A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman / Week 1
When I was five years old, my life changed forever. It all happened while my brother and I sat at the kitchen table, stirring our ice cream into “milkshakes”. He dropped the proverbial bomb on me. I was adopted. The news was devastating, as one might imagine. But, in either an unusual act of bravery or a typical act of curiosity, I requested the full story. The specifics were a bit fuzzy in his nine year old mind, but he was able to tell me quite a lot: the part where I was born in a toilet; how Santa found me and later abandoned me in a chimney; how my mother took me in because she felt sorry for me. Sure, some of the details were perplexing to my young mind-why didn't I drown in the toilet? How did my mom find me when our trailer didn't have a chimney? Still, Dusty was older and far more worldly; I couldn't doubt the veracity of his claims. Everything I had come to believe about my life was a lie.
* * *
When I was six years old, I made a startling discovery. One night, bleary-eyed and confused I shuffled down the stairs to the basement only to discover that a strange cult had built a temple down there. I ducked down and peered over the edge of the bannister in an attempt to see while remaining unseen. There was a giant fire blazing in the center of the activity, casting the entire space in an eerie reddish glow. Men and women garbed in naught but loin cloths and golden necklaces danced a circle around the flames. Enormous pillars carved with strange faces sneered menacingly upon the cavern. Heart pounding in my chest, I waited, watched, and listened.
At the mention of human sacrifice I flinched. At six years old it's pretty hard to control your reactions, after all. In that instant all eyes turned upon me and I bolted. I never ran so far in my life. I ran from Temple clear to Farmington. It had to have been twelve miles or more and the whole way the pounding footfalls of the cult behind me. Just when I was beginning to despair that there was nowhere I could run, I saw the church ahead of me and darted inside. Sanctuary. They were set up for a 'Bean Suppah' later that evening, so I scrambled under one of the tables and flattened myself behind the linens. I wondered if I'd have to stay there forever.
* * *
When I was nine years old a barrel of bio-hazardous waste fell from a transport that was passing through our small town. No one else recognized it for what it was, but I did. And that knowledge filled me with terror. Carrying such a burden can weigh on a kid. I knew that no one would believe me, no one would listen, not until it was too late. So, I stared slack-jawed with horror as the waste oozed and wafted from the cracked barrel.
That night I sat in bed with my mother, keeping vigil at the window. They would be here soon. My anxious mind pondered the rifles and shotguns in the living room. Though I'd never been hunting or shot at a target on the woodpile, I'd played cowboys (not Indians) and robbers (never cops). Maybe. Maybe. Any moment now the dead would be rising from their graves. And everyone knows that the living dead have a prodigious sense of smell. Which meant that I, being the smartest girl in Temple, and residing less than a mile from the cemetery, was prime target on the zombies' most wanted list.
My only real hope was that my brother or brother-in-law would hear the ruckus and reach me in time. I nuzzled in closer to my mother and prayed.
* * *
When I was thirteen years old, I started seeing the faces behind peoples' faces. Cat thought I was seeing past lives. I didn't care what it was; I just wanted people to don one face and stick with it. It was getting disconcerting never knowing who would be sitting across from me the next time I blinked.
* * *
When I was eighteen years old, one chill autumn night I followed the sound of drums until I was utterly lost in the woods. I sated my hunger with teaberries. My hooves danced through a labyrinth of roots and trunks. The world vibrated with the thrum of crickets and bullfrogs, dampened by the carpet of pine needles. Out there, under a canopy of stars, a slender white birch bent to form a perfect arch. I paused to admire my curving purple ram's horns, my furry goat's legs, my beautiful gossamer wings. Then I stepped through that doorway out of one world and into another.
That night my life changed forever. That night I discovered that everything I had come to believe about my life was the truth.
* * *
When I was six years old, I made a startling discovery. One night, bleary-eyed and confused I shuffled down the stairs to the basement only to discover that a strange cult had built a temple down there. I ducked down and peered over the edge of the bannister in an attempt to see while remaining unseen. There was a giant fire blazing in the center of the activity, casting the entire space in an eerie reddish glow. Men and women garbed in naught but loin cloths and golden necklaces danced a circle around the flames. Enormous pillars carved with strange faces sneered menacingly upon the cavern. Heart pounding in my chest, I waited, watched, and listened.
At the mention of human sacrifice I flinched. At six years old it's pretty hard to control your reactions, after all. In that instant all eyes turned upon me and I bolted. I never ran so far in my life. I ran from Temple clear to Farmington. It had to have been twelve miles or more and the whole way the pounding footfalls of the cult behind me. Just when I was beginning to despair that there was nowhere I could run, I saw the church ahead of me and darted inside. Sanctuary. They were set up for a 'Bean Suppah' later that evening, so I scrambled under one of the tables and flattened myself behind the linens. I wondered if I'd have to stay there forever.
* * *
When I was nine years old a barrel of bio-hazardous waste fell from a transport that was passing through our small town. No one else recognized it for what it was, but I did. And that knowledge filled me with terror. Carrying such a burden can weigh on a kid. I knew that no one would believe me, no one would listen, not until it was too late. So, I stared slack-jawed with horror as the waste oozed and wafted from the cracked barrel.
That night I sat in bed with my mother, keeping vigil at the window. They would be here soon. My anxious mind pondered the rifles and shotguns in the living room. Though I'd never been hunting or shot at a target on the woodpile, I'd played cowboys (not Indians) and robbers (never cops). Maybe. Maybe. Any moment now the dead would be rising from their graves. And everyone knows that the living dead have a prodigious sense of smell. Which meant that I, being the smartest girl in Temple, and residing less than a mile from the cemetery, was prime target on the zombies' most wanted list.
My only real hope was that my brother or brother-in-law would hear the ruckus and reach me in time. I nuzzled in closer to my mother and prayed.
* * *
When I was thirteen years old, I started seeing the faces behind peoples' faces. Cat thought I was seeing past lives. I didn't care what it was; I just wanted people to don one face and stick with it. It was getting disconcerting never knowing who would be sitting across from me the next time I blinked.
* * *
When I was eighteen years old, one chill autumn night I followed the sound of drums until I was utterly lost in the woods. I sated my hunger with teaberries. My hooves danced through a labyrinth of roots and trunks. The world vibrated with the thrum of crickets and bullfrogs, dampened by the carpet of pine needles. Out there, under a canopy of stars, a slender white birch bent to form a perfect arch. I paused to admire my curving purple ram's horns, my furry goat's legs, my beautiful gossamer wings. Then I stepped through that doorway out of one world and into another.
That night my life changed forever. That night I discovered that everything I had come to believe about my life was the truth.