by Linda Bleser
More questions to push aside for now. How long had I been out? And why hadn’t Cassie come looking for me? I’d left her with the real estate agent, hammering out the details for the sale. Surely she was still there—along with my sanity—just a few short steps away. The only thing real was the crumpled poem still clutched in my hand.
I opened the door. Even the hallway seemed different somehow. The walls were blue. Weren’t they gray before? Maybe they were grayish blue. I simply couldn’t trust my memory. I glanced into rooms fully furnished and wondered if I was having a lucid dream. Certainly I hadn’t been unconscious long enough for Cassie to finalize the deal, paint the walls, then hire a moving van to unload a house full of furniture. Not that I would put it past her.
“Jennie? Is that you, hon?”
I stopped in my tracks. No one called me Jennie. Not anymore.
A sense of foreboding chilled my blood and sent goose bumps skittering over my skin. I turned the corner and faced the last person on earth I ever expected to see.
My mother looked up and smiled. “There you are, Jennie. I thought you were lost.”
4
Lost? That’s it. I had finally lost it, stepped over the threshold directly into crazy town.
“Mom?” I stared at the apparition before me.
She tipped her head and smiled. “Yes?”
I was transfixed by the sight of her. She had questions in her ears. Not literal questions, but some delicate silvery swirled earrings that looked like question marks. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. So instead of asking the big important question—like how my dead mother could be standing right in front of me—I focused on those dangling question marks. Maybe they were symbolic somehow, as if even in my most outlandish fantasy the sight of my mother posed more questions than answers.
“Are you okay, honey? You look as if you’d seen a ghost, for heaven’s sake.”
A ghost. An apparition. A fantasy. Yeah, something like that.
She put her arm around my shoulder, and the child inside me curled into a fetal position. I wanted to fold into her arms, snuggle on her lap, nuzzle against the pulse at her throat, and drink in the long-forgotten scent of my long-dead mother. Even as the urge struck, I knew it was a false memory. My mother had never held me or rocked me. Where had that treacherous memory come from, then?
Her embrace was casual, as if she’d held me close a thousand times before. As if I wasn’t already pulling away, retreating from a closeness that didn’t come naturally to me.
I was scared. This couldn’t be happening, so the only explanation was that I’d lost my mind. I’d spent my entire life afraid that one day I’d slide into that same black pit my mother fell into and never be able to climb back up the slippery slope to sanity again. I feared that insanity lay hidden in a random gene passed from mother to child, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t escape.
Now I had proof.
“I’ve made you a birthday cake,” she said. “We’ll wait until your brother comes over before cutting into it, though.”
Brother? Okay, the birthday cake I could understand: wishful thinking and all. But a brother?
It took every ounce of strength to force the words from my lips. “I … I don’t have a brother.”
“Now, Jennie, don’t start that again. I thought you two patched things up?”
I realized it was pointless to argue. I didn’t have a brother, but I didn’t have a mother either, and yet here she was standing in front of me. I looked around, desperate for something familiar to latch onto. “Where’s Cassie?”
“Hmmm?”
“Cassie? Where is she?” I could feel the hysteria bubbling up in my throat.
My mother gave me a puzzled stare. “Is Cassie a friend you invited over? I’m afraid there’s no one here but the two of us.”
“Cassie,” I murmured. “My sister Cassie.”
My mother—or the woman who looked like but couldn’t be my mother—shook her head. Her eyes were wary. She leaned forward, and I pulled away. I had no desire to be kissed by a ghost. She gave me the strangest look, then reached up and placed her palm against my forehead.
“Maybe you should go lie down, dear. You still have a bit of a fever.”
A fever. That would explain it. I was delirious. Even so, this was the most detailed dream/fantasy/hallucination I’d ever experienced. I decided to roll with it and see what developed. After all, what were my options?
The hand against my brow was cool and comforting. This was the mother I’d always dreamed of and the home I’d always wanted. So what if it was simply a figment of my imagination? Couldn’t I just enjoy it while it lasted?
I nodded. “Yes, maybe I should lie down after all.”
I turned, eager to escape, but the door I was searching for was no longer there.
“Where’s the round room?”
Behind me, I heard my mother’s nervous laugh. “There’s no round room. Are you sure you haven’t been drinking?”
She took my arm and led me in the opposite direction. I wanted to argue. I needed to get back to the door—the Doorway to Everwhen.
My mother opened a different door, one far more ordinary than the one I was searching for. “I think it’s best if you rest in your own room for now.” She entered ahead of me and turned down the covers.
I looked around the room. My room? I remembered seeing this room with Cassie and deciding at that moment it would be my own. But it had been empty then. Now it looked exactly the way I’d imagined it would once I moved into the house. Wasn’t that proof that this was simply my own overactive imagination at work? Or was it a memory? No, that was silly. I couldn’t have a memory of a room I’d never lived in before.
I sat on the bed, feeling all the fight drain out of me. Sleep. Maybe that was all I needed after all. Maybe if I fell asleep I’d wake up in the real world again.
“I’m fine …” I said, unable to force the word “mother” from my lips.
She gave me one long, probing look before bustling out and closing the door behind her. Only then did I get up and begin inspecting the room. I felt like an intruder spying on my own life.
The room was simply furnished, with a bookshelf taking up one entire wall. I didn’t recognize any of the covers, and none of the books looked like my preferred reading material. I turned my attention to the desk on the opposite wall. Surely something there would provide clues.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the ancient figurine Cassie had given me only hours ago. Wasn’t that proof enough? I placed the figurine on the desk to remind myself that Cassie existed, despite what the woman claiming to be my mother said.
An iPod was charging on the dresser. I grabbed it, grateful for something familiar to latch onto. I put the headphones on and adjusted the volume. What the … ?
This certainly wasn’t my usual choice of music. It was saccharine sweet. I hit the button, but the next song was just as blah. I sighed and gave in. It was better than nothing. I guessed. After a while I found myself swaying to the music. It was soothing and sweet. Maybe I could get used to it, given enough time. But not today. I yanked the headphones off and tossed the music player back onto the dresser.
Crossing the room, I sat down at the desk, and the first thing that caught my attention was a date book. I opened it, but the only mark on the page was a circle around today’s date. I recognized my own handwriting and the words “Happy 33rd Birthday” scribbled in bold red marker. There were no other appointments or clues to be found.
The only other item on the desk was a cell phone. I tugged it from the charger and punched in Cassie’s number, but my hopes were dashed when an unfamiliar voice told me to leave a message and she’d get right back to me. Not Cassie. Not Cassie’s number.
I tossed the cell phone aside and searched the drawers. I pulled out a journal. The pages were covered in my own familiar handwriting, but the entries chronicled events I had no memory of and mentioned people I didn’t know.
A recurring theme was music, but instead of using music to escape and forget, within the pages of this journal it was a bright, unattainable goal. I read passages full of disappointment as rejection and missed opportunities broke the writer’s spirit. She wrote about her feelings of failure and waiting for a big break that constantly eluded her. I stopped at a passage that answered one of my questions: who was this brother and what argument had my mother thought we’d “patched up”?
Parker and I had a big fight today. He accused me of being lazy and mooching off mom. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to have a dream, to want something beside the drudgery of a 9 to 5 job sitting at a desk in a windowless room. Mom understands and encourages me to follow my dream. If I give up now, it will die forever. I hate fighting with Parker, though. I promised him I’d look for a job but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up. I’ll never give up. Just like Mom says.
I had to laugh at that. The mother I remembered couldn’t even follow through with her own dreams, let alone encourage us to do the same. But at least now I understood the reason for the tension between me and Parker.
I set the journal aside and reached for the yearbook at the bottom of the drawer. I ran my hand over the high-school symbol on the faux leather cover. At least this looked familiar. I rifled through the pages, watching a flurry of faces go by, faces I hadn’t seen in the last ten years. I felt a jolt of sadness at the friendships I’d let slip away. One face in particular caught my attention—Diane. Some friendships had been lost, others destroyed. I closed my eyes, overcome with a sense of guilt, then slammed the book shut and pushed it aside.
In the bottom drawer I found a photo album. Inside were pages filled with scrapbook entries. Again I recognized my own handwriting. The pictures on the pages told the story of a life I didn’t remember, pictures of me taken with strangers in unfamiliar places. I saw my mother growing old within the pages, as well as a young boy growing into a man I didn’t know. Obviously this was the brother my mother had spoken of, since he was in most of the family photos.
There was a picture of the house standing in the rain. It was titled “Crying House.” No, I thought. That was wrong. It should be House of Cry. Whoever I was, or whoever I’d been, should have known better.
I flipped through the pages, searching desperately for a picture of my sister. It was important that I find some evidence Cassie existed here. Cassie was the force that had kept me tethered to reality all of my life. She was all I’d had when everything else was lost. Cassie was the one thing I’d lived for when I wanted to give up. She had to be here. If not, I knew I was doomed.
There were no answers to be found in this counterfeit life. I’d have to find my own answers. I reached for the journal and turned to a blank page. In block letters I wrote “HOUSE OF CRY” at the top of the page. That’s where it had all started, and I instinctively knew I’d find the answers there.
I made a list of everything I could think of, from my dead mother’s poem to Cassie telling me about this house. Nothing made sense. I broke it down and did some word association.
What did “house” mean to me? A house is a home, a container for family, for fears, for emotions. A place to feel safe and secure. What about “cry”? We cry when we’re lonely, sad, hurt, alone. Babies cry for their mother’s comfort and love, for relief from pain or hunger. I could see a connection, but my mind rebelled.
HOUSE OF CRY
Why does the phrase appeal to me? The image is lonely yet proud, as if the act of crying were important enough to deserve a place of its own, like a Native American sweat tent. Need to purge yourself? Spend the night in the House of Cry. Go ahead and get it out of your system. When you’re done, put a smile on your face and leave your tears behind. The House of Cry is a place inside ourselves where we can close the door, shutter the windows, and shed the tears we’re ashamed to show the world. It’s soft and dark inside, and there’s a place to lay your head so no one will hear you sobbing.
A knock at the door startled me. I quickly slipped the paper into the desk drawer, then turned with a guilty start to face my mother as she cracked open the door and poked her head into the room. I pasted on a smile and tried valiantly to act normal … or whatever version of normal she might be accustomed to.
“Feeling better?” she asked, stepping into the room.
I nodded.
She glanced at the photo album on the desk and smiled, then reached over and flipped through the pages. “This is my favorite picture of the two of us,” she said, stopping at a photo with a tropical setting. “We should plan another trip to Cancún one day.”
Another trip? I didn’t remember the first. Yet there I was, wearing nothing but a golden tan and a string bikini. In the photo my mother’s arm rests across my shoulder and mine is wrapped around her waist. We’re holding coconut drinks with paper umbrellas. We look happy. Obviously liquor was involved.
I chuckled at my ability to make a joke even under these circumstances. My mother laughed along with me at some shared memory and grasped my shoulder, giving it a familiar caress. My heart beat faster, and together we reminisced over the pages. If she noticed that I wasn’t holding up my end of the reminiscing, she didn’t mention it.
Looking at the pictures, I realized how much I looked like my mother—the same flashing green eyes, the same crooked smile and wavy caramel hair. Maybe the real reason I’d dyed my hair jet black was not so much to fit in with the punk-rock crowd at the bar as to hide the resemblance to my mother. Seeing the two of us side by side in these photos, smiling and happy, we looked like two peas in a very dysfunctional pod.
I realized this wasn’t the mother I remembered, or even the mother I’d wished for. This was a new, improved, and unfamiliar version of the mother who might have been. This was a mother with twice as much life experience as the one my memory held earthbound. But most of all, this was a mother without shadows of death lurking behind her eyes.
And then came the ultimate test. Holding my breath, I forced my gaze to her wrists. They were smooth, unblemished. No scars marked the pale skin. In this world, whatever or wherever it may be, my mother had never slashed her own wrists to escape an unbearable life.
The sigh that escaped my lips held both relief and longing. In a world turned upside down, I began to hope that everything I knew about my past was the dream and this—my mother with unblemished wrists—was the lost reality; that somehow it was my own damaged psyche that had conjured a past where her lifeblood had drained in cooling pools on the black and white kitchen tiles.
When the last page was turned, she patted my shoulder. “Parker’s here.”
Parker. This was the brother I’d read about in the journal. I wasn’t surprised at his name. Parker was my mother’s maiden name. She never went by simply Marjorie Hall, but always Marjorie Parker Hall. It made sense she’d pass it on to her firstborn son. Assuming she’d had a son. I knew asking would only raise more suspicions, so I kept silent. Already I was becoming more cunning and secretive. The key to solving this mystery was to remain calm, act normal, and collect as many clues as possible to fill in the missing pieces.
*
Parker was nothing like I expected. I guess I’d assumed he’d be a male version of Cassie—blond and sweet and impish. Instead he was tall, with sandy hair and a hard quality to his unsmiling face. There was no denying we were related, although it was hard to think of him as my brother when we’d just met.
He leaned over and brushed a cool kiss across my cheek. “Happy birthday, Sis.”
I smiled and thanked him, hoping I appeared genuine enough. My own reaction surprised me. Instead of shock or outrage, I remained calm. My breath thinned; my pulse slowed. I became watchful. Let’s play along and see what happens. When confronted by the unbelievable, I found myself searchi
ng for clues rather than denying what my own eyes revealed.
Parker handed me a small velvet box wrapped with a scarlet ribbon. “Go ahead and open it,” he said.
I glanced at my mother, who nodded, then tugged on the ribbon and opened the jewelry box. Inside was a multifaceted pin in the shape of a tree. There were three gemstones on the main branches. I recognized my own birthstone and my mother’s. I could only assume the third stone, ruby red, was Parker’s. Three stones representing the only family I seemed to have here.
There was no stone for Cassie. Grief tightened my throat. The fact that she’d never even been born here was a loss worse than death. At least in death a person’s memory lived on in the people who loved them. But here, wherever here was, no one would know what they’d lost. Everything Cassie had accomplished, the children whose lives she’d changed and everything she’d touched simply ceased to exist. Her existence was erased completely.
Parker cleared his throat, and I realized my silence could be misconstrued as ungratefulness. “It’s beautiful,” I murmured. I brushed my fingertips over the polished silver. There was something almost magical about the way the delicate branches intertwined, forming an overall pattern, both beautiful and mysterious. The stones formed a perfect triad, each one drawing the eye and then leading it on a circuitous path to the next.
I glanced up at Parker, this time my gratitude sincere. “I really do love it.”
“You should,” he said, reaching out to unclasp the pin and attach it to my collar. “You’ve been dropping hints for the last three weeks.”
I had? Well, wasn’t that a surprise. I’d never been one for coveting jewelry. Nor was I the type of person who felt compelled to drop hints. If I wanted something, I was more likely to run out and get it for myself than wait for someone else to buy it for me. Since I’d never depended on anyone else to take care of my needs, I saw no reason to start now.