“I don’t understand.”
“My parents were divorced when I was three years old. My father kept in touch for about a year and then completely disappeared. To this day I don’t know if he’s alive somewhere or dead. My mother was very young and couldn’t take care of me. At first, we lived in a trailer park, but then we had to move out because my mother couldn’t even make the meager payments. I lived on the neighbors’ pity. There was never any hot food at home. We never tasted meat.
“My mother looked for a job during the day and I stayed with the neighbors, each day with a different neighbor. I grew up extremely lonely, feeling like a burden. As a child of three or four, I couldn’t do anything. I was neglected and hungry most of the time. One day, a social worker came to visit—one of the neighbors must have called her. She came into our trailer and immediately saw that nobody was caring for me properly. It took another six months until they took me out of my mother’s custody. At first, she tried to fight for me, promised to change, said that she would make an effort, but it was too late. I was taken from her and began to make the rounds among the orphanages and foster families. Feeling unwanted, like a burden, became an integral part of me.”
Donna stopped for a moment and let out a long, deep sigh. We were silent for a few minutes, each of us consumed with our own stories. The kitchen was dark, but neither of us got up to turn on the light. The darkness helped us hide the pain, the shame.
“When I was seven, a family took me home for a trial period. I wanted to stay with them so badly. I was quiet most of the time so as not to say the wrong thing and make them angry or do the wrong thing and make them not want me. So, I sat in my room and played by myself. I was the perfect little girl. Didn’t annoy anyone, didn’t get in the way, didn’t ask for a thing and never made demands. And it helped.
“My room had all the accessories. The shelves were packed with books; the furniture was shiny and new. The room was cheerful and perfect, and I was lonely—so lonely that one day I began to see creatures. They would appear at will and disappear at whim. At first, it was frightening. I couldn’t tell my foster parents about it—they would think I’d lost my mind and send me back to the orphanage. Little by little, I began to get used to the creatures. When they stayed away, the figures on the shelf were my friends.
“Suddenly my loneliness was gone. I felt lucky to have so many friends (even though they were imaginary). My parents were satisfied. I was grateful for everything they did for me. Especially when they would add to my collection of figures and other objects. Over time, I developed a dependence on these entities. For me, they were real and wonderful friends—they didn’t ask anything of me, didn’t judge me for my actions, accepted me as I was. From my point of view, it was the ultimate kind of love. And that’s how I came to live in two worlds: the narrow world outside and the vast world in my bedroom.”
Donna stopped her story. I waited for a moment to allow her to collect her thoughts and return to the story, but the silence continued until it became uncomfortable.
Finally, when I couldn’t take the quiet any longer, I whispered, “And then what happened?”
A long time seemed to pass until she said, “Nothing happened. My foster father died and my mother went into a deep depression. She was hospitalized over and over again in different hospitals. At first, I visited her, but over time I realized that she wasn’t interested in my visits, so I stopped going. About five years ago, I was notified that she had died. And now let’s make you dinner.” She got up from her chair, turned on the light and the kitchen was infused with a bright light that immediately wiped away the intimacy that had just been there.
After she left, I sat a little while longer and tried to digest what I had heard.
10
Roy came over to visit the next day. It was a calm afternoon. There was an almost undetectable breeze gently blowing the leaves on their branches. The sun was exactly the right temperature. Infrequently, a car moved by slowly, as if the purpose of their trip was the driving itself, not to actually go anywhere. A mother was crossing the street dragging a boy of about four. One of his hands held hers and the other a dripping ice cream cone. A sprinkler ticked rhythmically on the lawn of the house on the right. I saw a man sitting on the porch in one of the houses across the street reading the newspaper. The air seemed to be cloaked in a light fabric of serenity.
Roy shattered the idyllic scene all at once. He sat down on the bench of the rocking chair, which creaked under his weight, and announced with a smile, “There’s a new direction.”
I waited for him to continue.
“I went to the intelligence unit of the police and asked for help from someone I know.” Roy stopped talking; anticipation had taken hold of me and was gradually increasing. “He suggested we try to think about all types of routine contacts people have: the library, church, courses, bill paying. He also suggested we put an ad in the local paper that we’re looking for her. He said that even if she doesn’t answer the ad herself, maybe somebody who knows her will contact us.”
“And that’s it?” I was disappointed.
Roy raised his puzzled eyes to me.
“We could have thought of that all by ourselves,” I said. “We didn’t need an intelligence guy for that.”
Roy looked frustrated by my reaction.
“How about, for example, looking for her through the police computer program?” I asked condescendingly. “Maybe one of your police friends could take over the search.”
I don’t know why I was so mean right then. His naïvety made me angry. I thought to myself, How could a person so talented, with a job that demands that he work undercover, perform interrogations, and talk with dangerous inmates, still be so naïve?
He leaned back and looked forward, staring. I knew he was hurt.
“So, what now?” I asked.
My desire to continue the adventure fluctuated like the ebb and tide of an ocean. One day I was full of energy and willingness to invest time in the search, and the next day I despised myself for getting involved in this childish game. Finally, we decided to do two things simultaneously: put a personal ad in the local newspaper and ask around town a bit. Roy would take care of placing the personal ad. The following day, we went to the municipal library. The librarian, Ira, who has been running it for several decades, seemed to have aged at the same pace as the library without taking any steps to adapt the literature to the times. New books were hardly ever introduced; the computers were outdated and the heavy and bulky printers stood like archeological exhibits. Civic leaders were waiting for Ira to decide to retire. They couldn’t bear to force the retirement of someone who had given service to the residents of the city for so long.
When we arrived at the library, there were only a few people there. Ira, who sat behind the counter, looked like a sticker that had been stuck there for many years. I remember her from when I was a little girl. She must have been pretty once. Today her gray hair was spread over her shoulders like the halo of a moon. Rivulets of protruding veins crisscrossed over her bony hands. Her skin looked purplish and loose. Only her eyes remained young as always, brown eyes that looked at you with great attention and knew exactly what you came for and what you needed.
“Hello, Roy.” She lifted her gaze to him and then turned her head toward me. She squinted her eyes for a moment and then said, “Eva, it’s been years since I’ve seen you here.”
I nodded sheepishly. She rested her eyes on mine and asked what she could do for us.
Roy told her about the anonymous tenant and said that a large check had arrived for her and we needed to find her so we could hand it over to her. (It was obvious that good citizenship would grant us an especially warm response.)
Ira looked at Roy and me tenderly and promised that God would reward us for our good deed. “Come back again on Wednesday,” she said. “By then I will have gone over the list of cardholders in recent years.”
“Eva has lived there for the past seventeen years, s
o you would need to check the years before that,” said Roy.
“I understand,” she said.
Our next stop was the church. We hoped that the priest was in. Sometimes he would visit residents at their homes, mostly at old age homes where they weren’t able to make it to church on their own; at those times, he would leave the door to the church open for any occasional visitors.
Father Peter welcomed us with a big smile. I think we were the only visitors during the week. It wasn’t clear how he spent his days and what he did with himself, but it was obvious that he loved his job and saw it as a true calling. His chubby figure came toward us with a warm and inviting smile. He invited us to come in and called Roy by name. He didn’t recognize me—with good reason. My family didn’t come to pray, as my father despised religion and faith and my mother rarely left the house.
We sat in one of the pews in the large empty church hall. There was a faint scent of forgotten fruit in the air. Actually, the odor gave me a feeling of warmth; there was something homey about it. I was comfortable in this place, even though I had never visited it before. Roy sat between me and Father Peter, who leaned against the pew in front of us so he could look at me too.
“Roy, introduce me to this beautiful girl you have with you,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Father, this is Eva, she’s—”
“Maria’s Eva,” the priest finished his sentence. “Of course, how could I have not recognized you right away? You are an exact copy of your mother. I should have seen it straightaway.”
I was in complete shock. There was a look on Father Peter’s smiling face that I didn’t understand.
“The last time I saw you, I think you weren’t quite five years old, but there’s no mistake. You are definitely Maria’s daughter.”
I was surprised by his words; I didn’t remember ever setting foot in this place.
Roy broke the silence and explained our reason for coming. I remained silent and let Roy do the talking. The priest listened patiently and finally shook his head from side to side.
“I don’t remember a name like that, and that’s strange,” he said, pondering out loud.
“How long did this woman live at the house?” he asked.
“We don’t exactly know,” Roy answered. “To us it looks like a pretty long time.”
“Very strange. I know all the residents here,” he said apologetically. “I have to check… I have to check…” he muttered to himself. “Come back next week. Until then I will look for this woman for you. If she lived in town, I’ll find out about it and can give you the information you’re looking for.”
Roy turned to me and with a small nod of my head, gave him the sign to end our visit.
“We thank you very much, Father Peter,” Roy said politely.
Father Peter nodded, turned to me, and said, “I would be very happy if you would come to visit me some time, Eva.”
When we left the church, Roy was deep in thought and I was distraught. My mother met with the priest, my mother went to church, I look like her? What else will I find out about her? Did my mother lead a secret life that we knew nothing about? Did my father know about her connection to Father Peter? I didn’t think so—I’m sure he would have forbidden her to go. Was my mother afraid of him? Was that why she didn’t talk about her visits? Did she take me with her during these visits? And if so, why?
11
It was a Wednesday in the month of April. The sky was clear, but the cold still chilled to the bone. The sun was strong but wasn’t able to chase away the chill. People were getting up and going to work just like every morning, trying to shake off the cobwebs still remaining from the night’s sleep. Everyday routines were being carried out automatically: taking the mail out of the mailbox, bringing the newspaper inside the house, sipping coffee while tying a tie. The routines swept me up in them too. I reluctantly threw the warm bed covers off and shuffled barefoot into the bathroom—it was freezing. I brushed my teeth rapidly with my eyes closed, made the bed, and chose some clothes for myself—my old orange blouse and a brown wool skirt. I hadn’t bought myself new clothes in a long time. My father usually brought home clothes for me. He knew my exact size, and every once in a while, he would come home from work with a shopping bag. Most of the time I liked what he bought, but not always. I kept the clothes anyway and never asked him to exchange them.
Suddenly I remembered the only time my mother took me to the shopping mall to buy some new clothes. She was wearing a green dress with a silver belt that wrapped around her hips. Her hair was brushed back and clipped to her temples with two brown hairpins, and I remember being in awe of her full and luxuriant hair. Her lips shone in a light shade of pink and her eyes were emphasized by dark mascara, giving her gaze an unfamiliar depth. Up until that time, I never noticed that her eyes were really green. Her dress accentuated her slim figure and she looked beautiful and foreign. It was the first time, maybe the only time, where I saw her as an entity unto herself. As a woman.
My feet walked by themselves to my parents’ bedroom, to their closet. On the right side were his clothes and on the left, hers. I slid the hangers aside until I found the dress. I slipped it over my head, straightened out the wrinkles of the dress and fastened the belt around my hips. I sat down in front of the mirror of the dressing table and opened one of the drawers. It was neatly arranged and organized. I rummaged around with my fingers, opening tubes of lipstick. The last one was the right one, and I colored my lips. In another drawer was the mascara, a bit dry but still usable. With a shaking hand, I brushed the tips of my eyelashes with a long stroke that reached the corner of each eye.
Still not pleased, I opened the bottom drawer and found a hairbrush, a comb, and hairpins. The brown hairpins went into my hair, clipping it to the sides of my ears. The hairbrush still had her hair in it. I touched the hairs with my fingers and pulled out a handful, pressing it to my cheek, moving my fingers up and down, feeling the delicate hair caress my face. I had never felt so close to her, as if she were standing next to me caressing my cheeks. I stood up from the chair and straightened myself in front of the mirror. The vision that stood before me paralyzed me. My mother stood there, with her blue eyes, her high cheekbones, and her hair gathered high. My face was her face, and my body her body. Tears flowed from my eyes nonstop, like a dam that had burst. They dampened the dress and smeared the black mascara all over my face.
Still crying, the rest of the memory came to me. When we arrived at the shopping mall, my father was waiting for us with a look of victory on his face. I remember very clearly that I turned to look at her and saw the familiar look of defeat etched her face.
***
“What happened? Did you try putting on makeup?” Donna met me as I walked into the office. “Come here, let me fix you up.” I went into her office and she sat me down on the red sofa, went over to her pink purse, and took out her makeup kit. I sat like a little girl whose mother is cleaning her face after playing with her friends outside.
“There, now you look human,” she said. I nodded feebly. She took my chin with two fingers and said, “I want a smile, not bursts of laughter. A smile will do for today.”
I stayed serious, but she wouldn’t give up. Her fingers pinched my chin harder until I groaned in pain.
“That’s right,” she said. “And it will hurt even more if you don’t smile at me.”
A feeling of anguish stayed with me for the rest of that day. What happened this morning at home really bothered me—my sadness was inexplicable, and the overwhelming feelings the memory had triggered troubled me a great deal. The anguish became an actual stomachache. I replayed the sequence of events over and over: my mother’s beautiful appearance and the happiness showing on her face as we walked to the bus stop on our way to a rare afternoon outing. Her hand holding mine—the sound of her shoes clicking on the pavement, as if she wanted the whole world to see her with me. Her making room for me to board the steps of the bus ahead of her and making sure I didn’t lose
my balance when the bus driver began to drive. Details that at the time seemed unimportant popped up like clues to a game. Now I remember sitting on the bus. Even then, she wouldn’t let go of my hand. She didn’t talk; only her hand holding mine connected us. When we got off the bus, she went down before me and helped me navigate the high steps of the bus. We walked through the mall, still hand in hand, to the escalators for the clothes stores. We ascended slowly. I leaned my head against the moving rail and she lifted me up gently and rested me on her hip. We reached the top of the escalator, began walking, and suddenly saw my father. She saw him before me. In one moment, everything changed. She dropped my hand, her steps halted and her face turned ashen as if it had aged decades in that flash of a second.
I looked in the direction of her eyes and met my father’s glare. He had the look of victory in his eyes. Only now I knew that in addition to the look of victory, there was a look of defiance. His eyes shone and his hand was outstretched, expecting my hand to take hold of it. The last picture tacked on to the bulletin board of my memory was her face. A face etched with defeat. The makeup seemed out of place now and her dress suddenly looked like the apron she wore every day. And then, like a mask replaced by another, a look of acceptance took its place on her face.
And me? I took my father’s hand and moved away from her. When I turned to look back, I saw her green back disappear as she went down the escalator.
An unfamiliar feeling crept into my stomach. I was afraid to give it a name. I preferred to ignore it, as I had ignored many other things in my life. I now knew exactly how to define the discomfort that had been with me; it’s the discomfort of the memory. Not the memory of walking together, nor the fact that she held me on her hip, nor her special appearance. But the memory of his face. The look of contempt; the look of victory. Why did he wait for us at the mall and not let us spend the afternoon together? Why did he feel victorious? Victory over what? Over whom? There were a lot of clues there, words and facial expressions that formed a story, but the story’s significance still evaded me.
Life in a Box Page 7