Kaleidoscope (2 page)

The only problem was...I couldn't think of a single thing  I'd want to write.

“Maybe later,” I said aloud, returning the small journal to my pocket. For now, I needed to get home so that my overly protective mother didn't think I'd somehow been abducted in the short four-block walk from the therapist's office to our small, unimaginative suburban home.

CHAPTER TWO

October 16

Well...hi there. I've never tried to keep a journal before, so I apologize if this seems stupid or cruddy, or not how journals are supposed to read. I  don't know...you're also just a book, why am I apologizing to you?

My name is Jade Lauderdale, I'm seventeen years old, and I have a dissociative disorder. That's what I've been told at least. It's very strange to be told that the way you've lived your life for so long is wrong, and that you have some kind of defect. But, I can also see where people are coming from. I'm definitely not the same person  I started out as, and I'm not 100% sure that it was my choice to end up right here where I am, writing in this petulant little book. If it were up to me, I wouldn't be needing to do “memory exercises.”

I'm supposed to write memories in here that I have, and anything I can think of that might have triggered me to think of it at that time. Well, thinking about memories in general always makes me think of my last really clear, vivid memory, which is from a long time ago when I was about 11 years old. I can remember other things here and there that are more recent, but none are as clear as when I was younger.

I feel so different from that person...it feels more like watching a movie than reliving an experience. It's nothing special, really. The memory is of me, playing outside in the autumn leaves that my mom had just finished raking up. I remember that it was kind of lonely in that big yard all by myself. Usually I would have had our little terrier Sassy running around, but she had died the year before, and my mom said that she didn't want any more pets in the household because “I'm the only one who takes care of them, and I have enough to do around here as it is. Maybe when you're older and you have a little more responsibility.” Except for the cat, of course. The cat is Mom's. It's still alive, but it doesn't quite compare to the companionship of a dog.

I was feeling the leaves crunching under my feet, thinking of how nice it would be to have a playmate, since I don't have any siblings and I've never been good at making friends, even and especially when I was younger. So, I had asked my mom if instead of having a dog or cat, if I could get a hamster, or gerbil, or some kind of rodent. At first she was appalled by the idea, but she must have given in, because I do remember that I had a hamster (though I can't remember its name).

I also remember that Mom had just met one of her boyfriends, Steven, around that time. He was in the kitchen with her making dinner while I was playing outside. I don't remember much of him, but I don't think he ever liked me, because I get a really lonely, sad feeling when she mentions him.

Things get kind of fuzzy after that. The frustrating thing is that I can feel some of the emotions I think I felt at those times in my life, but it's like music playing on a black movie screen. The music is supposed to clue you in to the scene, but on its own it doesn't make much sense.

It's dinner time now, but there's no Steven in the kitchen of this house, where Mom and I moved to two or three years ago. It might have been longer, but I'm not sure...the days all kind of mesh together here. Instead, she was making meat loaf by herself, and soon I would be called down to eat with her and relate to her the events of my therapy session today. Everyone seemed so interested in what everyone else had to say about my “condition,” but people didn't seem to be so interested in what was actually on my mind. However, one isn't interested in the thoughts of lab rats, only the results of their various tests.

I glided down the stairs, watching for the sixth one down that always squeaked, even though we'd put carpet down to try to soften the sound, and peered at Mom in the kitchen.

Everyone always said we looked a lot alike; I can see it on occasion, but I think that our eyes are completely different. Hers are a really lush hazel color, almost gold in the sunlight like the autumn leaves that I remembered from my childhood, but mine are a gold-flecked green color. I wonder if that's where I got my name? I'm guessing that I have my father's eyes, but I've never seen them in person, at least that I can remember.

We both have the same bronze-hued blonde hair, but I think that hers matches her personality more: calm, high-spirited, and practically invincible. She'd have to be, with some of the things that she's dealt with in her life, least of all the fact that she's had to raise me alone for practically my entire life.

The fact that I probably didn't turn out to be anything like she'd hoped is just an added bonus. Nobody hopes that their child will be a depressed, antisocial hermit by the age of fifteen, then shuffle through six different counselors and therapists before even entering her senior year of high school. Mothers hope that their daughters will be valedictorians, or cheerleaders, or even just on the volleyball team or in math club—not a dropout six weeks into the semester because the pressure is too much, apathetic enough to accept a very average G.E.D. score instead.

And even still, I caught her humming a small song as she turned the heat off of the stovetop, sending the boiling green beans in the saucepan to a gentle simmer before she turned this way and that, looking for her misplaced oven mitt. Her humming paused, but resumed as her eyes landed on the item she was seeking, and she carefully pulled the meatloaf out of the oven and placed it on the stovetop to cool down.

“Jade, it's dinner—oh!” she yelled, turning around to holler for me. “Sorry hun, I didn't hear you come down the stairs. How did you avoid squeaky number six?”

“With my ninja stealth skills,” I replied with a smirk. I was never much for hiding my apathy to the general public, but my mom deserved a smile, even if it wasn't real. I kept this in mind as I retrieved two plates from the kitchen cupboards and doled them each out with a helping of the green beans, then thrust a large spoon into the center of the meatloaf as if it were King Arthur's sword in a slab of stone. The meat was roughly the same consistency as such, but I would never say anything. Instead, I dug out a portion and plopped in onto my plate, then carried it to the nearby dining room table. There, I stared silently into my food, waiting for my second interrogation of the day to begin, thinking about what I would want to share and if there was anything I needed to lie about.

My mother poured two glasses of milk and rushed them to the table.

“Shit, my plate...” She bustled back to the counter and hurried to sit next to me, nearly toppling a few green beans onto the floor as she did so. I almost managed a real smile, wondering in jest if a bad memory was just part of the family genetics. The thought made me feel a little bit more normal.

We ate in relative silence for a few moments, aside from Mom doing that
thing
she's always done: making  irritating sounds as she ate that expressed her feelings about the food.

“Mmmmm, not bad, right? Mmm. What do you think, Jade? I was running a little low on tomato paste, so I just used ketchup, but you can't even tell the difference.”

A lot of people liked my mom's cooking, but usually I found it to just be average. I wasn't picky about what food to eat because eating rarely brought me pleasure. There were few meals and beverages that I either liked or disliked enough to judge them.

“Yep, tastes fine Mom. Thanks for making dinner.”

She chuckled. “Honey, I always make dinner. You're welcome though.”

As we settled into our meals, the silence became uncomfortable and weighted, and I knew what would follow.

“Sooo,” she asked in between loudly chewed bites. “How was therapy today?”

I shifted, accidentally dropping my fork. “Shit,” I mumbled. I retrieved it from the floor, painfully aware of how anxious I knew I must appear. Let me correct myself—I
was
anxious. I was always anxious revealing my sessions to my mother because I didn't want to disappoint her. My defects were personal reflections of her failure as a parent...at least, that's what I felt she must believe, though I had no solid evidence of my theory.

“Here, I can grab you--”

“No, it's fine, I can get my own fork.” I quickly got up from the table, ambling my way towards the kitchen utensils.

“Okay.” I returned to the table and plugged my fork into the pile of green beans on my plate. Repeatedly. I reminded myself of Ms. Orowitz and her ridiculous pen and pad of paper and decided to tackle the meat loaf instead.

Mom cleared her throat. “So? Therapy?”

“Oh, right.” I swallowed a bite of the meat, and the enormous lump in my throat. “Uh, well...it was just...normal I guess?” Normal was so subjective.

“What did the two of you talk about? That you can tell me about, at least...I mean, I know some of it's confidential, for your progress.”

“I get it, stop rambling. Well...Ms. Orowitz gave me a journal today.” I spoke slow and deliberate. “She wants me to use it as a memory exercise, something about associating what I'm doing and feeling at the time with why I remember something to see if it can make me remember more things.”

“Oh honey, I bet that will be wonderful for you! You always have been a talented writer, you know.”

I snorted. “A talented writer. I don't write things. Even the therapist knows that...the journal has lines in it big enough for a four-year old to write on, and it isn't much bigger than a cassette tape. What kind of writing am I supposed to do in that?”

This made my mother chuckle. Unlike Ms. Orowitz's shrieking, trill laugh that I couldn't force myself to tolerate, hers was an airy, soft kind of chuckle. It was the kind of comforting sound that reminded me of her taking care of me when I was sick as a kid. I'd have to remember to write that down after dinner.

“Oh, stop,” she replied. “Writing was your favorite subject in high school. I remember you wouldn't do any of your homework at all, except for the essays. Then you'd turn them in, ace them, and I couldn't even be mad at you for not doing the rest of your homework because I was so proud of how well you'd write those essays. Especially the one you did for history class as a freshman...do you remember that?”

“Mom, you know I don't.” The weighty silence overtook the air again.

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“It's fine.” My heart became heavy, and I couldn't overcome the feeling of inexplicable stupidity that washed over me. She was only trying to help.

“I'm sure I'll get there,” I said, mustering as much hope in my voice as I could pretend to. I tried to sound hopeful, but because I couldn't actually feel the emotion associated with it, it was hard to tell if I'd pulled it off. However, it did seem to work. Mom looked up from her plate with a small smile and nodded in agreement.

“Well, I'm proud of you, Jade, for trying so hard to change things for yourself. I hope you write in that journal and blow Ms. Orowitz away. I mean it, you've always been great with anything creative.”

I had already planned on doing exactly what she suggested, but when I'd come up with it on my own, the concept seemed empowering and completely feasible. When Mom mentioned it, it seemed more like a challenge I could never live up to. I chalked this feeling up to my so-called “illness,” but I couldn't explain beyond that why I would feel like such an automatic failure with her. She'd never been anything less than supportive; she was the only one in my life that had been, aside from counselors who were just paid to act like they cared. Maybe it was because I knew I would never measure up to her, though I desperately wished I could.

I cleared away another lump in my throat. “Yeah...well. I'm going to go numb my brain with some useless television. I'll be back down though in a little bit to do the dishes.”

My mother stood up and took my plate, along with hers, to the kitchen. “Alright honey...if I don't hear you step on squeaky number six in about an hour, I'll come looking for you,” she warned. And then, in a softer voice, she added, “And if you need anything up there, just let me know.”

“Sure thing,” I said, awkwardly dismissing myself to my room. I looked back over my shoulder just in time to catch her sighing wistfully as she cleared the glasses to the sink. The glimmer of pain, coupled with what looked like worried confusion, in her eyes was enough to make me look away.

CHAPTER THREE

October 19

Wow, I feel really weird sitting here writing in this thing with all of these people around...but, I'm supposed to write as soon as I think of anything so that I can remember what might have triggered it.

So, what I'm doing right now is sitting at the bus stop, watching some children play tag on the edge of the park right behind me. Mom asked if I would pick up a couple things from the store while she was at work, so here I am with a bag with a box of cereal, a few packs of Ramen, some canned soup to make beef stew tomorrow night, and a carton of orange juice. I also used my allowance to buy myself some new paint brushes because they were on sale. I'd love to work and get a job to help Mom out, but right now I'm supposed to “focus on me” for a while until they think I can “handle it.”

Shit, I'm getting sidetracked, almost forgot what I was writing about. Anyway, the kids, they're still playing, and laughing. As I'm sitting here contemplating the bus schedule and imagining the roar of its engine and the loud squeak of its brakes because I'm tired of people for today, I felt really sad. I remembered a time when I had taken the bus by myself to school for what I can only assume was one of the first times. I missed my stop, and I got lost. I sat on the bus crying until I was the only one left...then I think I remember the bus driver asking where I lived, and I cried some more and told her that I didn't know because I didn't know where we were.

She asked my name, and what my address was. I was scared to give it to her because I didn't trust her for some reason, so I refused. She got frustrated, but she used her radio to ask someone to look up my last name, and she called my mother. My mom waited for me at the local bus stop, and the bus driver drove me back there. I can't remember if Mom was mad, or sad, or relieved...I don't even remember the drive home. I just remember that bus driver and how nice she was...and even so, how I found it impossible to trust her. I guess looks aren't always what they seem though.

I have to admit (because Ms. Orowitz will probably read this someday) that this isn't the first time that I've recalled this memory. Actually, I think about it all the time when I'm waiting at the bus stop. I usually wonder if people are still as nice now as they were back then.

I scrawled my last sentences into a barely legible scribble as I rushed to include all my last thoughts. The bus came rolling to a halt in front of me, and I jumped from the wooden bench, rummaging in my jacket pocket for my bus pass.

I climbed the stairs into the grey beast, presenting my pass, and noticed right away the familiar stench of...well, stench. There's no other way that I can think to put it. Every smell from each individual person resonated in the tiny space, enclosed by windows that didn't open. These smells were only dispelled now and then by the short interludes of cold autumn air that erupted from the door as it opened and closed. Body odor mixed with the smell of old food, a baby's diaper—though there was no baby present that I could see—overpowering, stale perfume emanated from an old woman sitting at the front of the bus and mingled with a series of other smells that were harder to name. I blocked it out and surveyed the bus for a seat as it began tugging forward.

It was easy to find a place to sit, because at this time of day, even on a Friday, things were very slow-going. The few passengers that were seated were in various states of lethargy.

Some were looking wistfully out the window, probably thinking of days bygone or places they'd rather be than sitting on this dank machine. Others were absorbed by their ever-popular media devices, dribbling their brains away on stupid social media commentary, pictures, and meaningless videos that would occupy their time in between activities. It was time that could be better spent enriching the mind or spirit. I think that's why I loathed this modern cultural norm the most and why I was apt to forget that my phone was with me, when I even remembered to bring it anywhere.

There was one person, however, who was doing neither of these things. A boy, probably my age or a little bit older, sat on the bench that lined the back of the bus, with one ankle resting on his knee, using his lap as a desk for what appeared to be a sketchbook.

At once, I was intrigued by this stranger--not because of any particular way that he looked, or because he was the opposite sex (which I'd had such little luck in dealing with that the realization barely struck my mind), but because he was drawing. He was making something, even in this less than inspiring environment. What was even more enticing, however, was the focus that he lent to his project. He looked completely absorbed in what he was doing, without a care about any of the foul odors surrounding us or the activities of the people nearby.

He sketched passionately, working as though he might forget what he wanted to do with the drawing if he didn't get the idea onto paper as soon as possible. Every now and then he would pause, contemplate the paper, and then use a gum eraser to start some part over again. After a moment, the pencil would dance once again. Part of me wondered if he would even remember to get off at the proper stop, or if he would end up as the last one on the bus, trying to navigate his way home like I had in my memory.

Just as I wondered, the bus lurched to a halt, nudging all of the devoid-looking zombies slightly forward, forcing them to shuffle back to their previous positions, their eyes still looking lifeless. The boy, however, looked up sharply, peered around, and shoved his pencil, eraser, and sketchbook into an army green backpack that sat next to him on the otherwise unoccupied bench, which he then shouldered as he stood up.

              For seeming younger, this boy was tall, but not lanky like many of the boys that I'd gone to school with. Up close, as I glimpsed him walking by, his features looked angled and chiseled—more like a man than a boy, or maybe he was somewhere in between. Perhaps he was older than I thought, and it was just the youthful expression of someone enjoying his work that had fooled me. He exited the bus, smiling politely at the driver, and proceeded to walk away.

Curious, I turned in my seat, looking behind me out the window to see where he'd stopped. Normally, I didn't pay attention to such things; I knew that I was to get off the fourth time that the bus stopped, but that was all. I guess I'm just not a very detail-oriented person, which is strange to think about considering that I'm an artist myself, and I should be. Well...maybe not an artist. I'm a person who enjoys artistic endeavors, but I don't know that I would actually call myself an artist.

The bus had stopped outside of what looked like a small, old-fashioned store right off the street, but behind it was a large residential area that I'm sure the boy was heading to. The store, burgundy in color with slightly dilapidated yellow-hued shutters and doors, appeared to have been modified from an old house, and was probably once a part of the residence behind it. Outside, posted into the somewhat frozen ground, a large wooden sign read “Markson's Thrift Store.”

“Nice, a thrift store,” I commented out loud. No one seemed to hear me, and if they did, they surely didn't care.

It was an interesting building with a nice character to it. I'd have to remember to stop in this neighborhood again at some point, providing I could find my way back home from it.

Something about it looked very familiar, though it was hard to place; the sign in particular seemed to jog my memory. Just as I reached for my small notebook, anticipating having some kind of revelation, it came to me.
The large sign from my dream, the one that I couldn't read...it looks just like this one!
I recalled my burning need to read the sign when I'd dreamt of the tiger in its wintery landscape. This sign was the same shape, color, and probably age—though of course it was a normal size in person, not a towering, wooden behemoth.

I decided that it was probably a good idea to write this information down, though I didn't know if remembering a dream was anywhere near the same as successfully remembering the past. Would Ms. Orowitz approve?
Whatever...this journal is mine, not hers.
I carefully wrenched the journal from its familiar place in my back pocket and made a quick note:

P.S.: The bus home from the store apparently goes by a place called Markson's Thrift Store, and the sign out front looks identical to the one in my dream about the tiger I had a bit ago. I wonder if it's a sign? No pun intended...well, maybe a little bit intended.

After another moment of silence, as I contemplated this new piece of information, the bus came to a stop at the familiar suburban cross streets of Lincoln and Mayhew. It was only about a quarter mile or so from the house, which had always been quite the relief when the seasons began to get colder. Though I was impervious to the cold when I'd dreamed about it, I'm honestly not a huge fan of winter. Unfortunately, living in the midwest didn't leave much of a choice in the matter. It was there, whether I liked it or not, but I'd still never get used to how cold the winters could really be.

My boots hit the pavement, and I relished in the crunching sound of fallen leaves underfoot as I breathed in the crisp aura of autumn. While winter was indeed unpleasant, autumn was by far my favorite time of year. The weather wasn't too warm, but also not yet too cold. Everything smelled of rejuvenation as Mother Earth shed her leaves, preparing for the long sleep of winter before she would renew herself again. This time of year made me especially closer to nature--a welcome feeling since I seemed to have some serious troubles being close to anything at all. Feeling like I was part of the earth made me seem closer to the world, like maybe I had a place here, after all.

The earthy smell and crisp air and leaves beneath me, together with the thought of the boy on the bus with his sketchpad, made me feel guilty about my paintings and the brushes I'd just purchased. It had been such a long time since I'd painted anything...the intense self-awareness I endured going to all these therapists really wore on my ego. If I couldn't remember things right, think right, or experience life normally like everyone else, then how would I ever be able to create anything right?

It was a numbing thought, because making art was one of few things that made me feel most “normal.” But who was I kidding—I didn't even know what defined “normal”. It made me question everything sometimes.

I gently wrapped my fingers around the pack of paintbrushes within the grocery sack and sighed. “If nothing else, I owe it to the brushes,” I said to myself. In that beautiful moment, surrounded by the majesties of nature and the splendor of the earth going through its own cycle, unabsorbed and uninterested in those around it who might oppose, I resolved that I would at least try to create something, very soon. Even if I failed at it, I owed it to the brushes that I'd spent some of Mom's hard-earned, scarce dollars to buy, that I would try.

***

It would be a lie to say that this endeavor went as expected, but when does art ever go as expected? Roughly seven months had passed since I'd put brush to canvas, roughly about the same amount of time since I'd dropped out of school. Though it was hard to think of a direct correlation between the two, I was sure that one must exist.  However, I'd put it out of my mind, dug an old, smaller canvas out from the depths of my closet, and set to work convincing myself to put my first strokes of paint to it.

Time passed, and the sun wound down over the horizon, ebbing away into a sunset of bright autumn oranges, golds, and lavender. They swashed across the sky better than I could ever replicate.

I heard the door open and close with gusto, announcing that my mother was home from her job at U.S. Bank.

“Jade? I'm home!” There was a pause as she shuffled into the kitchen, where I'd laid the bag of groceries on the counter before disappearing into my bedroom. “Thanks for getting some groceries for us hon!” More rummaging—the sound of keys jingling before they hit the dining room table, the creaky closet door opening as Mom placed her brown tweed jacket there, followed by light thudding as she made her way up the staircase.

Suddenly, I was impossibly self-conscious of myself and my work. Though my mother was my best, and probably only critic, I'd never been comfortable showing any of my works in progress, fearing that even those closest to me would judge my creative process as wrong, rendering me incapable of ever finishing the damn thing.

As I contemplated putting it all away in the nick of time, there was a knock on my bedroom door. It slowly swung open, and Mom appeared, looking just a bit haggard from the day as she always did when having to work the weekends. Still, she managed a smile. “Hi sweetie, how was your day?”

Her eyes flitted across the scene. There I was in my gray-walled bedroom, illuminated only by the fading sun through an open window, and my desk lamp. Sitting cross-legged on my bed with a canvas in my lap, with a plastic cup full of water hovering near a small palette on my night stand nearby, looking confused in a white sweater that was way too large for me and now had specks of orange and red paint on a sleeve that had come unrolled. Her eyes lit up, and she entered my room fully.

“Jade...are you painting again?” Mom's voice echoed surprise; she almost even sounded hopeful for the future of mine that she was afraid to think of, in case it was a false alarm.