “Taxi.” A few moments later a yellow car with the word taxi on it stopped. She opened the door quickly and hopped inside.

  Before another few minutes had passed it happened again. This time it was a man, and instead of the word taxi he gave a loud whistle.

  I led Angel toward the corner where I’d seen the first taxi. I waved and, like a miracle, one slowed to a stop in front of us. Angel turned to me and smiled.

  “Wow. That wasn’t hard,” he said.

  I smiled back. We stepped toward the yellow car when a man barreled past us and hopped into the cab ahead of us. This happened once more before we finally were able to get into a taxi. By then we were covered in a fine layer of drizzle. I couldn’t control my shivering. At least this chilled-to-the-bone sensation felt natural enough.

  Angel scooted in first and then me. The taxi smelled like the hospital basement. Like it had been almost dry for a long time. It was dirty enough that I kept my bag and hands on my lap.

  “Where you—” the driver started, with a thick accent, then stopped and stared at Angel. “Something wrong with you? You sick?” He tucked his chin.

  “There’s nothing wrong—” I began, then Angel patted my knee.

  “I’m not sick, I just have light skin.” He said it like he’d rehearsed it, though I’d never heard him say anything of the sort.

  Angel pulled out my father’s address and showed him. “Here? Can you take us here?”

  The driver’s eyes lingered on Angel for several long moments before he finally took the piece of paper. He looked at it, then handed it back to Angel. “All right, I’ll take you. You could’ve just said to take you to J & L.”

  We didn’t know what that meant.

  The ride in this car was nothing like when we were with Joann and Dr. Woburn. We braced ourselves against each other and our arms against the doors. The driver didn’t seem to notice how we were being thrown around. A moment later a question surfaced. What would happen if my father didn’t live there anymore?