by L. L. Akers
It would be just like her to take on her own children’s fears and endure them stoically and alone, just as she’d always handled her own problems—the only way she knew how.
The doctor went on. “When she would start to struggle to get out of the bed—screaming to be let out of the box—she fought the oxygen mask and would hurt herself, bruising her legs, clawing at the metal side rails until her fingers bled... She even tried to pull her IV fluids off the pole repeatedly,” he explained.
“What happens now?” Gabby asked. “Will she get better?”
“Yes, physically, there is light at the end of the tunnel. The test results are coming back positive that the rounds of intravenous immunoglobulin infusions seem to have stopped the infection around her brain. In the last twelve hours, she seems to be able to articulate fine at random times—so she’s still in there—and I am hoping for a full physical recovery. However, in the ranting’s of your mother when she is delusional, it is apparent she is harboring some serious burdens that may hinder her mental recovery.”
“What types of burdens are you talking about, Doctor?” Olivia asked.
“A terrible wave of guilt regarding ill treatment—her own as well as each of yours. She has repeatedly used the word ‘abuse’ and sometimes went into great detail while delusional. She was assigned a twenty-four-hour nurse for her own safety and I asked the nurse to take notes for your mother’s file, to pass along to the psychologist assigned to her case,” he admitted.
Gabby, Olivia, and Emma all felt bared—naked under the knowledge this doctor thought he had of their lives. They felt like he was probing them to see what was true, searching for signs of any indignities and humiliations of their family’s past.
“I don’t understand, Doctor. How could her memories of her past—or our past—hinder her recovery?” Emma reluctantly asked, indignant to speak at all about their personal lives.
“Unfortunately, in cases of abuse, sometimes... many times... there are mothers who simply cannot believe their children when faced with the possibility that a person they chose to love, someone they have trusted, is hurting their child in a very bad way,” the doctor said, looking at each of the young ladies, immediately knowing which one was Emma by the blush creeping up her neck.
“When it is happening, and for many years after, they are in denial. The truth of it could literally be unconsciously blocked by their brain. It’s the human mind’s way of self-preservation. And then one day, snap!” The doctor snapped his fingers in demonstration. “It somehow gets through to them and they can abruptly be devastated by it. It seems your mother’s brain has been unblocked and she is now agonizing over that memory, as well as many others, as she remembers them.
“In addition to that observation, she has also expressed her grief and guilt repeatedly about letting her daughters all go too soon, fly the nest... spread their wings—and I’m paraphrasing here—without the proper guidance or role model to make the right decisions or to protect yourself, based on her own history of abuse and your knowledge of it. In her mind—and again, I’m paraphrasing here from the notes I have from observation—she seems to have personally taken on the blame and responsibility of many serious injustices she feels you all experienced. We believe this is what is impeding her mental recovery and could continue to do so.”
“But we don’t blame her,” Gabby insisted. “We never meant to blame her,” she said, frustrated to have to talk about any of this here after they’d all overcome their past and proven they were their mother’s daughters: strong survivors.
“Doctor, what Gabby means is what can we do to help?” Olivia said, trying to commandeer the lead in the conversation, to defuse the mounting tension she could feel rolling off Gabby and avoid the embarrassing Gabby-ism’s she could feel coming on—if Gabby’s patience ran thin and her filter came off.
“Well, this might be better coming from the psychologist, but we have talked in great length, and we both agree we think it’s best to not discuss or argue with your mother about the past. This needs to be about her, not you, and each of your memories can be, and most likely will be, completely different.” He paused.
“Let me tell you about memory. When people think about something, and bring up a memory, the brain can add new information to that existing memory, thus changing it. This means your mother’s memory of the past can and will most likely be slightly, or even vastly, different than each of your own memories. This new information can be wrong. Another part of the memory process is called reconsolidation. When a memory is recalled, it’s remade, adding the new information to filter into the brain. Sometimes this is helpful, for example, improving upon a previously learned talent or skill. However, sometimes it can make tricky and damaging errors,” he explained.
“What this all means is, regardless of how each of you remember your own past, your mother’s memories, are probably slightly or vastly different, especially due to her delusions caused by the infection. It’s not important to try to convince her, or each other, of your own version. Her memory has already been remade. Arguing with her about your memory versus hers or trying to convince her of what really did or did not happen will do her no good right now. Our best hope is she is somehow able to let go of the guilt that these memories: new or old, right or wrong, are holding over her. That is what will bring your mother back and free her from this box she perceives herself to be held captive in, ladies,” he finished.
“So, to put it in layman’s terms... ignore any ranting about the past, even if untrue. Focus on her getting better while convincing her that the world is full of unicorns jumping over rainbows—shitting skittles. Then wait, wait, wait, hoping she comes back to us whole. Right?” Gabby asked sarcastically, her patience with the medical jargon long gone and wanting to get out of this office to see if their mother had awoken again.
Both Olivia and Emma sighed in embarrassment, shaking their heads and rolling their eyes almost in unison. Gabby’s filter was off.
“I think you got it,” the doctor responded indignantly and slapped the file in front of him shut. “Let me know if you have any more questions. I’ll let you show yourselves out.”
CHAPTER 30
The ladies paced impatiently in the corridor outside their mother’s room. Upon leaving the doctor’s office, they had poked their heads into her room, staring from the doorway at the motionless mound shrouded in blankets. Bundled up in that bed, curled up tight, she seemed to have gotten smaller in the days she had been there. With her face pointed away from them, the small figure could have been mistaken for a child.
The shift nurse on observation told them Mom was asleep and probably would be for another few hours, so the girls made a quick trip to get something to brighten her room. Mom had always said, for every occasion, “Don’t get me flowers. They’ll just die. It’s a waste of money.” So the girls had painstakingly found the perfect gift to brighten her windowsill and hopefully her spirits.
They hurried back, anxious to speak to her and give her their gift, to see if they could coax her out of her self-imagined darkness.
“Look, Mom, we brought you dragonflies,” Emma said, holding up the Mason jar with the electronic dragonflies that would light up and flitter around when you shook the jar.
“NO!” Mom screamed. “The dragonflies weren’t ever a mark of our freedom. They’re a mark of imprisonment, trapped on our bodies... Let them go!”
“Mom, they’re not real. Look! Open your eyes. They’re fake—electronic. You can turn them off with this button on the bottom,” Emma explained.
“You don’t understand,” Mom said, her voice rising. “We were never free when we thought we were. We all took the same dragonfly tattoo. Those marks kept us constantly fluttering our wings against the glass, never able to break free. I should have never started it... I’m so sorry,” Mom sobbed. “So, so sorry. I started all of this... Please let them go. Let me go...”
“Ladies, your mother is still a bit emotional and delusional.
It may take a while before she completely starts making sense. How about if we let her rest again and you come back in a few hours?” the nurse requested.
They all took turns kissing their mother’s head, assuring her they would be back, and were encouraged that she at least allowed that. They walked out one after the other to stand outside the door.
Emma was last to leave, whispering to her mother once Olivia and Gabby were outside the room. “Mom, none of it was your fault. Me and Gabby and Olivia are going back... all the way back—to before. We’re going to set the dragonflies free! We’ll come back to see you when we’re done and then everything will be okay,” Emma said through a thick voice, tears threatening to overflow for her mother’s still-confused state, hoping for some response from her mother and getting nothing back but silence.
Emma walked out to the hallway, beginning to sniffle, looking at her two older sisters. “I don’t think Mom’s completely delusional at all,” she said. “It makes sense to me. We all got our tattoos in the middle of the worst years of our life—after we thought we were free—beginning with Mom right after her divorce from Dad. The bad times came back twice as hard each time one of us was marked. Maybe there’s something to that?”
“Emma, you’re starting to sound like Mom,” Olivia said playfully, trying to lighten the mood.
“Wait a minute... Maybe Emma’s on to something,” Gabby said. “But the dragonflies might just be the symbolism in Mom’s head, reminding her of the past—each of our pasts—the abuse that spiraled out of control coincidentally after we each got one. Like the reverse of what we actually got them for: our freedom as opposed to our oppression. I think I see what she’s thinking too,” Gabby finished excitedly.
“Yeah, that does sort of make sense... and she said she started it,” Olivia said in wonder. “Maybe she meant by willingly staying with Dad in such a bad marriage for so long and having us grow up to see that and then getting her tattoo of freedom but going back into an abusive relationship, she thinks she set the example and we followed in her footsteps. Maybe that’s why she feels so responsible.”
Emma looked visibly upset. “We may never know what Mom has really been thinking during all this. The only thing she’s said to us so far that indicates she even knows we’re here is to release the dragonflies. The doctor didn’t mention her rambling about them on his reports, so only we would know what she was talking about. If Mom believes it, and we can figure out how to do it, isn’t that what’s important? Maybe we should set them free... for Mom, and then maybe she’d come out of this and be okay again,”
“And just how are we supposed to do that, Emma? We were talking about electronic dragonflies in a jar—and I guess Mom’s talking about the tats on our shoulders—so how do you suggest we go about setting them free?” Gabby asked, truly baffled.
“I’m sure Emma will think of something. She brought it up,” Olivia said, “Won’t you, Emma?”
“Yeah... actually, I think I do know what we need to do,” Emma whispered half to herself, not ready to be picked on by her big sisters for her sense of whimsicality she’d definitely inherited from her mom.
The Girl in the Box
As she listens to the whisper from the voice of her youngest child—the promise of freedom ringing clearly in her mind—she drifts off to sleep again, grabbing those words and hanging on to them tightly so they can’t be snatched away again in her unconsciousness. It works. This time, there are no nightmares or confused and mangled memories of her girls’ growing-up years to torture her with the past. This time there is only peace, a dream, or a vision—she isn’t sure what it is—but this time she is floating, looking down at the familiar grasslands of her home state, smelling the freshness of the field and finally feeling the warmth of sunshine. Oh, how she missed this.
She watches her three girls playing—they are children again! — young and free. They look beautiful in new sundresses, their thin shoulders and tan backs free of any marks or burdens—as they were before their lives were marred by their own personal heartbreaks and abuse. Free from pain, the way they should’ve remained.
Olivia, Gabby, and Emma run, hand-in-hand, weightless without their burdens of the past, as if they are almost flying over the field.
The gorgeous sunset is fully visible, absent of hills or trees on the flatlands of the Midwest, painted in strokes of fiery color: blending yellows, reds, and oranges against a robin’s egg-blue sky. The breeze blows across the field, bending the high grass and blowing their hair as the girls seek out the perfect spot, zigzagging in their pursuit to try to avoid the jumping grasshoppers, playfully squealing when the big, green leggy insects land on them but quickly hop off again, abandoning them for their own game.
“Is this the spot?” Emma asks in her squeaky voice.
“Yep, I think this is a perfect spot, munchkin. Don’t you, Gabby?” Olivia says agreeably.
“Umm, a little farther up,” Gabby answers, always needing to have the last word.
The girls run farther, trying to beat the sun in its race to go to bed.
“Here!” Gabby exclaims. “Let’s do it here.”
Olivia holds up the Mason jar, making sure for the hundredth time the dragonflies are still in there and alive. She was always the worrier, even as little girl. They gather around the jar, mesmerized again by the beautiful colors, each one unique but similar, just like them.
“Get ready to hold hands... We have to do this together,” Olivia says as she unscrews the lid and removes the ring, loosening the cap but not yet removing it.
“Wait!” shouts Emma. “Why do we have to let them go? They’re so pretty... Can’t we keep them for a while longer?”
“Emma, it was your idea, don’t you remember? Mama’s sick. She needs us to free the dragonflies so she can get all better—she can be free! You’re the one who told Mama we would do it. You do want her to get all better, don’t you?” Gabby asks.
“Oh... I remember now... Yes! Let’s do it, then. Let’s let them go,” Emma says, hopping up and down in her excitement to help her Mama get better.
They join hands again. Olivia holds the jar with her left hand while holding Emma’s hand in her right. Gabby reaches over and pops the lid off as she too holds one of Emma’s hands, their fingers entangled.
The dragonflies fly out patiently—unlike a dragonfly’s normal haste—as if the thought of their freedom was never a question. They come out gracefully, their iridescent greenish-purple-blues flashing in back-and-forth sweeps across the field, one by one, taking their time as if to show off their own distinctiveness to the girls, twinkling effervescently against the beautiful Midwestern sky. They continue stretching their delicate wings, hovering in and out of the grasslands while seemingly waiting for the rest of their friends to join them... and then, glimmering fleetingly against the painted sky, they finally hurry away in abandon.
The girl in the box sighs and smiles peacefully in her sleep. When she next awakes, she too will be free.
EPILOGUE
The girls settled into the hard chairs in the familiar dusty basement room of a local school, unconsciously forming their line of defense—Olivia on one side, Emma in the middle, and Gabby on the other side. The other ladies settled around them in whatever chairs were available, not noticing or caring who they sat beside.
“Ladies, before we open the floor to share, I’d like to start the discussion with a new topic. Accountability,” said Mr. Knight, the facilitator. “That is what we’re going to focus on tonight. Before you speak, take a moment to think about how you might create accountability in your lives—awareness of a choice before it becomes a bad situation—so that you are responsible from here on out in creating your own reality.”
The emptiness of the school after the children and staff had all gone home echoed his even, calm voice against the walls and down the halls, amplifying him and even the softest, quietest of voices. The setting was probably picked purposely to avoid asking anyone to repeat what was hard
enough to say the first time around.
The room was silent, everyone looking at the floor.
Another moment passed. Crickets...
“Ladies, you can work together on this. It doesn’t have to be alone. You are not alone anymore,” he reiterated as he had in every meeting they’d attended every other Thursday evening for the last year. “This program is supposed to get you to work together. To avoid those first moments where someone—anyone—tells you by their actions or their words that you aren’t a good person or good enough, that you’re bad... invisible to the world, you don’t exist to anyone but them—your soon-to-be abuser.”
He looked around at the ladies gathered uncomfortably in the circle of chairs, still silent, stiff, studying their shoes or casually looking at the room around them, avoiding eye contact.
The outdated, unused flip-top desks crowded on one side of the room, clustered together as if joined in their detention relegated to the bottom of the pile—maybe for being unpopular, worthless, not deemed fit for the population. These thoughts flittered through the minds of several of the dozen women who at one time felt the same way, and they wondered if their facilitator had picked this room for just that reason, as another obstacle to remind them of where they had been—and no longer were—one more camouflaged tool in the program to overcome their insecurities.
Mr. Knight—Russ—as he was known to most of the ladies, was good... the best. That’s why he was highly recommended and rarely lost a survivor after their first meeting. Some of these survivors had passed well beyond their second year, and were tagged senior members for their tenure and commitment.
“Russ, I’d like to share.”
Gabby and Emma’s eyes shot up, not expecting that voice to be the first. None of the three had talked much since they began attending the support group. They were still considered listeners—not having participated in much other than their first-time emotional sharing of their individual experiences with abuse, long ago when they’d started the meetings, then remaining mostly quiet in group thereafter.