Weight

WEIGHT.

A short story by Sreedevi Jagannath.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here.” Frida closes the musty, velvet curtains behind her. Joel, if that was even his real name, but who would make up a name like Joel for a psychic? It sounded so normal.

Joel, a few steps ahead of her, rounds a table that is bereft of anything but an ashtray. He settles into a very comfortable looking wingback chair. Frida is staring, she knows it, but she can’t stop herself. Joel tosses his curly, dirty blonde hair and lights a cigarette. Sprawled like that, he looks like a former rock star.

Frida guiltily looks away, and shakes her head. “This is bizarre.” She looks around the room, “What? No crystal ball?”

Joel grins rakishly, “I try not to keep the tools of the trade, so to speak, out in the open. Besides, I like to have… conversations.”

Frida snorts, and hurriedly covers her mouth, eyes slightly wide, “I’m sorry.”

Joel’s grin drops, just a smidge, but it pops back up again. He gestures at the chair opposite his. It’s comfortable, but obviously not very. Frida takes it, nervously wriggling about as Joel studies her every move.

Eventually, she clears her throat, “A friend thought, and I quote, ‘you would be good for me’.”

Joel smirks, and her face is hot again. “And how exactly would I be good for you?”

Frida’s smile is shy as she looks up, but it falls a moment later. “I’ve been really bogged down, and at first I thought it was depression – there isn’t any head doctor I haven’t seen, no meds I haven’t taken, but it always haunts me.”

“Interesting choice of words.” He finds the melancholy in her eyes unsettling.

 “What do you know?”

Joel taps the ash off the cigarette, “you aren’t being haunted, for one.”

“What? Isn’t that the ticket? For people like you?”

Joel raises an eyebrow, “people like me?” He stands and stubs out his cigarette, “I agreed to meet you because I like Rose. I don’t like you. You may leave.”

Frida’s mouth falls open. She isn’t used to being fired. Joel is already heading into a room off of this one. He stops at her voice.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.”

“And yet, you did, and worse still, I think you’re apologising only because I’m kicking you out. If you think I’m such a charlatan, it won’t work anyway.”

“Please. I’m desperate.”

Joel puts his hand on the doorknob. “I’m not. Please see yourself out.”

Frida hangs her head. “All the same, I shouldn’t have cast aspersions on you. Goodbye.”

Joel sighs, and hangs his head. His grip on the doorknob tightens, and then loosens. Frida’s hands stop halfway through parting the velvet curtains as Joel voice parts the awkward silence.

“I don’t want to do this, but I suspect you need it more.”

The two of them settle back into their respective chairs. Frida wipes her eyes and watches him, much like a bushy tailed puppy, waiting on a master’s command. Joel slaps his hand, palm up, on the table, impatiently looking at Frida. She looks at his palm, then at his face.

“Hand please!”

Frida’s lips part into a small ‘o’. She blushes and complies.

“Relax, this isn’t a Jane Austen novel,” Joel snaps, then shakes his head, trying to dislodge the irritation from earlier. He takes a few shallow breaths, like a swimmer just before a dive. Eyes closed, he inhales deeply, focusing on the smell of his favourite brand of cigarettes, a faint fragrance that is obviously from her, and…

“There,” he breathes out, recognising the scent he’s been looking for. It’s neither good nor bad, just… unique, with a slight hint of unresolved issues. The world fades around him, as he delves into the subtle layer between the known and the unknown.

The room stills around them, as if suspended in time – even Joel seems like he isn’t breathing. Frida looks upon the pale, frozen image of the man in front of her. Uncomfortable with the situation, she tries to disentangle her hand but Joel’s grip tightens, eliciting a shocked gasp from her.

“Not yet!” Joel rasps in an eerie voice, layered with an unknown quality. Frida swallows nervously.

It seems like forever, but only a few minutes later, Joel opens his eyes, and Frida is shocked to see grey cataracts clearing away from previously clear sapphire eyes. He heaves a breath, and coughs, immediately reaching for a cigarette from his pockets. He lights up, hands shaking slightly. Frida is too afraid to ask anything. Joel doesn’t meet her eyes till he has had a proper smoke.

“You,” he points to her with the cigarette, “have a strange past.”

Frida frowns, “what? A strange past?” she pauses, “sure, if you count growing up poor with cokehead parents as strange.”

Joel rasps out a laugh, cigarette smoke escaping in puffs, “not that past, silly woman, Your cosmic past.”

Frida sits back in her chair, face blank.

Joel grins and pulls on his cigarette. “Believe it or not, the weight,” he air-quotes the word, “that you feel is the weight of your past mistakes. In Hinduism, there is a belief that souls pass through several lives with the purpose of correcting mistakes, till it is purified enough to merge with the almighty.”

“But isn’t that the point of free will? to make mistakes?”

Joel’s face is blank, “not these kinds, love.”

Frida swallows, “was I… evil?”

“Et Voila! A believer!”

Frida looks embarrassed. “I don’t know what to believe, but what I just saw here leaves me with questions that can’t have simple answers.”

She tries not to squirm at Joel’s assessing look. “What you just saw, was me leaping in and out of cosmic memory. It exacts a toll. It’s like a drug that has very unpleasant effects.”

“Then why do you do it?”

Joel purses his lips. “I am led to believe that doing this to help people was the reason I was given the… ability. Rose said you might need that kind of help, and she was right. I don’t beat around the bush, so I’ll get right to it.”

“Just like that? You aren’t going to ask for anything?”

Joel shrugs, “I do this now, and sometime later I might ask something of you.” At her dubious expression, he chuckles, “don’t worry, it won’t be anything sinister. Now… do you want to hear it or not?”

Frida shuts her runaway mouth, choosing to nod in assent.

“Look, you weren’t evil, per se, but you were a cunt. You were a warden in a government run orphanage, and you liked to… discipline… children.”

Frida closes her mouth with a hand. “Did I beat the kids? Or … worse?”

Joel lets out a plume of smoke. “You did beat the kids, but you weren’t a pervert.”

Frida sighs in relief, then chews her lip, remembering that she had still been a cunt. “And?”

“Well, one of these kids from that god awful place, in this life, is your mother.”

Frida is confused with the leap. Joel leans forward. “You often feel like your mother hates you. She wasn’t a cokehead, though that would have made it easier to forgive her. She’s just a horrible mother, like you were to her in your past lives. A warden in an orphanage is supposed to be like a parent, right?”

Frida looks down in guilt, caught out in her lie. “How did you know?”

Joel laughs, “you still need to ask that?” He stubs out the cigarette, “well, you need to accept your past mistakes, and you need to ask for forgiveness. That’s how you dislodge the weight of your guilt from a past life – the stuff that’s been ‘bogging you down’.”

Frida is wide-eyed, angry. “Will she apologize to me? In this life?”

“She’s supposed to have learned from her punishment at your hand, and she’s been given a reverse role to help her prove that she is capable of forgiveness.”

Frida snorts, “might need to get her a new dictionary. Hers doesn’t have the word.”

Joel surprises her by leaning forward to pull her hand towards him, clasping it gently. “She’ll eventually get there, but you’re here, breaking the cycle, and that’s what’s important.”

She wipes her eyes and sniffles. “How do I do this?”

Joel pulls back from her. “It isn’t any kind of ritual, but it is a lot like psychiatry with a psychic twist.”

“That just rolls off the tongue.” Frida’s hand feels cold and bereft without his.

“In psychiatry, there is a… method… to get over trauma, and that is to heal your inner child.” He lights another cigarette. “It all sounds like hogwash, but believe me, it works.” The smoke is making her slightly dizzy, and whether Joel knows or cares, is unclear.

“You have to go in between worlds, and reach out to the child, much like your inner child. That child is traumatised, alone in the world, and cannot understand the cruelty. What you need to do, is let her know you’re sorry, and give her the love that she deserves. It doesn’t matter that the child is your mother. Don’t let that limit you. The idea is to forgive yourself, and therefore get the weight off of you.”

It’s all said very matter-of-factly, like it’s a day at the office – standard operating procedure. “That makes no sense to me.”

Joel is unsurprised, “that’s why I’m here – to guide you through this.”

Frida chews on her lip for a second. “Go under? Like hypnosis?”

“Something like that.”

“When?” She’s light headed. It’s the smoke. Frida panics. “Oh God, have you drugged me?”

Joel smirks unrepentantly, “something like that.”

It’s dark, but she can make out it’s a theatre. Not movies, plays. A large stage is ahead, several rows down. “Where am I?” she whispers, fear making her voice quiver.

“Does it matter?”

“Joel? What the fuck is this?!”

“Just try and relax, it will all be over soon.”

“That’s what a rapist or an organ thief would say!”

Laughter. “Trust me, or don’t. It’s really up to you, but I can’t pull you out of there. You have to do it yourself.”

“Fuck you!”

“You’re scared, so I will let that slide.”

Suddenly she feels like someone has slapped her upside of the head. “Ow!”

“Well, I tried to let it slide, but you’re really annoying, you know that?”

Before she can say anything, a spotlight appears on the stage, shining on a portly child who seems strangely familiar. The child looks down at her bare feet, ethereal, in a nightgown that is faded and worn. Frida takes one step forward, and the child’s eyes snap up to her. Frida stops short, trembling. This feels like her own personal horror film. “Let me out! Please! There's a little girl here… and she looks a lot like -"

“This isn’t ‘The shining’! Just talk to her!” The voice is an urgent whisper. Frida grits her teeth and steps downwards, locking gazes with the child.

“Hello… what’s your name?”

The child cocks her head to the side, “you know my name, warden.” Immediately she covers her mouth, eyes wide in fear, “I didn’t mean to talk back! Please don’t punish me!”

“Warden?” Frida is confused – her voice sounds different. She looks down towards herself to see that she is dressed in a dated uniform, but her shoes are polished, and her stockings are clean. “Stockings?” It all falls in place, and Frida’s head snaps back towards the child, still standing there, trembling. She takes a deep breath, and puts her hands out in surrender.

“It’s alright, look, I think I’ve just forgotten, so can you tell me your name?” Frida already knows the answer, but this she needs to hear.

“My name is Alma, miss.”

Frida smiles ruefully, “that’s a pretty name. For a pretty girl.”

Alma is well and truly gobsmacked. “Do you think so, warden?”

Frida climbs up on the stage, and immediately a spotlight finds her too. Her steps falter, but she continues on, heels clacking loudly on the polished floor. “Can we sit down, Alma? My feet are tired.”

“Thanks, miss. Mine are too.”

They sit, the floor cold beneath them. In the harsh white light, Alma’s face looks tired in a way that children shouldn’t be. “Are you alright?”

“My feet hurt miss.” She then backtracks, afraid of having complained, “but I completely deserved it! I shouldn’t have run in the corridors!”

Frida is horrified. “I beat you for that?”

Alma cries, loudly, like a child does. “I didn’t mean to, miss. I was late for lessons, and Miss Suzie beats us if we are late.” She holds out her hands, showing the bruising around her knuckles, and then rubs her snotty nose. “But I suppose it was my fault, miss. I shouldn’t have woken late in the first place.”

“I’m so sorry,” Frida whispers, because other words have abandoned her. She gently brushes her fingers over Alma’s knuckles, eliciting a hiss of pain. Frida’s chest constricts. “Show me where I hit you?”

“Today?”

Heartbroken, Frida nods, not trusting her voice. Alma shyly pulls up her nighty to expose nasty streaks of black and blue on her feet. Frida’s hands fly to her mouth, a whimper escaping.

Alma frowns, perplexed. “Are you sure you’re alright miss?”

“I’m so sorry. I – I don’t know what else to say – Joel? Can you help me?”

There is no answer, but Alma looks terrified at the prospect of someone new. Frida reaches out to Alma’s face, who flinches at the gesture. Frida gently strokes her cheek till Alma’s shoulders drop, and she leans in to the touch.

“That feels nice miss.”

Frida smiles a sad, gentle smile. “Whatever you are going through, this is not how children are supposed to be treated. I should never have treated you the way I did.” Alma’s face is clouded in doubt. “Ask me anything. I promise I won’t punish you.”

“What’s love, miss? Is it this?”

Frida covers her face, and sobs uncontrollably - tears flowing through her fingers, dripping in heavy droplets to the floor. A tiny hand strokes her hair, and Alma shushes her. “It’s alright miss.” Frida engulfs Alma in a hug, who stiffens, but eventually melts into her arms. Frida can feel tears soaking into her shirt.

Alma focuses her thoughts, because it feels like this is the one chance she has. “Love is when you feel safe, and unafraid, and light. Love is when you smile at someone and light up their day. Love is forgiveness, no matter what happens, and love…” she catches her breath, swallowing, “Love is making you feel wanted.”

“Oh,” says Alma softly, “I didn’t know that. Do you… love us miss?”

“I don’t think I know how to love, Alma. I think I’m a pretty rotten person.”

Alma breaks away from the hug, and raises her sad, brown eyes. “Maybe no one taught you how to love, miss, like you are teaching me now.” She pauses, “I don’t think you’re rotten, miss.”

Frida chuckles and strokes Alma’s hair, her face. “I wish I could love you better, and I wish you could love me better, mom.”

Frida is back in the musty room, the smoke slowly clearing, like fog disappearing with the sunrise. She coughs, and heaves in great breaths, dizzy. The vision clears, and she’s sat on the same chair, looking into the kind eyes of Joel.

“Your eyes are such an interesting shade of blue.”

Amusement colours those sapphires, and Frida pushes back, disentangling her hands from Joel’s. “I feel drunk, but it’s like a weight is off my chest. I’m a little pissed that you did that without my consent, but I can’t be mad at you right now.”

Joel laughs. “Sorry, but it’s easier when your rational thoughts are not interfering with the process. Takes a whole lot longer and sometimes it doesn’t even work.” He pauses, “Still, my apologies.”

Frida nods, scrubbing her face. “God, I was a cunt, wasn’t I?”

Joel shrugs, “you’re taking it better than most. I think you knew all along that there was something dark, and your self-deprecation makes it easier to help you accept it.”

Frida laughs mirthlessly, “well, glad it was good for something.”

As Frida steps out of the small door, everything looks brighter and she feels, cliched as it sounds, like a new person. Her phone rings, and she digs it out of her seemingly bottomless purse. To her surprise, it is her mother. She clucks, but answers.

“Where have you been? I’ve called you a dozen times!”

Frida sighs, she may have changed herself, but her mum? Nope. “I’m here now.”

There is a deep sigh on the other side. “Frida, I don’t know how to say this, but… I woke up from a nap just now, and… I just needed to see you.” Alma breaks into sobs on the other end. “Frida, I… I… I’ve been a really horrible mother to you – I…Frida, I just had the strangest dream, and I don’t know what to say, except, I’m sorry.”

Frida can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Do you really mean that, mom?”

“It feels like I was possessed by someone else till now, and everything feels like this horrible memory, and I just couldn’t believe why anyone would do that – till it struck me that that horrible person was me. I can’t even explain it!”

Frida smiles and looks behind her, at the closed, innocuous looking red door. She touches it – the way some people like to say “touch wood” when things are going well. Joel looks down at the scene from a window on the first floor, smiling. He pulls on a lit cigarette, blowing out on the glass, and in that moment, Frida is gone.