The Conversion
Page 7
my life will be happy.
When we finally get back home, Gloria puts the beer in the fridge. She avoids talking to Elaine—she just wants to hide in the bedroom, like me. She goes to the bedroom, and I try to keep up with her. There is no bed, only a dirty mattress on the floor—Micah and I are lucky to have our single bed. She closes the door in front of my face, and I slump to the floor outside the closed bedroom door, waiting for her to let me in, to let me in into her world, to love and give me care. But it never happens. I was and still am a motherless child.
My earliest memories seemed only to consist of me seeking Gloria’s love and approval, but repeatedly I was faced with brutality, abuse, and neglect. These memories seem to melt into one another. I begin to realize the usefulness of the preparation process. In my case, it’s needed to prove to me that my existence is indeed depraved—that I should be happy someone is willing to buy my life and take if off my hands. Clearly, I shouldn’t have been born. My being on this earth is a big mistake and bad joke.
Why didn’t Gloria just give me up for adoption? Why? Why? I would have had a way better life! I might have had a loving home. But Gloria needed someone who she can use and abuse just the same way she had been. She needed a real-live punching bag of her own.
Sitting on the floor outside the bedroom, waiting for Gloria to let me crawl onto the filthy mattress next to her, I feel a tickling sensation near the bump on my head. I become aware that the session is coming to an end. I slowly open my eyes, I see Dr. Kismen standing in front of me. She takes off the Mentior helmet and lets me rest for a moment.
“How are you doing?” she asks.
“How do you think I’m doing?” I reply, sounding irritated and defensive. I need a minute to reflect on everything I just experienced.
“I’m not sure,” Dr. Kismen says, confused. She hadn’t expected that response.
Perhaps I should be easier on her since really she has no idea what my childhood was like.
“Depressed, sad…yeah, probably a bit suicidal,” I say.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dr. Kismen says.
I hate that phrase. To me, it doesn’t sound sincere. Nobody cares about my dreadful life, and even if they did there is nothing anyone can do about it, so they might as well keep silent.
“You know, you said it wouldn’t hurt, but it did,” I say, sitting up and trying to control my feelings. When I asked you that question, I wasn’t just referring to physical pain. Emotional pain is way harder to bear.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t think you do,” I say, clearly offended by her seeming insincerity.
“You don’t know everyone’s story. We each have a different one. You can get up now,” Dr. Kismen says, waiting for me to get off the bed.
“I’m sure your story is not as depressing as mine,” I whine. I dangle my legs off the side of the bed and cover my face with my hands. “I can’t do this! What other depressing memories will I have to revisit?”
Dr. Kismen comes up to me and puts her hand on my shoulder. I can smell her hand cream. It’s scented with lemon and vanilla, strangely pleasant.
“Listen Alina, I know the preparation is hard for you, but the time to the Conversion will pass quickly, and you will be there sooner than you think. Your time is coming soon.”
She smiles at me, but I see tears in her eyes. I don’t think it’s an appropriate time for a smile.
Her words do make me stop and think that she really does have a point. Recalling and revisiting my past, which has caused my depression, is why I decided to sign-up and undergo the Conversion in the first place. And, there is some consolation in knowing that while over the next 29 days my depression will deepen further after each session, but this will be the end of it
“We should get going,” Dr. Kismen says, turning away from me and walking out off the treatment room.
I give a fleeting glance to the Mentior over my shoulder God I hate that machine.
“Alina, we need to leave the treatment area,” Dr. Kismen calls from out in the hall.
I quickly put on my sneakers and rush out of this ghostly room, hoping to leave my sad memories behind.
However, things are never that easy. I could write a book on it. So, as we are walking back to Dr. Kismen’s office, I fall back into the abyss. My heart and soul both dark return to my recent memories and linger there. The rich scent of Dr. Kismen’s hand cream snaps my mind back to the present, and the scrunched shopping list is my hoodie pocket reminds me that I don’t have any food for Micah at home, nor any money on me. I wonder what I can do? Where will I get the money to pay for food to make dinner tonight? Gloria’s welfare check doesn’t arrive until next week, and she’s drunk away all the emergency funds I have stashed away in the house.
We stop in front of Dr. Kismen’s office, and I ask her hesitantly, “Now that I’ve completed the first session is there any way that I could get an advance on the contract payment for the Conversion?”
“Unfortunately that’s not possible. The contract is quite clear on this. You cannot receive any payment until the Conversion is completed” Dr. Kismen says with a sigh as she swipes the access card to enter her office. “You know this, so why do you ask?”
With the lump in my throat, growing bigger tears push out of my eyes, and run down my cheeks.
“It’s just, you know, my brother and I need some money to help us get by somehow until next week,” I sob.
This is so embarrassing, it’s the first time I’ve ever shared my problems with anyone.
“I see,” Dr. Kismen said, nodding. She enters the office, but I remain standing by the door. She picks up a black leather purse from beneath her desk, reaches in for her wallet, and takes out a hundred-dollar bill, extending it to me.
I’m speechless. I begin to cry even harder, practically bawling my eyes out.
“Please take it,” Dr. Kismen insists.
I’m resistant at first, but then I remember that Micah needs me, especially in these last 29 days. Finally, I take the money.
“Let me know if you need more,” she says. “I’m happy to help.”
“Thank you so much,” I say, gasping for air and trying to suppress my excitement. I carefully put the bill into my pocket and zip it closed.
“You’re welcome. You can find your way out, right?”
I get the hint and right away disappear from her office.
I am stunned; the kindness I’ve searched for so long does exist. How ironic that it should appear suddenly when I’m ready to leave this world.
I feel a little dazed as I step outside the Ultima Center into the late afternoon and reluctantly head towards the bus stop. The lady from the other day is not there. I breathe easy.
I’m still heartbroken though to know that I have never experienced my mother’s love. It is terrible to know that I was always a burden for her and my grandmother, probably even before I was born. It’s hard not to think about it, but Dr. Kismen’s kind gesture helps me not completely to lose faith in humankind. I check my phone and see a message from Micah telling me that he’s at Bennett’s house. He sent me the address, and it’s not too far from our house.
I get on the bus. My eyes are red. I avoid looking at the bus driver for fear of meeting his eyes, and I carry on to the back of the bus to find a seat. I put on headphones and search the playlist for depressing music to suit my mood. I’m trying to control my tears, but it’s hopeless. I wish I had never seen, my grandmother Elaine in my Mentior session. I wish I never knew what a wicked and nasty person she was.
Seeking distraction, I open my backpack and get out my diary. I look at the picture of Micah and the card he made for me. I thought these treasures might help improve my mood, but they only make me more upset.
“I can’t wait to give Micah everything I’ve got—I want to give him my life,” I murmur to myself while wiping the tears off my cheek. I grab the pen that is tucked between the pages of my diary and start to write. I’ve neve
r written before, no poetry, no love letters, no hate letters, no emails, I only got the diary because I loved the way it looked. At this particular moment, I want to write something for Gloria, hoping it will ease my pain and I begin to write…….
Mom, please forgive that I was born
Please forgive me that I’ve made your life so deeply torn
I didn’t want this thing to happen
I know I will always be a waste
Mom, please forgive that I’m unwanted
I know that this is all my fault
From the first moments, I was born unhappy
And a stranger to this world.
I read the words of the poem again. I know that nobody will ever see it. It’s poorly written, but I don’t care, it expresses my feelings. I put the diary away and lay my head back on the seat rest. It is pounding from all the emotions, mental suffering, and distress that have flooded through me today. I close my eyes just for a second.
I nearly jump out of my seat when the driver yells, “Last stop!”
I thank him as I get off the bus. A fast ride on the subway and I’m standing in front of Bennett’s house. It’s an older place but not as old as ours. It’s very well maintained. There is a beautiful yard with mowed green grass. I admire the house’s cozy porch and big shuttered windows.
I take the last step onto the porch timidly, and then I do something I should not do—I creep up to the front door and eavesdrop.
I hear children laughing—one of them is definitely Micah. Relieved, I ring the doorbell. A