THE VISIT

 THE VISIT

The sheets wrapped around me tightly and I felt like a mummy in an Egyptian tomb. The roof of the loft was only inches from my face. I started to hyperventilate. Breathing heavily. Breathing fast. I felt a tightness in my chest and a tingling in my arms. I felt like I was in an oven, no, trapped under the ice, no I don’t know how I felt, just get me out of here. I pulled roughly on the sheets tearing them from my body, hearing them rip, not caring about how much I had paid for the Egyptian cotton whatever thread count. Free at last, I sat up banging my head sharply on the loft's roof. Ignoring the physical pain, I climbed down the small ladder, crossed to the door, and threw it open. Gasping for air, I doubled over, clutching my midriff, and drank in the chilly night air. 

It had happened again. Another anxiety attack.  According to my shrink,, well, he would say it was another case of post-traumatic stress disorder.

I don't care what he called it I couldn't take it anymore, the vivid flashbacks, the all-to-real images flashing through my head, the nightmares, the daymares, the every darn minute of the day mares. The constant nausea, the trembling, then the numbness, the dissociation, the avoidance. I had every symptom of PTSD with some extra ones thrown in just for good measure.

I was an emotional wreck, the only good thing according to Brent, my shrink, was that I knew all the things that were wrong with me. He told me, that a crazy person would not recognize what was wrong with themselves. Well, he didn’t exactly put it that way, he professionalized it up of course, but I got the jist of it. 

I had so far had only seven sessions but he said it sometimes took people years to work through their problems and get to the root of the matter. Ca-ching. I could see the cash register in his mind filling up. I didn’t really care about the money, I would have gladly given all I had to turn back the hands of time. Or maybe there was some miracle pill I could take at night and wake up the next morning cured, normal whole? Even semi-normal would work for me, I could settle for a less-than-perfect me if only…

I  knew that my sessions with Brent were just a bandaid for the cause of my … illness… breakdown…, or whatever you wanted to call it. It just allowed me to make it through a day, a day at a time.

I knew that what haunted me was not going to be fixed by Brent’s Psycho Babbel, his little buzzwords, or psychological jargon. Nor by the number of expensively framed degrees that hung above his desk in his tricked-out office.

My bare toes were becoming numb as I stood barefoot on the deck of my little Bunkie. My breathing had quieted somewhat and I no longer felt that I was going to scream at the full moon which stood high in the sky, leaving a moonlit trail across the lake. I took another few breaths of fresh air, drinking in the strong scent of pine trees. Then I returned inside my Bunkie, climbed the ladder, and pulled the blankets up to my neck. I tried counting sheep for a while and ate the banana that lay on the small night table beside my mattress. I grabbed the small well-loved teddy bear that lay on the night table and held it, rocking back and forth keening deeply. An hour or so later I think I finally drifted off. It was near dawn when I once again awoke, the light filtering through the gap in the curtains.  But now there was also a rosy glow in the room. As always, I knew she had come. My heart leaped in my chest, a leap of gladness and a leap of despair. I could no longer discern the two.

She was sitting on the end of the bed, her pristine nightgown curled around her toes, her flaxen curls cascading down her neck, a light radiated from her, circling her tiny body in a golden glow. I could hear the soft pulling noise she made as she sucked her thumb repeatedly.

 I took a deep breath.

“Clara!” I whispered.

“Good morning Mama,” she lisped softly without removing her thumb from her mouth.

“Clara, I’m so sorry.”

“It's ok Mama.”

“I should have tried harder. I should have kept looking. I should never have stopped. Never.”

“It ok Mama. I was stuck on a tree limb at the bottom of the lake. See it put a hole right through my nighty. I couldn’t get free. I couldn't come up for air. I saw you. I saw you looking and looking. I heard you screaming for help.” She held up her nighty for my inspection and there right on the side was a large hole. “I'm sorry Mama, can you sew it up, It's my favourite nighty.”

I looked at the hole in her nighty. The ragged tear that I would never have the privilege of repairing.

“I can’t baby. I can't fix it.” The tears started to stream down my face.

“That's okay Mama. Don’t cry. It's only a hole.” She held out her hand to me and I stretched out mine to her. Our fingers got closer and closer, and when they were just a wee bit apart, she started to fade.

“I have to go now Mama.”

“No! Please stay. Don't leave me. I need to tell you. I…”

She was gone and once again I hadn't had the time to tell her I loved her. The pain in my chest returned, sharper this time.  Her daily visits were poignant reminders of intense remorse and overwhelming guilt. The burden of failure crushing down upon me, the deep regret, the ultimate shame of a mother’s failure. 

 Her father's grief and his inability to accept the continuation of a relationship where his child was lost forever because of a moment that could never be taken back lay heavy on my mind. So in essence, on that day, I had lost not once, but twice. No regret could have been stronger, no remorse more powerful. My self-condemnation was as nothing when faced with his sudden hatred for me. My contrition and remorse proved to be nothing in the wake of his pain.  Having lost the two people I cherished most in this world, I left, no ran, and sought solace in my little Bunkie up north under the pines by the lake. But solace was not to be found, nor was forgiveness and penitence was beyond my grasp.  Everything was gone. All I had left of my previous life was a small, well-worn bear, with a rip in the seams and with one eye, as imperfect as myself. Oh, and of course the daily ghostly morning visits of my dead daughter.