“Try to talk to me. Try to give me a piece of the puzze.”
“It’s hard.”
“I can imagine.”
“When I was younger, the next-door neighbor did things to me. My mother didn’t have
him arrested. I was just told to stay away from his house.”
“That’s a lot to process. Was he ever brought up on charges?”
“No. People said he wouldn’t do that.”
It was frustrating, anger was rising like a kite. The man seemed to get away with a major trespass. Jamesia’s mother dealt with the issue incorrectly, she was swayed by the community—concerning the guy’s reputation. I thought about spots and leopards, wondering how many others faced this pain. A book fell off of the dresser. It was leaning up against a lamp. I imagined lights growing dim, incandescence flickering out, like Jamesia’s faith in adults. The front door opened, Ava yelled out, “Are you there, Jamesia?” I answered and said, “We’re in here.” As soon as Ava looked at Jamesia, she knew something was wrong. Ava was Jamesia’s stronghold, her buffer, where she defused, to the best of her ability, the tension that existed between Jamesia and their mother.
“What’s going on?”
“We talked about what happened to get me into therapy.”
“Are you alright?”
“I’ll be better.”
Ava was tentative. I watched her face. I always watched her face. Some people are stoned-faced, she was fluid, waves hitting the shore, conspicuous billows. She was at a cliff, hesitant to leap without looking. Jamesia stared at her. They knew each other. Ava was silent—gazing into her, meeting her inquisition. “You think I’m hard on Patricia, that I can’t forgive her? She was wrong!” Ava tried to close the door on the topic, by gently saying, “What has passed must be released.” I could feel anxiety rising, the feeling Jamesia must have had, a feeling of emptiness in a crowded, small, bright-white colored room. Jamesia grew intensely. “Like Rick has said, she took the word of others over my word.” As it turned out, the sisters and the mother, at one point in time, worked with Rick, the psychiatrist. Each had something to unravel, and all came together to do group therapy. These groups revealed that there was something unkempt going on in the nucleus. Jamesia’s father was ill from cancer, too weakened to attend the meetings—something that haunted her, similar to a phantom. In the darkness of feeling misperceived, and needing Ava to show she believed in her, Jamesia attacked in a way.
“Are you not saying something? You never say much. Do you believe Patricia. Our
mother is a coward.”
“I wouldn’t call her that. She was under pressure. She might have made the wrong
decision. How long do we hold on to what we can’t change?”
“Damn that! I want her to tell me she is wrong, and she is sorry. She has never said it—
not to my face, not in therapy, never!”
I could feel Jamesia. The sadness was pouring into the room. Her reservoir was rushing, and Ava was the target. She was a lemur in the wilderness, lost, insecure, searching for rescue. Ava was holding back. Like many family secrets, no one wants to air them, and most members of the family, just need to move forward. But the meadows are filled with sounds, no one is isolated, everyone must succumb to its inquisitive nature: how it searches the soul, infuses the spirit, echoes through electric currents. Ava was nervous. Jamesia was pushing her.
“Let’s leave this alone for now. You’re upset. And I don’t know how to fix it right
now.”
“You can tell me you believe me.”
“I believe you, Jamesia.”
Ava was forced to say she believed Jamesia, while she held something inside. I suggested Jamesia and I take a walk to the local park, she agreed. A flood opened up. Jamesia just started confiding in me, in the moment, or something like that.
“I needed to hear her say she believed me. I’ve been depressed about her silence. My
mother stands aloof on the topic. I know what I know. The community ostracized me, a
kid. My father believed me. Rick believes me. I wish it were different.”
“I believe you. I can only envision what you must be carrying.”
“It’s heavy. It suffocates me. I just play it out again and again.”
“Is it possible to let go? Or does it live with you forever?”
“Only intense therapy gets it out. The trauma might linger for years.”
We arrived at the park. A sandcastle sat in the sandbox. It was unattended. Kids were running and playing, laughing and having fun: squirrels were noisy, moving around, trying to find something to eat. In the grass, there were anthills, filled with tiny ants—as they tended to their affairs. The benches were clean, made of concrete, a bit harsh to sit on. Jamesia was looking peaceful.
“What do you think about Rick?”
“I think he has too much sway over you. It’s not to find a crutch, as it is to find a path
to surviving independently.”
“I know. I hear you. It’s just the decisions are complicated.”
“I can’t see why the ultimate position is to divorce your mother.”
“She’s an ass. She’s always making the wrong choice.”
“She never listens?”
“I have to really box her in, force her to see the facts, else, like an oiled pole, she slips
right through the palm.”
“I don’t like that, but Rick is wrong. I think it could be better with your mother.”
“It’s a lot to sort through. She’s a difficult woman.”
“I won’t push it, for now.”
The sun was high in the skies. Sunrays glistened off of car windows. Sweat rolled down our backs, and beaded up on our foreheads. At moments, we sat in silence, listening to the in-between thoughts, maybe gazing into an epiphany or two. I always felt alert to her. That day was no different—the climbing of emotions, the raft of support, the alleys filled with wild dogs; to get a glimpse into her travesty, it tugged at me, it pulled me into her perspective. I thought about Ava, what she wasn’t saying, her timely acquiescence—the fact that she always had to be calm.
“What are you thinking about.”
“I was thinking of your sister—you two are close?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“She protects more than she sides with anyone.”
“Isn’t that a good quality?”
“Not when you need support.”
We returned to silence—the smell of grass, the many pine cones, the kids throwing footballs; the fathers being attentive, the mothers with the youngest, the blankets and picnic baskets; the many toys, the Tonka Trucks, the patches of dirt overlaid with pebbles and shells.
“Did any of this trigger you today?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Will it be with you the rest of the day?”
“I hope not.”
While we walked back to her apartment—the world looked busy—I wondered how many people were wrestling with PTSD. I was young. I had no idea. Beauty is shocking. I would never know what I learned that day. The carwash was filled with customers. The line in KFC was jammed packed. The highway was busy. We were mere participants in something we couldn’t measure.
“We haven’t had much time to us today.”
“We did, in our own way.”
“Was I a little much?”
“Not at all. But I do think Ava tries hard to keep things right for you.”
“I know. We’ll talk tonight, I’m sure of it.”
When we arrived to her place, a cute bull terrier ran up to us. Somehow it had escaped its owner. Jamesia cuddled it and rubbed it and searched its collar. The collar read a nearby address. We walked the dog over, and returned him to a nice lady. As we walked away, Jamesia looked at me and smiled.
“You know I was angry with you.”
“About what?”
“What you said about Rick.”
“He’s controlling.”
“But he helps me. He looks out for me. When I see him, I feel better, are you jealous?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe concerned about how you’ll be without him.”
“I’ve thought about that. We talk about that.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. I should be ready when the time comes. I hope.”
“If not, will you be alright?”
“I’ll have to be. He’ll be gone. He’ll relocate, or retire.”
“You plan on waiting that long? What about some training right now? Maybe allowing
you to make some decisions, in fact, demanding that you make some decisions.”
“It will work out. Don’t be so serious.”
Glenn Marchand has an M.A. in Theology from Loyola Marymount University, and recently finished his requirements in the MFA program at Mount Saint Mary’s University. Marchand is an African American poet, focused on writing about existential truths, topics seeming apparent, or better, life’s aphorisms. Marchand believes in connectivity. Readers appreciating this piece, and interested in reading more can visit his blog focused on diverse topics and inquiries concerning feeling invisible or pictureless: http://glennmarchandprose.blogspot.com/
On The Edge 
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