I'M NOT ALICE AND THIS IS NO WONDERLAND

I wish I could disappear, be like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. The difference is, if I had a choice, I’d prefer to leave nothing behind, just appear or reappear on my own terms.

My name is Alice, but I’m not Alice. I refuse to be. I will see to it, or I’ll drink something that will, indeed, make me disappear.  I’m sure I could find a bottomless hole to jump into, if it came to that. We’ll just have to see.

* * *

My connection to Alice in Wonderland, beyond childhood familiarity with both the book and, then later, the Disney movie version, began at university. I enrolled in Lewis Carroll Studies, one of a subset of courses available and encouraged for anyone seeking a degree in English Literature. That was me.   

This was still a time when women sought higher education in hopes of fetching better husbands. That was not why I went. I’d loved reading since I was a child. Books gave me opportunities to travel and experience things I’d never dreamed of.   

And I could afford college. I’d lost both of my parents in the Kew Gardens train crash of 1950 when two trains collided in the worst railway accident in Long Island Railroad history. We were living in Connecticut.  My parents had taken a trip prior to the holidays to New York City, my father for work, my mother for shopping.  I was fifteen and an only child; now an orphan.  Books became my family.

My aunt and uncle took me in and, three years later, I went off to university, looking for my life.  

Rory and I were both freshmen and met at a keg party hosted by his fraternity. Rory was crossing the main room carrying two cups of beer. I was faced the opposite way, completely unaware of him. I was slightly tipsy and enjoying a few laughs with new friends. Rory suddenly tripped, being slightly tipsy himself, though managed to regain his balance. The beers, unfortunately, went flying and landed on my hair and dress. I was soaked and reeked to high heaven like a brewery. 

Following my initial dumbstruck “what kind of idiot are you” reaction, Rory responded so genuinely mortified and apologetic, I allowed him to attempt to salvage the evening by offering me several beach towels and offering to walk me back to my dorm to shower and change.

We got to talking. He was certainly nice looking, clean shaven, well-dressed and -spoken. The attention he continued to lavish upon me began to replace the resentment I’d first experienced with curiosity, and then fascination. I might rather like getting to know this charming klutz.

He impressed me with his self-confidence and determination to carve out the great life he’d carefully designed. Occasionally he stopped and looked me squarely in the eye to emphasize a point. He made me feel as if I were the only other person on the planet; at least the only one that mattered.   

I learned that neither of us were attached at the time. Rory opted to wait for me outside my dorm while I cleaned up and changed. Then he took me to a nearby club for drinks and continued our conversation. Drinks led to dinner and dinner led to a long walk. When he dropped me at the dorm entrance just prior to midnight, he lightly kissed me on the cheek and whispered he’d never appreciated his lack of coordination as much as he had tonight. 

* * * 

In my mind, I connect this early passage to the lazy, unsettled Alice dozing on the bank with her sister just waiting for something to capture her imagination.  Rory was my white rabbit. He’d been waiting as well, it seemed.  He had places to go, people to meet, a life to grab onto with both paws. Naturally I followed him down the rabbit hole. He was my shining knight in white fur, and had a mission.

* * *

Rory invited me to meet him at the altar shortly after graduation. By then, we’d had three years of relationship bliss under our belts. He was textbook-perfect; attentive, punctual with all the traditions that accompanied special occasions. Any minor infractions could be easily overlooked. I fit in well with his friends and we double-dated with my roommate and her steady. No one had ever made me laugh like this, nor listened to me as intently as he did. I was completely swept away.

It never occurred to me he might be too good to be true, and what carried me away was a crosscurrent that could keep me from returning to safety and the shore. It's a hard lesson: Beware the undertow.  

* * *

Once we landed at the base of the rabbit hole together, the ring firmly set on my finger, there was a slight disagreement, something small. I can’t even remember what it was, though I do remember laughing it off.  Rory’s expression darkened, he refused to discuss it further and stormed off.  I now faced alone a dark hall lined with doors, all locked, and I had no idea where there might be a key.  

I was still reeling from Rory’s stinging overreaction when I came upon a bottle with a sign on it that read “Drink Responsibly,” though, to me, it said “Drink Me,” so I did.   It couldn’t hurt any more than my bewilderment. So, I drank. I felt bigger, whether that was true or not. I still couldn’t find a key anywhere, but now it didn’t seem to matter as much. 

I didn’t know it then, but this was a pattern that would continue. Rory would return as if nothing had happened.  If I tried to explore the matter further, I would be met with one of two reactions: stone cold silence or frightening bouts of rage. I decided to carry a Drink Me bottle in case I needed a place to hide or to regain some of my original height.

So, enough of this dark hallway and all the doors I’m powerless to open. There’s a light that catches my eye. It’s at the base of the door situated at the end of the hall and is the size of a mouse hole.  If I look through it at eye level and squint just so, I see a garden.  It’s so beautiful, I must get there. Trouble is, I’m either too big or too small. I try whatever is at my disposal. I eat whatever is nearby that tempts me. If the sign says “Eat Me,” I do. I just need to find the right thing. 

I’m putting on weight. What if this disappoints Rory?  It’s obvious he’s hurting and needs something I simply have yet to understand how to give him. I’m failing him. What am I missing? Where can I find it?  I’m drifting, treading salt water tears, the exact ones Alice shed when she felt helpless and lost.  Nothing makes sense.    

* * *

Suddenly, out of nowhere:

“Let's go out for dinner.”

“Tonight?”

“Sure. I’ve been working a lot. Let’s treat ourselves to some fun.”

“Well, okay. If you want to.”

“And I was thinking, let’s get a puppy. We can stop at the local pound this weekend and save a life.”

Who are you and what have you done with my husband? I think it, but would never say it.

* * *

Rory’s smiling at me.  We’re both in the garden I’d peered at through the mouse hole. I’m still confused but don’t question how we got here. I’m overwhelmed with relief. I also feel slightly off-center, afraid to make a wrong move. Best to play it safe. I’ll entertain Rory just as I did before. I know he may have to continue on his quest soon; I see him consulting his watch.

There are animals in the garden. They speak to me and I know how to talk to them. They are safe for me to engage. Let’s have a race! It’s a silly business and I’m lost to it, but in a delightful, childish way. When I find myself out of breath from laughing so hard with my new friends, I look over and catch a disapproving look from my husband. The game is over.

* * *

“Rory, I was thinking, I’d like to look for a job.”

“Doing what?”

“Putting my degree to some good use. There’s a lot I could do. Write, teach, edit.”

“Don’t get all hooty. There’s something I was meaning to tell you about. Now’s as good a time as any.”

So, in the end, I temporarily – I convince myself - delay putting my English Lit degree to use and, instead, help out the family business. I don’t have much by way of family myself, of course, so I agree to work a dull bookkeeping job that Rory convinces me to take.  His family owns an auto repair business and they can use the help. 

Now, by sacrificing for my marriage, I get to really know my new family. If I devote myself to pleasing everyone, I believe it will all come back to me in the form of a secure, loving partnership, the sort of union I’d dreamed of. Logic and heart tell me I’m going about it the right way. I should sleep well at night, secure in the knowledge that I am doing my best. But I don’t.

* * * 

My job is killing off my brain cells, one by one, so in my mind it turns into a game - of croquet, naturally.  My mother-in-law acts the Queen, puffed up and grandiose. She tolerates me to a degree but I quickly learn it’s best to let her win.  It’s not worth the inevitable tantrum or smoldering silence that follows when I play it straight. 

The King appears to suffer the same sort of imbalance I do, and is content to remain in the background, sometimes keeping score, padding the Queen’s numbers. He has a kind but weak countenance. I think, but would never say it, Long live the King!

The Queen surrounds herself with all the lower cards in the deck. They eye her warily and are prepared to fold at any minute, and often do. She is really the Queen of Darts.

When lunch is taken and I can slip away, I take lone walks in the woods nearby and try to lose myself for a time. I often cross paths with a stray cat that regards me with curiosity. I’m not sure if it is tame or feral so I confine myself to observation.  The cat appears and disappears when I least expect.  I’d like to engage the animal but can’t read it.  The cat will hiss at me, but then rub against my legs with a contented purr.  When I bend and offer a pet, it nips at my hand and jets away.  Just forget it then!

* * *

Rory enjoys entertaining and suggests we host a dinner party.  I know I will be cook, caterer and clean-up crew for the evening but, as it makes Rory happy, I reluctantly agree.  Besides, I once resisted because I had an early morning the next day. You would have thought I’d told him I’d just shot the neighbor’s dog. So, let’s just prepare the shopping list and start planning, shall we?

All is in order. The house is spotless, the table set, the chicken roasting, soft jazz playing, the lights are low. Rory comes into the kitchen where I’m putting finishing touches on the cheese and cracker board. I can feel the frown before I see it.

“Hi.”

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Well, honestly, if you don’t know . . .”

“I’ll go change.”

Ba-dum-bum-CHING!

* * *

“Alice, this chicken is delicious! I’d love the recipe.”

“It’s really simple . . .”

“Hey, did you hear the one: ‘My wife’s such a lousy cook, even the flies chipped in to fix the screen door!’”

“Good one, Rory!”

“Oh sure, Henny Youngman. King of the one-liners!”

“Who wants more wine?” 

“‘My wife said she wanted to go somewhere she’d never been before. I said how ‘bout the kitchen!’”

Ba-dum-bum-CHING!

* * *

Sometime later that evening, after company leaves, I clean up. Rory is asleep in the living room, mouth agape. I hear his snoring over the television that’s set to a late night sports program.  

I reflect on a line I remember well from the other Alice:

“I should think you could make better use of the time than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers.”

And, with that, my Drink Me bottle and I continue tidying up. Then I go to bed alone and dream of the void. There’s nothing left to be done tonight.  Just another tea party.

* * *

“Who are you?”

“What do you mean, who am I? I’m your wife. Remember?”

“But you act so strange, really odd. What’s wrong with you?”

Trapped again. There is no way to answer this.

“I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“Rory, I really can’t take much more of this.”

“Well, that’s just like you, isn’t it? Just give up, walk away.”

“But it doesn’t seem to matter what I say. It’s always wrong.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”

“I can’t talk to you.”

“You and your reindeer games. Here we go!”

And there I should go. But I don’t. I am so unsure of just about everything, I doubt I have enough confidence to cross the street.

* * *

I spend more time in the rabbit hole than I do above ground. I ceaselessly quiver and grow eyes on the sides of my head. The eggshells cut deep and I can’t seem to avoid them.

When I arrive home from work one evening, Rory is propped up on his mushroom, puffing on his pipe, cool as a cucumber. As usual, I take his temperature. 

“You look great up there!”

His eyes are glazed but they turn and become fixed on me. My body tenses; I’m instinctively prepared for fight or flight.

“Well, hello, Rudolph. Come to play games?”

I, foolishly, choose fight.

“Would a simple ‘how was your day’ be so difficult?”

“Oh, here we go again.”

I throw up my hands. When will I learn?  

Rory: “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

I shake my head, go to the kitchen, grab my bag and walk out.

I have nowhere to go.

I get in the car and just drive. 

After hours of driving, I’m tired. I’m near a beach, so I park facing the water, away from just a handful of cars that are parked, I imagine most with couples in varying stages of whatever it is other people do.

I realize this is one of the bravest things I have ever done - or one of the dumbest.

* * *

There is a turtle on the dock that mocks me.  I see a tear but know it is not real. He is, after all, a turtle, mock or not.  I’m getting hungry. How about some soup then? Care to oblige? The turtle bristles and prepares to return to the water. 

“You mock my mockery, 

although you must know,                     

all that you see

is but only for show.”

With that, the turtle disappears over the edge of the dock. Splash.

Hmph, I think. That poetry is just as poor, I'm sure, as his mock turtle soup would have been. Maybe a lobster will come along and make a difference. In the meantime, I’ll just drift.

If one were to ask me

just what brought me here,

I might have to tell them

I once had a fear.

Although I am dressed,

I have nowhere to go. 

I wonder and ask

why go on with this show?

I could go to trial with the Queen on the bench,

deciding my fate with a hammer and wrench.  

I could face a jury asking who stole the tarts,

a question I’d answer with false fits and starts.

So, off with her head!

My future is toast. 

With Dormouse as counsel, 

of course I would roast.

In the hands of the palace

I never could win.

There’s no way to face this

and start life again.

I’m in way too deep now,

I’ll never be free. 

He’s damaged and clever,

and never loved me.

I have no real choice here.

I have no home base.

I’ve run out of keys,

finished last in the race.

I won’t be that Alice,

I’m true to my vow.

I choose my own Wonderland,

and go live there now.

* * *

The following morning, local police received a 911 call from a group of kids heading out to take advantage of the early morning surf. They reported seeing a parked car with a woman inside who appeared unresponsive. Her doors were locked.

The paramedics arrived first.  They had no better luck than the kids had trying to get the woman’s attention.  They decided to wait for Fire Rescue to arrive and get the car doors open.  

Once that was accomplished, the woman was checked by the EMTs. All of her vital signs were normal and she did not appear to be hurt physically.  

An ambulance arrived, she was lifted onto a gurney and then transported to the local hospital for observation.

As it drove away, an EMT, with a chill, wrote these words near the bottom of his report: “Woman appeared catatonic, had a grin on her face.”

* * *

“And so, she sat on, with closed eyes, and half-believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had only to open them again, and all would change to dull reality.”

THE END