Leave Your Trepidations

Mother always said I was a 'character.' For a long time I did not know what that meant, and I took great pride in being bestowed such a title. But now that I have lived a great many years and met a great many Characters, I can now say with confidence that I understand her meaning. She did not mean to flatter me. I pride myself in it all the same.
Out of her six children, none others were called Characters, a sentiment they never let me forget. They watched me through the windows while I gadded about on the front lawn, crying out gibberish to the heavens and stuffing burlap sacks with straw. I tried to put on plays for them, but they were indifferent to my stories and homemade puppets. Catherine, the most studious and elegant of us (and also the oldest, which explains a lot), always scorned me for my childishness. Mother doted over her, for she was the most marriageable. She gave up on me by the time I turned six; she knew I would never cooperate. Edward read books of law and theology, and so it never came as a surprise when he rebuffed my favorites like Alice in Wonderland or The House at Pooh Corner. Even little Tom was indoctrinated by their normalities before I could take him under my wing, deeming him another lost cause. They all said my manifestations and ideas were frivolous and embarrassing. They said there were more important things in the world. They said the only way for me to be normal, to grow up, was to abandon my games and stories.
Personally I did not agree with their ideas.
Personally I felt that their criticisms were gravely misplaced.
And I did have such a habit of not caring. So I kept on with my puppeteering and knighthood in the backyard of our city house. It was barely amiable, but I made do. Sometimes I pretended to be a prisoner of war, trapped between the walls of a barrack. Sometimes my performance was too convincing; once my cries prompted Mrs. Dunphy to ring the police. Mother turned red like a tomato. Red like a devil. Red like a German. She did not let me play outside anymore after that. Instead I was to play behind the closed doors of my bedroom on the top floor. My solitude brought me such woes and so I began to pretend that I was a fair maiden, locked away in a tower, a witch and five goblins guarding me.
But finally, after years of imprisonment, I was freed. It was a dream when Father came home with a loose tie and a real, crazed smile engraved in his face. He threw the door open and kissed Mother passionately. It was 1927 and he was "rocking Brooklyn" so a fortnight later our furniture was covered and all our shutters were fastened with gridlocks. No one explained to me, who was seven and three quarters at the time, where we were going or what we would do when we arrived. All I knew was that Mother was crying and Catherine was cursing Father for desocializing her.
I have forgotten a great many things, I will admit, but this memory has implanted itself in the deep crevices of my consciousness. This is why it always came as such a surprise that the others seemed to forget Bourbon Ivy. After we had all grown up and left to pursue marriage or careers, no one ever mentioned our time there again. It was as if we'd never gone at all. It was like a bolt of ribbon being cut from their minds, leaving a gap where it would start up again. It had been a dream for me to arrive on the shore of one of Cape Charles' modest islands. At four feet and two and a half inches tall, I stood in my white and pink Sunday dress clutching my favorite china doll to my chest, whose name was Aria. I was wearing a bonnet that hung over my eyes, so I could hardly look on at the mainland, which to someone of my tender age, seemed so far away. I held Mother's hand as she dragged me up the long winding sand road to our Bourbon Ivy estate. It was to be our new home for the next three years. This season I give credit for the most blissful and defining years of my childhood. Everything after was a monotonous blur.
When we finally arrived at the threshold of the giant, Victorian-style white manor, Mother could not convince me that this glorious house was not a castle. It had everything one could ask for in a house. A wrap-around porch and giant picture windows. Dormers lined with lacey designs and swirls. Stooping roofs and a round tower fit for Repunzal herself. It had two chimneys and several spires that reached up towards the heavens.
And yet the others still had things to complain about.
Catherine was still moaning about being away from her socials and friends at the hall.
Edward would have to travel by motor boat to get to school, which paled in comparison to New York's prestigious academies.
Michael did not like that he had to share a room with little Tom.
And Caroline did not want to share a room with me.
But forget the house. The real marvel lay beyond Bourbon Ivy. At the time, we were the only family residing on the island, so I no longer had to hold my tongue and the others did not have to be embarrassed of me. While the help unloaded and unpacked and opened windows and dusted mantles, I went exploring with my Aria. In front of the house there was that long, winding road composed mostly of sand and pebbles that led down to shore, where soft waves feathered the bank and minoes chased each other just below the surface. As dusk set in, I could make out the distant lights of the then tiny village of Cape Charles. Behind the house was a thick forest of vegetation and shrubbery with sparse patches of desert sand. I found myself a game trail to walk and as I treaded deeper into the forest, flatland merged into sandy dunes and as I ascended each one, I could see for a moment what lay ahead: swampland that tapered back out into the bay.
But there was one surprise I had not seen from the tops of those dunes. A secluded lake surrounded by thick green vines and bushes, it was. The trail stopped a few paces before I could reach the bank, so I stepped over thorn bushes and ducked under prying branches, which were not difficult feats for someone who was so vertically challenged at the time. And there I stood on the bank of a sparkling lake shrouded in mystery. There was a quality about it which I could not explain. It seemed to hum, but that might have been the bullfrogs beneath the surface. The water was dark and murky, my reflection more of a silhouette than anything else. And I could not have found it on purpose, and hoped I would be able to find it again. When the sun had sunk so much that I could see its soft, colorful rays peeking through the shrubbery, I decided it would be best to head back towards the house.
If I had made that decision a moment later, Mother might have had a heart attack, because by the time I arrived, she was hysterical. "Temmy!" she yelled with a puffy-faced desperation. She hobbled over to me and dropped to her knees. She hugged me and sniffled in my ear. The others stood on the porch, faking their relief. When Mother was done with her rejoicing, she pulled away and held me by the shoulders, her mascara running. "Where have you been!"
"I went exploring."
She was not content with that answer and I received several spankings because of it. Then she stood to her feet, smoothed out her ruffled dress, and fretted over her tarnished pantyhose.
Everyone filed inside for our first supper at Bourbon Ivy. Father and Mother celebrated over glasses of brandy and us children ate rice pudding and drank punch. Catherine, determined to be accomplished by her sixteenth birthday, played us a ballad on the pianoforte before bed.
Caroline helped me into my nightdress without, for the first time, much protest. She even braided my unruly hair which was usually pinned back with bows (I was glad when I was old enough to abandon that hairstyle). Our room was on the top floor, which looked like a large attic with a triangle-stooped roof and a tiny round window at the back of the room. Our beds were side-by-side. The quilts were moth-bitten and smelled musty, but the next morning the maids would arrange the rest of our things. Caroline longed for her escritoire and fountain pen and I itched to open the chests and boxes that sat on the other side of the room, filled to the brim with my novelties, but instead I tucked Aria in bed and we laid down to sleep.
Only neither of us could sleep.
There were strange sounds and unfamiliar scents.
It was darker than our townhouse. Before, there had been the light of lampposts or lights on across the road in other lively homes. The occasional car would pass by and illuminate our bedroom with white light, only to sputter and jitter on by. But here, the only light streamed in from the tiny window and cast a round shape on the wooden floor.
If I did not breathe and listened closely, I could hear the water burble. I grew to appreciate that sound, especially after a storm when the water level was higher and the waves more aggressive. Sometimes as I drifted off to sleep, I imagined that I was floating along on a pallet made of flowers, drifting with the current.
The beds were creakier than our old ones, but we expected that Mother would send for them soon. I could tell that Caroline was restless.
And finally, I heard her sigh in the darkness. She must have rolled over on her side to face me. She had been ten at the time. "Temmy, I wanna go home."
"What for?"
"I don't like it here."
"I think it's wonderful."
She probably rolled her eyes. "Of course you do. I miss Macy and Joan."
I was unbothered. "You are bound to make new friends, Caroline. And if not, you have me."
She sighed again, which I deciphered as either disappointment or agony over the thought. "Goodnight, Temmy."
Neither of us said any more and I assumed she fell into sleep. We had been friends before she decided to act grown up like Catherine and Edward. She watched them lecture and patronize me, so she began to do the same. She had played my games with me for a time.
About a fortnight later, Uncle Bart, Aunt Jenine, and cousin Marie came to stay with us for the Fourth of July. It was an annual celebration we usually had at the expense of Uncle Bart's backyard. This time, we had it on our own beach. The maids spent days putting up the tent and arranging the table and chairs. It was adorned with a white satin tablecloth and Mother's best crystal dishes. They cooked all night.
When Marie stepped off the boat, she ran to me and hugged me tight. She exchanged proper formalities with the others. She was Aunt Jenine's only child, who was Mother's sister. Aunt Jenine always joked that Mother always had to outdo her in everything. Houses. Husbands. Children. Money. Mother found no humor in it. Uncle Bart was less concerned with the vacation and more with making his mark on our island. He was a salesman through and through, and Father had to give the man credit for his persistence-- even if it made him want to pull out his hair. It was all he talked of during our meal.
I was always happier when Marie came to stay with us. She was the only other Character I knew and, naturally, Mother did not approve. She blamed Marie's influence over me for my turnout. She was a few years my senior, and I admired her. I wanted to be just like her, careless and free. During her stay, we put on plays and designed yarn puppets in my attic room. We were also the only ones to sleep.
The three of them stayed for a week. I insisted that Marie sleep in with Caroline and me. It went swelly the first night. Marie slept like the dead. During the second, I woke up in a cold sweat with the door ajar. Marie's side of the bed was cold.
"Where did you go last night?" I asked her the next morning.
Marie was nonchalant. "What do you mean?"
"I woke up and you were gone."
She was poking at her cinnamon bun. "Can't a girl relieve herself?"
It happened again a few nights later. It may have been Marie's feet creaking across the wood floor or the door slam, but I woke each time she disappeared into the musty night. Each time I lay on my back, listening. Waiting. I always expected her to come tiptoeing back in, having relieved herself, but I always fell back to sleep.
The fourth night, I could not stand to be curious any longer. I pretended to sleep, though it was very difficult because we'd gone swimming at our little beach that afternoon. At first, I didn't think she would leave, but sure enough, I felt her stir beside of me. Then she peered over me to make sure I was sleeping; I squeezed my eyes shut. She must have done this every night, afraid of what I would say, or do, if I knew what she was doing. I waited until I heard the back door click shut before I followed her.
Caroline was undisturbed by all of this, and continued on with her unpleasant snoring.
The floorboards were cold and stagnant despite the warm summer air, and each step started a ripple of disturbance that sent me into a panic, but no one heard. I could see as I descended the staircase that the moonlight was beaming and bright. When I reached the back door, I took Father's coat from one of the hooks and slipped it on, letting it drag on the floor behind me. The front yard had been staged; our gardener had planted grass on a large patch of earth to ease Mother's longing for suburban life. The back side of the house, which could not be seen, was still sandy and covered with vegetation. The sand was smooth and cool beneath my bare feet, yet firm enough that I wouldn't sink.
The night did little to act as a cloak to hide me. The moon was full and so bright that it cast my shadow. I could see Marie clearly a few paces in front of me; she was not in a rush. She walked lazily towards the small forest without looking back. I watched the back of her head as I followed. For a time, I thought she might have been sleep walking. Her steps were graceful and linear, and she didn't seem concerned in the slightest that she would be discovered and scolded. Even I was worried about that; I remembered Mother's spanking when I went off on my own. It wasn't until I saw her look up to the moon that I knew she was lucid. I kept my distance.
There was a feeling of mystery and wonder in her pilgrimage. Somehow I knew that I couldn't reveal myself or she wouldn't go through with her endeavor. I realized once we reached the small forest that she was headed to the lake. I'd only told her about it, determined to keep it to myself. But I have never claimed keeping secrets as my forte.
The lake was like glass, reflecting the full moon's bright rays off its shiny surface. I took cover behind a fallen log and watched the mystery unfold. She was standing at the bank, dressed in her satin nightgown, staring into the black water.
Surely she was going for a swim, I thought.
But her eyes looked to the moon above.
I waited patiently for something to happen.
Then, she did something rather odd. She laid down on her back, feet facing the water. She stared up at the sky for a long time. I thought that was the end of it. It must have been half an hour before she finally stirred. The moon had risen to its peak, and almost the entire clearing was illuminated with its bright light.
She seemed to notice this and stood up quickly.
Then she spoke and took a step towards the water. "Jedan."
"Dva." She took another step.
"Drvo." She took one final step and reached the edge of the bank. These words held no meaning to me. Another language, perhaps. She'd told me she'd been dabbling in other languages. But my tudor had beaten me over the head with Latin and French and Spanish, and these strange words and syllables were unlike anything I'd ever heard.
Seemingly inorganically, the lake water rose and brushed over her feet. I clinged on to the fallen log, my discomfort rising with every passing moment. I had not understood then that what I was witnessing was some sort of ritual. A strange aura settled over the clearing and a bristly chill set on my spine.
Marie began to walk deeper into the water. With each step, the water rushed faster. The moon cast a bright, sparkling pool of light on the lake. Marie's eyes were dead set on what was in front of her. She did not mind the coldness of the water or that her nightdress was becoming soaked, clinging to her skin. Her expression remained neutral.
She spoke one more time. "I pokazati mi puet sirena."
By this time she was almost completely submerged. I could only see her head bobbing. I wanted to call out to her. I did. I thought she was making a deal with the devil, or lost in some far off, ill state of mind. I tried to recall her behavior during the days of her visit. She seemed normal. A Character she was, but this was far beyond anything an overactive imagination could muster. And I have always felt guilt for it, but I did not speak up because of my own selfish curiosity. I found that I was transfixed on her. As disconcerting as the whole thing was, I could not look away.
The moonlight was becoming almost blinding. I'd never seen it like this. It seemed to grow lighter and lighter as she stood, still nearly submerged. It bordered on unnatural. No, it was completely unnatural. All of it. I'd never been more disgusted yet awed in my life. A beam appeared and surrounded her, and almost as soon as it did, the water began to burble and sparkle like a hot spring. She became a corpse, completely still. And yet, she seemed indifferent, lost still in that transe.
The water burbled faster and faster as the seconds passed. Marie was practically glowing. I watched in horror as that small pool of light illuminated the whole clearing, making the water sparkle that much more. As I watched, even the sounds became distorted. Long gone were the crickets chatting or the owl serenading. After a time, I could no longer help myself. As quietly as I could, I overstepped the log, my only defense, and hobbled out to the bank. Like a deer in a prairie, I looked in each direction. I wondered if any priest could forgive me for what I was doing, for what I was allowing to happen. My toes were wiggling their way into the marsh below me, and the farther I sunk, the more I began to feel the humming. As the ritual progressed, that humming developed into a buzzing, just loud enough to become a nuisance. It was like an annoying fly, circling my head. And soon enough, it was starting to drive me mad. It remained barely audible, but the frequency seemed to shift. I even covered my ears at one point. I stayed clear of the water. I did not want to find out what would happen to me if I touched it. I was even more ill at the thought of what would happen if I tried to interfere. Marie, in my young eyes, was crossing the threshold from reality to hell. She was no longer my cousin. She was something otherworldly. Evil.
There came a time when I stopped absorbing what was taking place. Even now, the rest is hazy in my memory. Eventually, Marie did submerge herself, and as soon as she did, the lake went to rest. That horrid buzzing ceased. The moon's light dissipated to its normal hue. And I watched where her head went under and waited for her to come up again. I waited all night long. I sat in that very same place when the sun rose and through breakfast. I did not think of what Mother would do to me when I returned. Earnestly I waited. Cold. Exposed. Hungry. I avoided the water like the plague, afraid that whatever had claimed Marie would take me too. When the sun was peeking through the trees, I willed myself to creep even closer until my toes were mere centimeters from the water. I even found myself a stick and began poking around, hoping to find her flesh. But there was no sign of her.
Eventually, I heard the others calling for me. At first it was faint like the buzzing. But I could hear that Mother was sobbing. Aunt Jenine was sobbing. Was that Caroline, too? It was a terrible sort of sound. I'd never heard so much agony in a cry before. Finally, I laid down my stick and willed myself to turn away and begin the trek back to Bourbon Ivy. All I remember of the whole journey was climbing that final dune before I saw them all sprawled out in the sand, in hysterics. Without a word, I revealed myself to them, pale as a ghost. Stiff as a statue. Instead of punishing me, Mother ran to me and hugged me, firmer and more sincere than the last. Then, tenderly, she held me by the shoulders and through sporatic sobs, she explained to me that Marie's body had been found washed on the shore that morning. I did not speak for many months after that.
I never understood Marie that night, as much as I tried to. I could not comprehend what I'd witnessed, or even attempt to explain it to those psychologists Mother paid to fix me. I could not even explain it to myself. I couldn't match words or any sort of real meaning to the images that replayed in my mind for the years to come. The others did. Police and detectives alike visited our island, prompted by Aunt Jennie. Mother said she needed closure. They had me lead them to the lake, and it was a silent journey. When we arrived, I watched in a haze as they searched the area and huddled, their piercing whispers arguing back and forth. They tried to question me, but I was a poor witness. I did try to explain what I'd seen, but they all dismissed it as a bout of my own imagination. Another one of my silly fantasies. One night, while we lay in bed, predictably unable to sleep, Caroline asked me to tell her, and I did. She did believe me. Or perhaps she only said she did to sate my nerves. She called me the girl who cried wolf. She said they might've believed me if I hadn't carried on with my wild stories throughout the years. I could not disagree.
After months of speculation and questions, Aunt Jenine finally got an answer she could live with. The detectives had taken samples of the lake water to have them tested. In a letter, they explained that there had been traces of mercury in the water, making it toxic. This was their explanation for why Marie, a perfectly adequate swimmer, never resurfaced. They concluded that she had fallen unconscious shortly after submerging and that her body had been carried with the current, through the marsh, and back out to sea, where the waves slowly pushed her back to shore.
Everyone seemed content with that answer, except for me, of course. I had one key piece of information that they didn't, even if the rest of my memory somehow failed me: i pokazati mi puet sirena. That phrase has played over in my head for decades, taunting me. No translater can tell me its meaning. No book can either. It is a phrase that died with Marie. And there is one more thing I know for certain, and that is that on that night, it is the only time I can recall that nature behaved in such a manner.
But eventually I laid it to rest, and kept it to myself. No one else cared to listen. It was better this way, I decided. I did try to explain it to them, but it only upset Aunt Jenine and angered Mother. And after, after we finally packed up on the eve of our third year and left that island, they all seemed to forget about Marie, about Bourbon Ivy, about that whole chunk of our lives. Perhaps it is for the best that we left; of course, at the time I was devastated to go. Even after what happened to Marie, I still had love for the place. For the others, their contempt only grew stronger during our time there. And as soon as that motor boat left the dock for the final time and we watched the island grow smaller and smaller, everyone moved on. Marie and that night were permanently removed from all conversations. Everyone forgot— everyone except for me. But I do not mind. Perhaps it is my burden to carry.
And though I tried to move on, I always could not help but wonder, but think, that maybe in some strange, trivial way, Marie was trying to become part of the sea.