Page 37 of And Still Her Voice
“Never. I would never hurt my Anna,” Grandma yelled.
River peered at me.
“It’s more like she tries to stop me from myself. But she has done things that end up hurting me.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s hard to explain. It’s why I’m here and not home anymore. It’s why I’m here and not playing piano anymore at Steinway’s.” I peered at River hoping he could just figure everything out without me having to say anything more? But, how could he?
“Wait, did Dilbert hurt you? Were you there when he killed himself?”
Bam! I got a burning pain in my lower stomach that rose like a flame into my head that became too heavy to meet his eyes anymore. I looked down at the used match still in my hand, blackened by soot.
“Well, tell you what, if I had the courage, I might have killed him myself.”
Was River setting up a trap by downplaying the act of murder? Trembling, I’d said too much, and yet there was still so much more I wanted to unload. But I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know whether I could trust River so I tried to change the subject. “Her voice has been present day and night since I can remember.”
“Sounds like an acid trip to me,” River said.
My voice shook. “Even while I sleep, it’s like I have the most vivid dreams and in color. There are memories buried in my bones from the past, but who’s past?” Sometimes, I wondered if I hadn’t fallen into one of her dreams, the red and purple parade of her passion, rage, and regrets; a display of her fertile green desire, even the blue smoke from her Chesterfields seemed to drift through my esophagus. “I used to dream I lived in France. I had to teach myself French to try and understand why I was making love to some French soldier. It was so intense.”
“Oh, that was Guillome,” Grandma said with a raspy girlish giggle. “You’re old enough now. I can tell you.”
“Gross. You see?” I said.
River, wide-eyed, shook his head.
“I could even smell the manure on his boots and then I woke up, my whole body aching, and it felt like a death.”
“That’s because he died,” Grandma added with a bit more solemnity.
“This is why I shouldn’t talk to anyone about my dreams. You’re the first person I’ve told about anything. It’s the reason I’m so lonely sometimes. The reason I’m so isolated and withdrawn. It’s the reason I’m full of rage. I don’t want to be that way.” I started to cry. “I want to be normal. You think I’m crazy like everyone else.”
River sprang up and threw his arms around me, rocking like we were doing some sort of slow sad dance, my head on his shoulder. “Oh, sugar, I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re better than normal. Honey, you’re marvelous.”
“I want her to go away,” I sobbed into his collarbone. More than the fear of being linked to Dilbert’s death was the idea of a prison sentence with Grandma. A death sentence might be better. “I need to find a way to get rid of her.” I sensed some rumbling, but she said nothing.
River pulled away. “You know, you mentioned something about it being an Eastern religious practice. Maybe, Mother Mary can help.”
So, he believed me!
“I think she’s Buddhist or Hindu or some shit like that,” River added. “She’s always meditatin’ or sneakin’ next door to hang out with these bald Krishnas who listen to lectures by some guru.” River pointed to another poster on the wall of a swami sitting lotus style, dressed in orange with a matching turban and a colorful flower lei.
Beneath the poster was Mary’s stack of books. I picked up the one I’d noticed earlier titledTibetan Book of the Dead.
“Indeed, perhaps she can help us,” Grandma said.
River took the book from me. “I’m just going to borrow it,” he said, and headed toward the door, stepping over pillows, but before he walked out, he turned to me, holding the book out to make a point. “And one more thing. Mother Mary’s cool, but stay away from Everett. He’s the devil, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He speaks with a forked tongue.”
“Okay, I get it already.” My gut, Grandma, and now River were all telling me the same thing.
Sharing my story with River felt as if I’d taken a hit of fresh air after being buried alive for centuries.
In the bathroom and as I brushed my teeth, I looked into the mirror. My eyes seemed brighter, even the worry ripples on my forehead looked less worried. I couldn’t wait to hear what advice Mother Mary might give me.
CHAPTER 14
Dreams
