The following morning I awoke slowly in stages. At first, in that dream-like state somewhere between unconsciousness and being fully awake, which probably explained why I could not yet feel the pain from the hangover I fully expected from the previous night’s over indulgence.
As I looked about inside my mind, I could see Brain on my right sleeping fitfully across the room. To my left a strange, unfamiliar vision.
There was a strikingly beautiful woman in what I estimated would be her mid-fifties sitting on the edge of a bed.
“Vanessa?” I quietly inquired, for the handsome woman very much resembled my sister. Or, I should say, resembled what my sister might have looked like if she were alive today, for Vanessa died one week prior to her 22nd birthday 38 years earlier.
“No,” the woman said softly, while chuckling slightly, “not Vanessa. I’m Griselda.”
I’m sure I must have appeared completely befuddled for she continued speaking without waiting for me to say a word.
“This is who I am, who I’ve always been,” she said. “When you were young, I was young, and now we’re both older. I only appeared to be a little girl to you because you and our wonderfully overactive intellectual friend over there never had the opportunity to learn how to properly experience and express feelings and emotions.”
We both looked over at Brain who, while clearly not awake, nevertheless appeared as if he was still being visited by some of the previous night’s demons.
“I don’t understand,” I told her, “when did you…we become ‘experienced’ enough to perceive you as you really are?”
“Think about it,” she responded. “Whenever you’ve been hurt in the past by the unkind words of a family member, lover, or a friend, what was always your first reaction?”
I didn’t have to think about it. After a lifetime of behaving a certain way, I instantly knew exactly what she was talking about.
“I always wanted to lash out and hurt the other person back right away,” I said with a note of shame in my voice.
“And, last night,” she continued, “after being flooded with all those hurtful memories, what were your first thoughts about the man whose actions released those waves of pain upon you? Did you want to lash out and hurt him as deeply and painfully as he’d hurt you?”
“No,” I said emphatically, “he had no way of knowing that what he said was going to produce such a reaction. He just said, I dunno, what he said for whatever reason, not just to hurt me.”
“Precisely,” Griselda said with a warm loving smile. “You’ve finally come to terms with the realities of emotional interaction and there’s no longer any need to see your heart as a child.”
“I still don’t understand,” I said now more confused than ever. “Jon’s rejection hurt. It still hurts. And, aren’t you supposed to be ‘heartbroken,’ shattered in a million pieces? Why do you look and feel so calm while Brain and I are in agony?”
“Oh I’m in pain too,” Griselda responded, “the sudden loss of Jonny’s presence in our life hurts me too. It’s just that I know something you and Brain haven’t figured out yet.”
“WHAT? Tell me what you know that we don’t.”
She just laughed softly and smiled that same warm seemingly all-knowing smile she had since this encounter began.
“Think The Wizard Of Oz,” she said sweetly.
“But look at him,” I beseeched her, pointing to the shattered remnants of my mind.
Again, the look of what must have been total bewilderment on my face led her to answer her own question.
“Glinda’s response to Scarecrow’s question as to why she never told Dorothy she always had the power to go home; ‘she had to learn it for herself.’ And you and Brain have to learn for yourself–from everything you’ve been through–what a heart knows from the beginning.”
“You’re telling me,” I said, “this isn’t over, is it?”
“Not by a long shot, Sweetheart,” she said mimicking Dad and myself.
“But look at him,” I beseeched her, pointing to the shattered remnants of my mind. “He’s an absolute mess. We spent weeks trying to keep from happening exactly what has happened to us. All of us.” I added for emphasis looking her straight in the eye.
“You always used to joke,” Griselda said, “quoting a line from an Eve Arden movie, that your heart had been broken so many times you used to keep the pieces numbered to make it easier to put back together.
“Maybe you should have been numbering Brain’s pieces.”
I must have looked crestfallen or desperate. As she rose from the bed to leave and make way for me to fully awaken. She gave me, or I should say, Brain and I one last clue.
“Remember,” she said softly, “Jonny is just like us.” And with that, just as she had the previous Saturday evening, she began wistfully dancing away.
I could swear, as she danced away and I began to rise to what was surely going to be a very painful consciousness, I could hear strains of Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive playing in the background.
Edited by
Kenneth Larsen
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