by Torey Hayden
“But it compelled me as well. I had this faint ache – not an anxiety really – just a kind of pressure building up, that made me long to write the rest of it. My imagination had finally found form. Picking up that pencil in the library literally changed my life. From that moment on, writing overtook me like a physical force. It became all I wanted to do.”
“What did your family think about this?” James asked.
“Marilyn showed a passing interest at first. She talked about how I might get famous if I kept it up and maybe even get a book made into a movie in Hollywood, because that happened to some writers. But then she kept wanting to read what I was writing and I could hardly share it, could I? Marilyn was expecting romantic stuff or at least something recognizable as a teenage girl’s life. Not child murders.
“My dad said nothing about it at all. I don’t know when it happened, but sometime during my teens, we’d become strangers. Or perhaps we’d always been. My father loved me. I was always certain of that, but I’d long since realized we lived in parallel universes.
“Unfortunately, Marilyn’s tolerance didn’t last long. My reluctance to show her any of my writing made her suspicious. She started to question just what precisely I was ‘doing down there in the basement’ in a tone of voice that implied it might be sex trafficking or something. When I complained, she said that no one who spent her adolescence shut away in her room was going to grow into a well-rounded individual.
“I felt really angry with Marilyn at that point. I was a straight A student; I helped out a lot with Tiffany; I did all my chores around the house without being reminded; I didn’t drink; I didn’t smoke; I didn’t do drugs or go to wild parties. I wasn’t aimlessly walking the streets any longer, and for more than a year I’d been completely honest about which friends I had and which I didn’t. Why was she never satisfied with me?
“In the end, what saved me was Marilyn’s getting pregnant again. It was a little boy this time and they named him Cody. Tiffie was two and between her and the baby, Marilyn finally seemed to have enough on her plate that she didn’t need to worry about me. Or maybe it was just that the two of them offered a lot more scope for improvement than I did. Whatever, I was finally left more or less to my own devices.”
A pause. Laura’s expression grew a bit uncomfortable. She smiled awkwardly. “Actually I had been honest about my friends, but I was still finding it hard to stay completely within the confines of this world that everyone else seems to find so real. A more creative kind of fabrication had started happening at school. I had no evil intentions in doing it. I wasn’t even doing it for attention. I just had such an enormous creative brew bubbling away in my head that it boiled over occasionally into what was going on around me.
“Guileless as I was at the time, it never occurred to me to think that what I was doing might be construed as taking advantage of people. It didn’t even feel like lying to me. I was simply sharing all this bounty I experienced in my head that others didn’t. I invented characters and storylines, added, took away, fleshed each one out until they were rich, multi-faceted personalities. I never cared if they were real people or not.
“In the end I was too successful at making them believable. One Saturday while I was out, my French teacher stopped by the house with a box of postcards. I arrived home to find Marilyn and my dad sitting grimly at the kitchen table. Panic flooded me. Even without knowing what had happened, I knew I was guilty of something.
“‘Suppose you tell us what this is all about?’ Dad said, shoving the box of postcards across the table.
“I looked blankly at them and shrugged. ‘I’ve never seen them before,’ I said.
“‘No, I suppose not. Because Mrs. Patton has just brought them around for Sarah. Feel like telling us who Sarah is?’ he asked.
“I swallowed hard.
“Meanwhile, Marilyn’s eyes had gone cold and lustreless as a lizard’s. ‘Can you imagine how your father and I felt to have this teacher of yours come to our door all enthusiastic about having this box of postcards to give your little Sarah? What could we say to her? That there was no such person as Sarah and there never has been, that you just made her up?’
“A terrible fight followed. My parents were furious. Marilyn pointed out how I had hardly any friends, never dated, never attended school functions and virtually never invited anyone to the house. She said all I did was lock myself away in the basement and live in a fantasy world. ‘There’s something very, very wrong with this girl, Ron,’ she kept telling my father. ‘She’s turning into a pathological liar. There’s something sick about her.’
“I felt devastated. I wanted so much for Dad and Marilyn to understand what was going on for me, and that I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. Torgon and the Forest had always made me feel so good, but I was beginning to realize maybe there was something wrong with it. I cried and cried.
“That night I managed to gather enough courage to try and explain my side of things to my father. ‘We’re done being mad at you, Laurie,’ he said in this very gentle voice when we were finally alone in his study. ‘I know some things got said this afternoon which shouldn’t have, but people are like that in the heat of the moment and it doesn’t really mean anything. You know we love you very, very much, don’t you, and want only the best for you.’
“‘I’m sorry about making Sarah up. I didn’t mean it to get away from me … But, Dad, I’ve got to explain something to you. I see people inside my head, Dad. I see their faces as clearly as I see yours right now. I hear them when they talk. I know how they feel and what they think about.’
“‘I know it sounds crazy,’ I said. ‘You’re probably thinking Marilyn’s right and I’ve gone nuts or something, but that’s not what’s happening. I know they’re in my head and I never have any trouble telling what’s out here in this world and what’s inside me.’
“His brow furrowed. ‘Oh, Laurie …’ he murmured.
“‘But the thing is, Dad, they are in there. Lots of them. Whole families. Aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents. There’s a world. A political system. Laws. Religion. Animals. Everything … and they’re all in here.’ I touched my temple.
“There was this long pause. Then I said, ‘There’s got to be a reason that all this is in my head, Dad. I feel that. Why would there be so much detail, so much happening, if it wasn’t anything more than messed-up chemicals in my brain or whatever being nuts is?’
“He searched my face, his eyes going over it slowly, as if over foreign terrain. I became worried, because he didn’t speak. Finally, I said, ‘Do you think there’s something wrong with me that makes me see all these things?’
“He smiled gently then, shook his head and said, ‘No, I think you’re just a little childish for your age, that’s all. Most kids have outgrown these things by the time they’re teenagers, but with the kind of life you’ve had … the things that happened. You got a bad start to life, Laurie. I’m really sorry for that. It’s understandable that you’re still a bit immature.’
“I frowned. ‘I don’t think what’s happening to me is about being immature, Dad. I think it’s about being different. I don’t actually want to lose what’s going on in my head. I just don’t want to be so difficult for everyone.’
“‘We’d all like to live in fantasy worlds, Laurie, but it’s not the grown-up way of doing things. There’s nothing wrong with you that a few more years won’t cure. You’ve been very silly, but we’ve all been that at one time or another. All you need to do is stop the silliness and move on.’
“Leaving my father’s study that night, I felt isolated in a way I never had before. He’d been warm and, in his own way, supportive, but he didn’t have the slightest insight into my dilemma. I don’t think he was even able to perceive there was a dilemma.”
Chapter Nineteen
“You told!” Morgana cried angrily. The door had hardly been closed to the playroom before she rounded on James. “You said in here I could tell you secret things! Y
ou said in here I could do just what I want. You said! And then you told!”
“Here. Here, why don’t you come over here and sit down and we’ll talk about it,” James replied.
“That was my secret, about me and the Lion King. I told you that. I said it was secret. But you told.”
“You feel I shouldn’t have done that.”
“I’m not ever going to tell you anything again, that’s for sure. Not ever.” She folded her arms across her chest, pushed out her lower lip and glared blackly into the space between them.
“I’m sorry,” James said. “I can see you’re very angry with me.”
“You lied bad,” she muttered.
“I think you heard something slightly different from what I said,” James replied gently. “I said in here it was all right to tell secrets. But I didn’t promise that I would never tell anyone else. I keep secrets when I can, but you see, sometimes when children talk to me, I have to make hard decisions about what I hear. Because I’m older and I’ve learned more things, sometimes I realize something they are doing might be dangerous. When that happens, I have to decide whether or not it would be best to tell other people. I’m really sorry if I gave you the impression that in here I would always keep your secrets. I think what I actually said was that in here you could decide what you would tell me. But I’m sorry there was a misunderstanding. I’m sorry too that I hadn’t realized until now how important keeping this private was to you. If I’d understood that, we could have talked first about my telling.”
“I’m never going to tell you anything.”
“I was concerned, Morgana,” James said, “because the things you’ve told me about the Lion King make him sound like an unusual little boy. You’re still little and so it’s your mum and dad’s job to take care of you and keep you safe. It’s important for them to know what you’re doing when you’re out playing. I didn’t ‘tell’ on you. I simply asked them if they knew the Lion King’s family, because I was concerned for you. I wanted to make sure that you were safe.”
“But they don’t understand.”
“Yes, I can see you feel strongly about that.”
“Now they don’t want me to see him. My dad says I have to stay home in the yard. He won’t let me go play at the creek. I haven’t been able to go since last Thursday and I haven’t seen the Lion King in all that time and he won’t know why I haven’t come,” Morgana said. She was close to tears. “He’s the only friend I got.”
“What about friends at school?” James asked gently.
“Not anybody like the Lion King. And I was teaching him to read. I brung home two books for him last week and now my dad won’t let me go down to the creek with them.”
“Why don’t you invite the Lion King to come to your house instead?” James asked.
“He wouldn’t come.” The tears began to roll over her round cheeks. Lifting a hand, she pushed them back. “So why did you have to tell? The Lion King wouldn’t ever hurt me. He wouldn’t never have done nothing to me in a million years because he’s my best friend.”
“I really am very, very sorry, Morgana. I can see how upset you are.”
A moment or two passed in silence as Morgana stanched her tears. Finally she looked up. “The only way I can go out to play with him again is to tell my folks he’s just pretend. And that’s what I’m going to do.” A defiant tone crept in her voice. “And from now on I’m going to tell you that too. The Lion King isn’t real. I just made him up.”
“Painting” wasn’t quite the right term for what Conor had started doing during his sessions. At the easel, he would load the brush with paint and then push it against the paper to watch the excess run down. This seemed to give him enormous pleasure. His body would go rigid with excitement and he would then slap the brush against the paper with increasing fervour.
On that morning Conor had started off with particular enthusiasm and the first sheet was soon sodden. James rose and helped him change to the next. Then the next. Then the next after that. Conor filled half a dozen sheets with slashes of dripping yellow paint.
All his concentration was focused on the act of painting. As always, he kept the toy cat tucked tight under his armpit to free both his hands, so he held a paintbrush in each and splashed first streaks of yellow, then ran a broad stroke of blue across the top of the paper. “Green,” he murmured, more to himself than James. Using both brushes, he smeared the two colours together to turn them into a proper, if murky green.
“There is green,” he said and turned, actually looking at James. “Yellow and blue make green.”
“Yes, you’re right. You’ve made green there.”
Conor filled the brush again with blue paint and ran a broad stroke across the paper. He watched it run. Then he took the brush out of the red paint holder with his other hand and painted a heavy slash over the top. The red ran down through the other colours. He turned, his expression a mixture of excitement and fear. “Look. Blood.”
“Yes, it does look like blood, doesn’t it?”
Quickly, Conor added streak after streak of red across the paper until it was so wet it ran off the easel onto the floor. James noticed him becoming agitated, anxiety taking over from excitement. Slap, slap, slap went the brush.
“You are beginning to feel worried,” James interpreted. “At first painting was exciting but now it’s starting to feel frightening.”
“Ehhh-ehhh-ehh-ehh-ehh! Ehhh-ehhh-ehh-ehh-ehh!” Conor cried. He let the red paint brush drop back into the paint container as if it had suddenly become too hot to hold. Snatching his toy cat out from under his armpit, Conor pressed it over his eyes. “Meow! Meow!”
James rose and quickly crossed over to him. Kneeling down, he put an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “You’re feeling very frightened,” he murmured softly. “But we’re safe here. The playroom is safe.”
“Plug it in!” Conor cried. “Plug it in! Plug it in!”
Plug what in? James wondered.
“Ehhh-ehhh-ehh-ehh-ehh. Ehhh-ehhh-ehh-ehh-ehh.” Conor grappled with his cat, clutching it tighter to his face, as if trying to block everything out.
James reached over and pulled one of the small chairs out from the table. “Here. I’m going to sit down. I’ll sit near you until you feel more comfortable. The playroom’s safe. I’ll show you by sitting near.”
Very cautiously, Conor lowered the cat. He looked at James, made genuine eye contact and took a slow, deep breath. Then he bent down and lifted up one of his trailing, foil-decorated strings. Stepping over to the nearby wall, he knelt and pressed the end to the baseboard. It didn’t stick, of course, because it was just ordinary string but he laid it very straight and pressed it to the baseboard a second time, as if it might.
“I understand now,” James said. “You’re plugging your wires in.”
Conor straightened out the other trailing strings and pressed them to the baseboard too. He made louder mechanical noises as he did so, sounding like rusty cogs turning, grinding.
“You’re all plugged in now,” James observed. “All four wires are against the wall.”
“Whirrr. Whirrr.”
“Ah. Have you turned yourself into a machine? I hear it now. I hear your motor running smoothly,” James said.
“Zap-zap,” Conor said. “Electricity, zap-zap. Strong. Kill you dead.”
“You feel like you’ve become a mechanical boy, is that right? Mechanical Boy has electricity going through him,” James interpreted. “Mechanical Boy is stronger than Conor. Conor is just a flesh-and-blood boy, but Mechanical Boy is made of wires.”
“And metal. Strong metal. Galvanized metal. Metal alloy.”
“Mechanical Boy is made of wires and strong metal,” James reflected. “And I can see he is no longer frightened.”
“Yeah. Red paint like blood. Blood dripping down the wall. Mechanical Boy can laugh. Ha-ha. Ha-ha, you can die, red paint like blood. Mechanical Boy is a strong machine made of metal alloy. Machines don’t die.”
The next session was taken up with finger-paints. Lifting a big dollop of red out of the jar, Conor smoothed it over the paper, pushing it around and around with the flat of his hand. He added more, squishing it up between his fingers. Throughout the activity, he said nothing. He whirred and buzzed and ratcheted, a robot boy with turning cogs and fizzing circuitry, but he used no words.
What was going on? James wondered. Why did he feel he needed the protection of turning into a machine before he could allow himself the freedom to use the paint?
And what about that cat? As ever, the stuffed toy never left Conor’s person. It was now tucked up under his left armpit, which hindered the movement of his left hand somewhat, but he was so accustomed to moving with the cat stuck there that he was remarkably adept. What purpose did the cat serve?
Cats, blood, ghosts, death. Symbolism for what? James tried to imagine Conor’s life at the time he began to create this scary view of the world? He was two. He attended daycare two days a week. His father was overwhelmed by financial problems. His mother was beset by fame and an unwanted pregnancy. What was happening to Conor? Something abusive at day care that he was too young to reveal? A response to his father’s distress? A reaction to his mother’s anxiety over a stalker? A result of developmental stresses? Separation anxiety brought on because his mother was continually preoccupied with imaginary people? A consequence of being a bright, perceptive child in a family upset over a baby they didn’t want? Or was it Morgana’s birth, taking Mum and Dad even further away from Conor? Did his preoccupation with death symbolize this separation?