by Rachel Tellus
“She smiles, though she is filled with worry and dread, the sinking feeling in the pit of her belly that says something bad is going to happen.”
The following is inspired by Tim Hurons' "Sometimes a Wild God.”
Sometimes a child comes to the table, all set for tea with tiny plastic cups and matching saucers, a pot of air off to the side. She wears yellow footy pajamas and clutches a stuffed toy monkey to her chest, her long golden hair tied back into pigtails.
She has something to tell you, something you need to know but don’t want to hear. Instead of asking questions, you lift the empty teapot and tilt it forward, pouring invisible tea. It could be cinnamon, all warmth and comfort, like Christmas morning. It could be mint, sharp and fresh and made of springtime. Either way, she lifts her cup. She brings it to her mouth. Her soft pink lips pretend to drink. She clutches her monkey closer and her eyes grow wide, as wide as yours did the first time you let yourself remember. They are the same shape, the same brightness, the same shade of blue. You recognize her tight smile. Her fleshy round cheeks and that button nose. You want to hug her, feed her, tell her everything is going to be fine. What happened back then can’t happen now. She is here with you, and you will keep her safe.
Sometimes a child sits at your feet, folding her legs in front of herself on the carpet like in kindergarten class, where the teacher once made fun of her because she couldn’t whistle. She’s waiting for you to notice her, to see her pastel-colored Holly Hobbie dress and her crooked blonde bangs, her small pearly teeth and skin as smooth as orchid petals.
She wants you to know that she’s scared, that she feels shame, that the people she was supposed to trust have hurt and abandoned her. She wants to tell you that her father drinks, that he comes home drunk and tickles her on the couch when her mother isn’t home, that sometimes during all that tickling her skirt lifts up and she tries not to laugh but her body laughs anyway. Her body betrays her. You close your eyes and wince, pulling back the black curtain that has always been there in your mind, shielding you from the worst of it. The curtain has protected you for years, for decades, but now the child is here, asking you to see what’s been hidden. Asking you to believe what she’s showing you. You get up from your comfortable chair and sit down next to her on the floor, crisscrossing your own legs so she can curl up in your lap.
Sometimes a child rides in the car, swinging her feet to the rhythm of music playing on the radio as you make your way to the grocery store, the post office, the swimming pool or the hiking trail. She smiles, though she is filled with worry and dread, the sinking feeling in the pit of her belly that says something bad is going to happen. She tries to be good, to behave, to do all her chores and homework. She tries to be perfect. Then maybe her parents will be proud of her. Maybe her father won’t drink. Maybe they can all get along like those families on TV.
She stares out the window, watching palm trees sway in the afternoon breeze, watching cars zoom through the city. She’s a long way from home, from the place where promises were broken and boundaries were crossed, where her father put a lock on her bedroom door to keep himself out, where her mother stayed asleep instead of waking up and asking questions, where no one said anything about anything because that would have made everything worse. You remind her there is nothing to be scared of anymore. She can say whatever she wants to say now. She can cry and scream and swear. No matter how mad she gets, no matter how lonely or sad, you’ll just keep driving the car.
Sometimes a child meets you in the garden, wandering among tangled zinnias and daisies, starflower and thyme. She touches the ripening tomatoes, the painted riverstones and the butterfly sculpture, its copper wings frozen in mid-flight. She tells stories that make her life sound normal, make her family seem whole. She keeps secrets so her mother won’t know the truth, so she won’t have to choose between husband and child.
You tell the girl it’s all right to be happy now. It’s all right to let go. She can leave the bedroom light on whenever she pleases. She can scatter toys and games across the floor, watch the dishes pile up in the sink. She can throw the front door wide and let every last secret spill out. No one will yell or punish. No one will make her feel shame.
Then one day you find that the child is gone. She’s not at the table or in the car. She isn’t hiding in the garden or playing in the yard. You call her name, but she doesn’t answer. Instead of panic, you feel peace. You feel stillness and ease. She is where she belongs now, in her own past, in her own place. She may come back, and if she does, that’s fine.
Rachel Tellus is a freelance writer and essayist living in southern California. She holds a masters degree in creative writing from Antioch University Los Angeles. When she isn't writing, she is listening to a podcast and/or trying to grow the perfect tomato in her backyard. You can follow her on Twitter @TellusRachel