House of Cry

by Linda Bleser

  “Yes. No.” I saw exactly where he was going. “What I mean is, that timeline already exists.”

  “A timeline where your mother is still alive?”

  “Yes. And that’s not some form of wish fulfillment.” I realized I was getting nowhere and decided to change the subject. “You know who my mother is, right?”

  “Marjorie Parker Hall.”

  “Yes. Have you read any of her poetry?”

  “Of course.”

  “How did it make you feel? Did it resonate with you in any way?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t say that it did.”

  “You should read them again,” I said. “I think you’ll feel differently now, knowing she’s your mother, too.”

  He gave his head a single shake of denial. I knew I’d gone too far for one day. Maybe if I gave it some time to sink in, he’d be open to hearing more of my outrageous theories. Maybe during our next consultation I’d tell him about all the worlds I’d seen and how many ways our lives intertwined. I’d tell him about Cassie and Bob and … no, not Maya. There was a limit to how much I could expect anyone to suspend their disbelief. It was hard enough getting him to believe that I’d experienced several parallel realities without throwing in a guardian angel or spirit guide or whatever Maya might be.

  “I’m not asking you to take everything I say on faith. I’m just asking you to listen, to think about what I’ve said. You might want to do a little research on your own about your roots. I think you’ll be surprised.”

  There, I’d made my case. There was nothing more I could do. I was getting ready to leave when he spoke up. “You called me Parker.”

  “Parker was my mother’s maiden name. I guess it was her way of announcing to the world that you belonged to her. You were a Parker.”

  He made a snorting sound, but the fact that he’d even asked proved to me he was willing to think about what I’d said.

  *

  I had the rest of the day to myself. I wanted to walk through the front door and keep on going. But what good would that do me? I didn’t even know how far I was from the House of Cry, let alone how to get there on foot. I had no money, no credit cards, and no form of identification. But that wasn’t the only thing. I had a feeling that I needed to be here. Whatever issues I had to resolve before moving on were right here within these walls.

  To my surprise, I found there was plenty to do. There were planned activities, group therapy, arts and crafts, and a common recreation room with a television and table games. It was a little like camp, except I felt that I was under constant observation. I was afraid of saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing, choosing the wrong color bead to string onto a necklace that no one in their right mind would wear. But then, was anyone here in his or her right mind?

  My fellow patients suffered from just about every diagnosis possible: manic depression, schizophrenia, alcohol and drug addiction, eating disorders, obsessive-compulsive disorders, and—like myself—attempted suicide.

  I struck up a conversation with a young girl wearing all black, with silver rings piercing her eyebrows. Her skin was pale, with self-inflicted scars along her arms that formed a delicate filigree pattern. It seemed less like mutilation and more like art, combining self-harm with scarification.

  She said her name was Lorelei but occasionally failed to answer to it. When I first saw her, she was reading Eat, Pray, Love with a combination of longing and disdain. She glanced up from her book and patted the seat beside her. “I was wondering when you were going to get here.”

  I sat down. Obviously this wasn’t our first meeting, but I found myself wondering what we had in common—other than the fact that we both wore our scars on the outside.

  “Meat loaf is on the menu tonight,” she said. “I heard someone once found a tooth in the meat loaf.” She leaned closer and whispered, “It was a human tooth.”

  To be honest, I’m not sure which would creep me out more—human or animal. “I think I’ll skip the meat loaf.”

  “Good choice.” She stood up. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  I followed her to the front desk, where she put our names on a list. The man at the desk glanced at the sheet, then back at us. “Half an hour,” he said. “Group therapy is at three o’clock.”

  Lorelei gave him a forced smile. “Oh, we’ll be back in plenty of time. Don’t want to miss group therapy, do we, Jenna?”

  I followed her lead. “No, of course not,” I said brightly.

  “You get more points by smiling and being polite,” she said, leading me outside. We walked leisurely, followed a well-defined path through the woods. “I learned that the hard way,” she said.

  I knew all about putting on a false face for the world. The old me would get up in the morning, do my hair and makeup, then carefully construct the face I wanted the world to see. It was important to hide my real face from the people around me. It was even more important to hide it from myself, even if this false face was only an illusion. But carrying on a charade can be exhausting. It was easier to avoid people altogether, to hide behind drawn curtains stripped of the mask of self-delusion.

  But that was the old me. I’d changed, even more than I could have imagined. Only now did I see how deeply I had been trapped beneath the shroud of depression. I found it somewhat ironic that only now that I was no longer depressed did I find myself in a recovery center getting the help I needed years ago.

  I looked around at the peaceful setting. “So, we’re just allowed to walk wherever we want?”

  “Sure, if wherever you want is through the woods on the property. I’ve heard of people trying to make a break for it, but the highway is about ten miles in either direction. We’re pretty much in the middle of nowhere.”

  For some reason her answer gave me comfort. As long as escape was an impossibility, then I didn’t have to waste time and energy figuring out how to make a break for it.

  “I saw your name on the phone log this morning,” Lorelei said. “Did you call your sister?”

  “Yep. She’s coming by tomorrow.”

  Lorelei snorted. “That’s what she said yesterday.”

  I stumbled but caught myself before falling. Lorelei didn’t seem to notice.

  “You know, I think your sister is a little afraid to come out here.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because she’s no different than we are. Cassie lost her mother, too. She didn’t escape unscathed.”

  Ah, now it made sense. This was what Lorelei and I had in common. I should have realized, since my mother’s death was what had defined me for so long. Wounded souls had a tendency to find each other. Maybe it was a way of proving we were not alone.

  “What was it like for you?” she asked.

  “You mean watching my mother’s slow descent into madness?”

  Lorelei nodded.

  “It was like she was balanced on a high wire, way above my head, too far away to hear my cries. I’d watch each teetering stumble, my heart in my throat, holding my breath and mentally preparing my grief for the inevitable fall.”

  “I almost envy you,” Lorelei said. “At least you had some warning. With me it was so sudden, so unexpected. One minute my life was perfect, and the next everything had changed.”

  I understood how she felt. “It’s like your life is forever split into before and after, right?”

  “Yeah,” she said. Her voice held a hollow tone, devoid of life. “You go on, but all the time you’re building up scar tissue.” She traced a fingertip along the scars on her inner arm. “Sometimes you build up so much scar tissue that it’s impossible to find the person hidden underneath.”

  She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Sometimes I just get tired, you know? Tired of putting one foot in front of the other. Tired of making choices. Tired of waiting for the end.”

  I wanted to cry for the wounded child walking beside me, but I knew better than to shed a tear. If I started crying, I might never stop.


  16

  Meals were served cafeteria style, with men and women seated separately—males with males and females with females. No comingling was allowed.

  I slid my tray along the metal rack. A woman wearing a hairnet and a scowl asked if I wanted meat loaf or a sandwich.

  I pretended to consider the options. “What kind of sandwich?”

  “Peanut butter and jelly.”

  Lorelei jabbed me from behind. “That’ll do,” I said.

  The woman gave Lorelei a sharp glance.

  Lorelei smiled and shrugged innocently. “Make that two.”

  We wound our way to a corner table. “You made that up about the meat loaf, didn’t you?”

  “I can’t take credit for it. The legend has been passed down through the years to warn people away from eating the meat loaf. Believe me, it’s for your own good.”

  “Yeah, but I’ll probably never be able to eat meat loaf again now.”

  “You should consider becoming a vegetarian.”

  “You’re not the first person to suggest that,” I muttered.

  Lorelei carefully cut the crusts from her sandwich with a plastic knife, then cut it corner to corner into four perfect triangles. She shook two packets of artificial sweetener and sprinkled them into her iced tea. “You could still have macaroni and cheese,” she offered sagely. “Which I think is the perfect food. Other than pizza.”

  There was something comforting about her rambling. It made me think of evenings spent at the dinner table chatting with Cassie. Outwardly they were nothing alike, but appearances were deceiving. Both chattered to cover the silences. Silences could be dangerous. They left too much room for reflection.

  Lorelei glanced at me. “What are you smiling about?”

  “You remind me of Cassie when she was younger.”

  “She was a pain in the ass?”

  I laughed. “No, she was sweet and funny and a bit of a chatterbox. Like you.”

  Lorelei blushed and lowered her gaze, acting as if she couldn’t care less, but I could see through her tough exterior. I knew she was touched by the comparison.

  “So,” she said, “Cassie was more like a daughter than a sister, huh?”

  “I guess you could say that, except we kind of grew up together. Sometimes Cassie resents it when I get all motherly with her, because I’m only five years older than she is.”

  Lorelei let out a slow sigh. “Yeah, a big sister’s not the same as a real mother.” She frowned, then glanced away. “But it’s better than no mother at all.”

  My heart broke at the yearning in her voice. I reached across the table to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, and she closed her eyes, perhaps remembering the long-ago touch of her own mother’s hand. I wished there were more I could do to help ease her pain.

  When she spoke again, all the hardness had seeped away, leaving behind the wistful voice of a child. “I think you’d be a good mother,” she said.

  I thought of Bob and was overcome with an overwhelming feeling of loss for the children we’d never have together. “I think so, too,” I said over the lump in my throat.

  “I think I’d be a good mother, too,” Lorelei said. “But if I had a daughter, I wouldn’t read her fairy tales or let her believe in happy endings. There are no happy endings.”

  She punctuated the air with her sandwich. “If I had a daughter, I’d teach her to fight and slay her own dragons. I’d tell her to live her life exactly how she wants to. Live it for herself, and if Prince Charming comes along, he’s welcome to share it with her. If not, she’ll be fine without him.”

  “That’s wonderful advice,” I said. “For all of us, not just our daughters.”

  She nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “Yes, you’re right. I can be my own daughter, can’t I?”

  “We can all be our own daughters, our own mothers, and our own sisters. We should take charge of our lives and fill in the empty emotional spaces. It shouldn’t matter whether we were loved enough as long as we learn to love ourselves.”

  “I can do that,” she said. “I can learn to love myself, can’t I?”

  I clasped her hand in mine. “Of course you can, Lorelei. You’re extremely lovable.”

  And I meant that. In the real world we’d never have met. We had nothing in common. And yet we’d found so many points of interest and become friends here in this fishbowl. Maybe recovery was possible when people shared strengths rather than focusing on weaknesses. I made a mental note to find this sweet, wounded child once I got back to my own timeline. Maybe I could become the big sister she’d never had and help her fulfill her potential.

  I’d spent too long being self-absorbed, unaware that everyone carries their own private pain. There was so much I could do if I only reached out. Who better to help heal another than someone who’d come out of the darkness and into the light? Hadn’t Bob said that my desire to take care of other people was one of the qualities he loved most about me?

  But what about the “me” I’d be leaving behind? I was only an observer here, a traveling ghost haunting an alternate version of myself. What would happen when I moved on? Who would help her out of the darkness? While I was busy trying to escape recovery, she’d still be in need of it, along with the therapy Parker could provide. Would he believe me and treat her with kindness and understanding? Would he be mindful of her memory gaps? It was up to me to make sure that when I moved on to the next reality she’d be taken care of.

  Lorelei and I spent the rest of our dinner hour laughing and gossiping. I learned more about her life and shared some of my own with her. When she asked about the wedding ring I still wore, I pretended I’d bought it myself to avoid unwelcome attention from men.

  “Why? Don’t you like men?”

  “Oh, I like men fine enough. It’s just that for a long time I didn’t think I was ready to make a commitment to someone else. Now, I think I like myself enough to be a good wife and mother.”

  “How do you get to that place?” she asked. “You know, the liking yourself place?”

  Good question. One I probably couldn’t have answered a few days ago. “I think part if it is realizing that no matter how far off track you get, it’s never too late to turn your life around.”

  She glanced pointedly at my bandaged wrists.

  “Almost never,” I said.

  I twirled the wedding band around my finger, feeling like a hypocrite. Bob didn’t know me in this timeline, so I had no right to wear it. I reflected about what I’d said to Lorelei. I was ready for a committed relationship now. Then why was I hesitant to call Bob and ask for his help? If he was my soul mate, then surely I’d be able to convince him to come to my rescue. But hadn’t I just told Lorelei we each needed to be our own knight in shining armor?

  Something else stopped me from calling Bob. I had the distinct feeling that I’d been led through each lifetime for a specific reason. The first was to resolve my issues with my mother and let go of the past. The second timeline showed me what the future could be if I simply let down my guard and allowed myself to be loved.

  But what about this one? I could see a pattern beginning to emerge. If not for Bob or my mother, then why was I here? Every instinct I had pointed to Parker—I still couldn’t think of him any other way. I suspected that he was the one I needed to focus on right now. I wasn’t quite sure if it was for his sake or mine.

  *

  A kind-faced orderly peeked into my room. “You have a guest, Ms. Hall.”

  Cassie!

  I rushed to the visitor’s lounge, hoping to see my sister, but was disappointed to see my father there instead. “Dad?”

  He turned and gazed at me with pity. “Jenna.” He held out his arms. “How are you today?”

  I stood there, unsure what was expected of me. He held his arms out for a moment longer, then let them fall. The expression on his face was of one who expected rejection and wasn’t surprised by it.

  I walked toward him and took a seat on a faded couch, patting the
cushion beside me. My father sat with a mournful sigh. He reached for my hand and turned it wrist upward. Bandages covered the wounds but couldn’t hide the shame.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. Even though it wasn’t mine to claim, I could see the pain in his eyes and realized how much effort it had taken him to come here.

  “No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t a very good father to you girls. After your mother died, I just gave up. Guess I blamed myself. It was easier to drink than remember her the last time I saw her.”

  “Dad …”

  “No,” he said. “Let me get this out. I came all the way here to tell you I’m sorry. I wish I could do things differently, but I can’t. I can only go on from here and hope you’ll forgive me. You and your sister both.”

  “I do, Dad. I do.” I wrapped my arms around him and rested my head on his shoulder. At first he held me loosely, then his arms tightened until I could feel his heart beating against mine. Forgiveness came easily. If there was one thing I’d learned, it was that it was easier to forgive someone else than it was to forgive yourself. But you had to do the first to achieve the second.

  *

  Back in my room that evening, I pondered my dilemma. I needed to get to the secret room in the House of Cry to find my way back to my own reality. But how could I leave while ensuring that this me—the one that belonged here—stayed and got the help she needed? The only way I could think of was to convince Parker to take me to the house temporarily. Then when I’d moved on, he’d be there to make sure my counterpart safely returned to the recovery center, where he could give her the help she needed.

  There was something else I could do while I waited for Parker to take me seriously. I realized that no matter which timeline I followed, there was one other constant. I always kept a journal. Why should this timeline be any different?

  I was overcome with the urge to leave a piece of myself behind. I realized that I wasn’t the only one who was lost. Whoever belonged in this body, this world, this reality, was lost as well. If I somehow found my way back to my own world, the least I could do was to leave a clue for whoever took back this life when I left it behind. And if somehow I never found my way back home, then at least I’d have these words to mark my passage, as the memories of the life I left behind became dimmer with time.