Hadrian's Wall

by Felicia Jensen

  Eighteen years old...for all legal purposes, I’m an adult woman, but I didn’t feel like that. Actually, I had no aspirations to be an adult. I didn’t know what I could possibly want as an adult who thought that she didn’t deserve to live. My only real wish was to be able to maintain secrecy about my seizures, perhaps because my innermost secret desire was to be considered a normal girl, one worthy of having a normal life. I feared that someday a crisis would propel me straight into a sanitarium where the doctors would probably lock me up and throw away the key if they knew my secret. Most definitely, that was the one thing I didn’t want, so I needed to keep people out of my personal drama.

  * * *

  Director Janet Winfield gave me a cold smile when I entered her office. I’d read about that expression—the “professional smile.” In her case, I thought it fit perfectly. Sometimes I wondered if she’d become de-sensitized because she’d experienced the shutdown process too many times. Did she really care about an orphan’s fate after they left the orphanage or did it matter to her at all? Although I’d been here a long time, I didn’t know the answer. The only thing I knew for certain was that she always showed a toughness that scared me. She never got to know the children, at least not enough to know what they needed or wanted. I also believed that she harbored a certain resentment of me because I hadn’t endeavored to improve myself—at last as much as she’d wanted. Maybe she didn’t want to grapple with a problematic child any longer than necessary. Well, now she was finally going to be rid of me.

  The Director carefully stacked the documents in front of her, all the while casting furtive glances at me. I waited, trying to prepare myself for what she would say.

  “What am I to do about you, Melissa? The Executive Council was considering the possibility of putting you into a scholarship program for college, but with your poor performance in school and insufficient score in the national tests, there’s no chance of that. You would have to repeat the evaluation. and until then...” She crossed her arms and stared at me.

  “You know, I just don’t understand. You’ve had every chance to excel in the classroom, but you spent your childhood calling people’s attention to your stories about ghosts and monsters.” She gave me a facetious grin. “Honestly, what was so special about you that creatures from another world would waste their precious time coming after you—only you and not other children? They would have to be lazy monsters.’” She laughed at her own joke. “What were you thinking when you decided to wake up everyone in the house at dawn with your hysterical cries and unbelievable stories? Did you really believe that you could manipulate the adults with your antics? All that you accomplished was to be treated like a crazy child.”

  I let it pass. I was accustomed to these innuendoes. Quite frankly, I preferred it. I mean I liked that she believed I was a manipulative girl because it was better to be considered manipulative than crazy.

  The Director noticed my annoyance and in a condescending tone of voice, she poured salt into the emotional wound she had just inflicted on me. “Of course, you were just a child. You had no understanding about being manipulative and wanting all of the attention for yourself. Unfortunately, instead of using your creativity for the benefit of your studies or a promising adoption, you decided to close yourself inside your own private world. Those visions...”

  “What visions?” I arched my eyebrows, pretending I didn’t understand her. Hey, wasn’t she the one who said that I invented everything? Don’t be contradictory in this stage of the game, please!

  “Melissa...” She shook her head, once again donning her inscrutable expression when she realized that I had not lowered my guard. “I was hard on you, I guess. Part of your behavior is my fault, but I was not prepared for a child who was so...so baffling.”

  “But Reverend Merritt was...” I said, not hiding my rancor.

  Reverend Merritt was the Director before Mrs. Winfield. He was a good man, almost like a father to us. He was the only one who treated me with compassion and earnestly worried about my crises. He never thought I was crazy or manipulative. It was too bad that I’d had so little time with him before they transferred him to another presbytery on the eve of his “retirement.” I heard about his death shortly thereafter. I suspected that he was ill during the time he was running the orphanage and for that reason he was “transferred” before he died, so as not to upset the orphans.

  The Executive Council appointed Ms. Winfield to take his place. That proved to be a drastic change in the functioning of the house—for the worse! It wasn’t that she had no good will or good intentions, but her methods were inadequate to deal with needy children. She would have been more well-suited for a position in a reformatory for juvenile offenders. But we were not criminals, we were abandoned children. Most of us had no malice and knew only two kinds of lives—the rural existence we’d lived before we came to the orphanage and the fantasy lives we created from watching television.

  “Reverend provided an excellent service to the community,” she said without going into the merit of my comment. She used a tone so blatantly cold it belied her lack of admiration for her predecessor. This became clear when she said, “He should have been a little more firm with some children.” She knew very well that was not exactly the situation. As always, she was distorting the facts to avoid recognizing her own ineptitude.

  The Presbyterian Orphanage, an initiative of Reverend Merritt, took in boys and girls from broken homes whose parents were unemployed because of economic hardship, in many cases rendering them “rural homeless.” Some kids went back home after a few weeks, as soon as their parents found work, but those who were victims of domestic violence stayed and became candidates for adoption.

  The orphanage was located in Coos County, a region where the incidence of frequent unemployment was severe. Reverend Merritt understood that economics seriously affect family relationships and he was never one to deny shelter to a child whose father or mother temporarily left town to find work elsewhere. In those same circumstances, Mrs. Winfield would have denounced the parents to the authorities, claiming they’d abandoned their children. Even though many orphanages adopted a position similar to Reverent Merritt’s in their communities, Mrs. Winfield was strongly against his policy.

  Because he was a well-respected person, Reverend Merritt mobilized the community in favor of the children, but now he was gone and without his commitment and vigor, life became much more difficult for us.

  * * *

  Although the orphanage was tied to the Presbyterian Church and received some assistance from the county, private donations were really the mainstay for the institution and they were decreasing dramatically, year after year, especially after the Wausau Paper Mill closed its doors.

  The Wausau Paper Mill was located in Groveton, a small community near Dailey’s Crossing and Stark. The impact of its closure on the local labor market was enough to significantly disrupt the budget of many families who depended directly or indirectly on its operation. Thus, if the unemployment rate rose among the most experienced workers, it went even higher for those people who had lesser qualifications. The young people had no choice but to leave the area to try their luck in Berlin or Lancaster. Many people commented that the best opportunities were on the coast and in the Merrimack Valley.

  In the past few weeks, the employment situation began to worry me because I too would join the ranks of the unqualified unemployed.

  As if reading my thoughts, Mrs. Winfield said, “The nearest Community College offers good technical courses, but since it’s out of the question for you, mainly due to your financial situation, I’d advise you to go back to high school in Groveton and look for some professional course directed to the local market—anything that gives you a chance to get a job right away.” She stroked her forehead and sighed again. “That is, if you really want a reasonable place in the work force.”

  At that moment the phone rang and she dismissed me with an abrupt wave of her hand. So that was it. No congrat
ulations, no “Happy Birthday, my dear!” or “Don’t worry, we’ll support you!” Nothing at all. I knew I would need to learn to make my own way...alone. My mind felt the weight of depression, but I really didn’t expect anything else.

  I returned to the dormitory. I gathered my belongings quickly, with no real awareness of the objects and clothes I was packing into my old suitcase. Finally, I stopped and took a deep breath, then forced myself to look carefully at each item, trying not to forget anything important. As if it really matters! I looked at my stuff. It was part of my history, so I supposed I needed to preserve it, but why? Who would want to know about my insignificant origin? It was more likely that I would become just another statistic.

  All of a sudden I realized that I’d already left the gloomy environment behind and moved into the sunshine. I was insensitive to the gravity of the situation, as if I was on automatic pilot. I think any girl could have a hysterical attack, but not me. Never again would anyone see me cry in public or have an outburst because of my problems. Somewhere on the Internet I read that what I was experiencing could be a reaction to extreme situations—my brain’s defense against the impact of stress. I left behind the noise of children playing on the playground and followed the dirt road until I was off of the orphanage property. No one noticed my departure.

  As I entered Dailey’s Crossing, I realized that it was as silent then as it was most of the day and night, every day of the week. The air was warm, making that reality something more depressing than it already was. As I looked around to say goodbye, flashes of my sad past started popping into my mind. I rapidly blinked my eyes, trying to force the memories away.

  The town’s few houses were all unattractive and run-down looking, graceless, and would continue to be for a long time. In that scenario, the grocery store was the only innovation in ten years—a square structure painted yellow and beige, with tall glass windows and a gas station in front. Later, it was the little church that urgently needed renovation. The priest who took the presbytery came from Lancaster and only on days of worship; therefore, the church remained closed most of the week.

  The small cemetery behind the church looked like the one in Tim Burton’s movie, Sleepy Hollow. My father was buried there. Upon reaching the ruins of the porch, I hesitated. From where I was standing, I could distinguish my daddy’s headstone among those that were in the front row, causing an ancient pain to pulsate in the bottom of my heart. I felt inexplicably guilty, like I was abandoning him.

  I wiped my wet eyes, knowing full well that it was stupid to feel that way. First, he’d been a man not given to establishing roots. He was always traveling with his band and the only reason he stopped was because he’d gotten sick. Second, he’d want the best for me, even if that meant having to leave the village. If that was the only way to succeed in life, then that was what had to be done. He would approve of my decision.

  “One day I will return to put flowers on his grave,” I vowed. “I will be driving a cool car with four doors.” Wow! That was the first optimistic thought I’d had in the last several days!

  I don’t know how long or how far I’d walked, pulling my old suitcase. The wheels gave me problems, jamming in every uneven expanse of concrete, hindering my movements. Looking around, I realized that I must have walked quite a distance because the landscape had changed considerably. At least, I’d left the little cluster of houses behind as the area gave way to scattered farms.

  Shortly before reaching the fork in the road, each fork subdivided into two opposite directions, I saw the outlines of the ramshackle hospital where my father died. It was another bleak picture, just like the cemetery, although some of the magnificent stained glass windows were still intact. I could spot them among the leaves of trees, glowing in the glare of the sun.

  I walked a little farther and looked in both directions. I was right in the middle where the road forked. Now what? Should I go to Berlin or Lancaster? Considering that I was closer to Stark than to Groveton, Berlin was the logical choice. How much longer could I stand here under the relentless sun? I hated the summer heat. I hated my birthday!

  As much as the place evoked painful memories, I was sorely tempted to go back a few meters and seek shelter inside the ruins of the old hospital. As I was contemplating what to do, suddenly a pickup stopped beside me, raising a cloud of dust. I had to lift my T-shirt neck to cover my mouth and nose. Even through cloud of dust, it wasn’t difficult for me to see the driver—Mrs. Jones, a “jack-of-all-trades” and for the moment, secretary to Director Winfield.

  “Get in, Melissa. I’ll give you a ride,” she said, smiling warmly.

  I didn’t think twice. I threw my suitcase and backpack into the pickup’s bed and walked around to the passenger door. Mrs. Jones was still smiling when the engine made the vehicle lurch and choke before she got coordinated.

  “I’m sorry,” she laughed without the slightest embarrassment. “I still haven’t gotten used to this monstrosity, but Bill insists I use it while my car is being repaired.”

  I smiled while contemplating the landscape. I was too tired to talk.

  “You know where you’re going, Mel?”

  I looked at her, but she remained focused on the road.

  “No. I have no idea.”

  She pursed her lips. “You should have waited for Janet. She was going to tell you that you could stay at the orphanage until you get a job.”

  I considered her words for a moment and then answered with a certainty that even surprised me. “I don’t want to live in Dailey’s Crossing anymore, Mrs. Jones. There are no job prospects here. I prefer to start anew.” Preferably where people don’t know my psychiatric history.

  Soon we left Stark behind. About twenty minutes later, we reached Berlin. Mrs. Jones said she planned to do some shopping before returning home, so my final destination was the sidewalk outside the local mini-market. When she pulled up and stopped, I thanked her for the ride and opened the door. She slowly exited the vehicle and watched me pick up my bag. She wore a concerned expression.

  “Listen, Mel...you have nowhere to go. We happen to have an extra bedroom above our garage.”

  I looked at her, incredulous that she would make such a generous offer to me.

  “It’s no big deal. Bill turned it into a storage room and I have to confess, I haven’t cleaned the place for months.”

  “Mrs. Jones, I can be comfortable anywhere, even the doghouse, if necessary.”

  She grimaced at the thought.

  “I can I clean the bedroom over the garage and help you with your housework too.” I was doing my best to persuade her, afraid that she’d change her mind.

  “Okay, put your bags in the back and we’ll go shopping. I have a list of what I need and I’m sure you’ll need something too.”

  Mentally, I counted my money and realized that I couldn’t buy anything substantial, so I shook my head, denying that I needed anything. “I’m fine, but I’m going with you to help carry your groceries.”

  Mrs. Jones thanked me and walked toward the glass front door. I followed her, breathing in the clean, late afternoon air. A merciful breeze had abated the heat a little, announcing a probable drop in temperature tonight.

  Mrs. Jones’ offer was a big surprise to me, since she’d never shown any concern for the orphans. The ones who took care of us were the tutors. She took care of the office, doing the paperwork, keeping things running during the Director’s absence. Despite my relief, I couldn’t help questioning her motives—at least inwardly. Was it a sudden surge of compassion? Human solidarity, perhaps? Well, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that my housing problem was temporarily solved and I would be eternally grateful to Mrs. Jones for her gesture.

  * * *

  From that day, I had hopes that things would improve—at least I was facing my difficulties with as much confidence as possible. With some effort, I managed to clean the room which I was allocated. Mrs. Jones wasn’t kidding when she said that the place had been turned i
nto a storage room, but in the midst of the junk, I found some items that helped to make me comfortable. There was an old mattress, which I put on top of the carcass of a wardrobe positioned horizontally on the floor. Now I had a bed. I also improvised some twisted aluminum screens which I’d found in the backyard as hangers for my clothes. By bedtime on the first night, I was comfortably settled in my new home.

  With the exception of the toilet bowl, the bathroom was unusable. Mr. Jones volunteered to repair it, but after several days had passed and nothing had been done, I decided to fix it myself. I found an old hose, connected it to the faucet outside the garage, and passed it through the window. Voila! Now I had a makeshift shower. The primary fixture—the flushing toilet—still worked, so I thought it best not to bother Mr. Jones with the problem of the shower. He seemed reluctant enough with my presence, so why give him more reasons to dislike me?

  Although I had to take cold showers and squeeze around all of the stuff I couldn’t get rid of, all the while knowing that there were two comfortable guest bedrooms inside of the Joneses’ house, I was determined not to let such things bother me. Whenever discouragement threatened to contaminate my mood, I thought, It’s better than sleeping on the streets. Think about it, girl, the pioneers had a much harder life than yours and they survived.

  Every morning, I helped Mrs. Jones clean her house, starting with the bedrooms of her two teenage daughters, Christina and Jennifer. They were not “sympathizers of domestic service” and left everything topsy-turvy. The poor woman was always running from one place to another trying to organize the whole mess. I helped her so that she could have a little more time to herself. I thought it was a good way to thank her for having helped me in my hour of need.

  Every afternoon I walked around town looking for work. Mrs. Jones had suggested two small offices where the bosses were acquaintances of her husband. At the first one, they considered me too young and unqualified for any task, but they didn’t say it openly. Mrs. Jones had categorically stated that they were looking for a receptionist. I assume that my appearance was a decisive factor when I heard the words of the interviewer, “At the moment, our staff is complete.”