Hadrian's Wall (8 page)

The Director carefully stacked the documents in
front of her, all the while casting furtive glances at me. I
waited, trying to prepare myself for what she would say.

“
What am I to do about you, Melissa?
The Executive Council was considering the possibility of putting
you into a scholarship program for college, but with your poor
performance in school and insufficient score in the national tests,
there’s no chance of that. You would have to repeat the evaluation.
and until then...” She crossed her arms and stared at
me.

“
You know, I just don’t understand.
You’ve had every chance to excel in the classroom, but you spent
your childhood calling people’s attention to your stories about
ghosts and monsters.” She gave me a facetious grin. “Honestly, what
was so special about you that creatures from another world would
waste their precious time coming after you—only you and not other
children? They would have to be lazy monsters.’” She laughed at her
own joke. “What were you thinking when you decided to wake up
everyone in the house at dawn with your hysterical cries and
unbelievable stories? Did you really believe that you could
manipulate the adults with your antics? All that you accomplished
was to be treated like a crazy child.”

I let it pass. I was accustomed to these innuendoes.
Quite frankly, I preferred it. I mean I liked that she believed I
was a manipulative girl because it was better to be considered
manipulative than crazy.

The Director noticed my annoyance and
in a condescending tone of voice, she poured salt into the
emotional wound she had just inflicted on me.
“Of course, you were just a child. You had
no understanding about being manipulative and wanting all of the
attention for yourself. Unfortunately, instead of using your
creativity for the benefit of your studies or a promising adoption,
you decided to close yourself inside your own private world. Those
visions...”

“
What visions?” I arched my
eyebrows, pretending I didn’t understand her.
Hey, wasn’t she the one who
said that I invented everything?
Don’t be contradictory in this stage of
the game, please!

“
Melissa...” She shook her head,
once again donning her inscrutable expression when she realized
that I had not lowered my guard. “I was hard on you, I guess. Part
of your behavior is my fault, but I was not prepared for a child
who was so...so baffling.”

“
But Reverend Merritt was...” I
said, not hiding my rancor.

Reverend Merritt was the Director before Mrs.
Winfield. He was a good man, almost like a father to us. He was the
only one who treated me with compassion and earnestly worried about
my crises. He never thought I was crazy or manipulative. It was too
bad that I’d had so little time with him before they transferred
him to another presbytery on the eve of his “retirement.” I heard
about his death shortly thereafter. I suspected that he was ill
during the time he was running the orphanage and for that reason he
was “transferred” before he died, so as not to upset the
orphans.

The Executive Council appointed Ms. Winfield to
take his place. That proved to be a drastic change in the
functioning of the house—for the worse! It wasn’t that she had no
good will or good intentions, but her methods were inadequate to
deal with needy children. She would have been more well-suited for
a position in a reformatory for
juvenile offenders. But we were not criminals, we were
abandoned children. Most of us had no malice and knew only two
kinds of lives—the rural existence we’d lived before we came to the
orphanage and the fantasy lives we created from watching
television.

“
Reverend provided an excellent
service to the community,” she said without going into the merit of
my comment. She used a tone so blatantly cold it belied her lack of
admiration for her predecessor. This became clear when she said,
“He should have been a little more firm with some children.” She
knew very well that was not exactly the situation. As always, she
was distorting the facts to avoid recognizing her own
ineptitude.

The Presbyterian Orphanage, an initiative of
Reverend Merritt, took in boys and girls from broken homes whose
parents were unemployed because of economic hardship, in many cases
rendering them “rural homeless.” Some kids went back home after a
few weeks, as soon as their parents found work, but those who were
victims of domestic violence stayed and became candidates for
adoption.

The orphanage was located in Coos County, a region
where the incidence of frequent unemployment was severe. Reverend
Merritt understood that economics seriously affect family
relationships and he was never one to deny shelter to a child whose
father or mother temporarily left town to find work elsewhere. In
those same circumstances, Mrs. Winfield would have denounced the
parents to the authorities, claiming they’d abandoned their
children. Even though many orphanages adopted a position similar to
Reverent Merritt’s in their communities, Mrs. Winfield was strongly
against his policy.

Because he was a well-respected person, Reverend
Merritt mobilized the community in favor of the children, but now
he was gone and without his commitment and vigor, life became much
more difficult for us.

* * *

Although the orphanage was tied to the Presbyterian
Church and received some assistance from the county, private
donations were really the mainstay for the institution and they
were decreasing dramatically, year after year, especially after the
Wausau Paper Mill closed its doors.

The Wausau Paper Mill was located in Groveton, a
small community near Dailey’s Crossing and Stark. The impact of its
closure on the local labor market was enough to significantly
disrupt the budget of many families who depended directly or
indirectly on its operation. Thus, if the unemployment rate rose
among the most experienced workers, it went even higher for those
people who had lesser qualifications. The young people had no
choice but to leave the area to try their luck in Berlin or
Lancaster. Many people commented that the best opportunities were
on the coast and in the Merrimack Valley.

In the past few weeks, the employment situation
began to worry me because I too would join the ranks of the
unqualified unemployed.

As if reading my thoughts, Mrs. Winfield said,
“The nearest Community College offers good technical courses, but
since it’s out of the question for you, mainly due to your
financial situation, I’d advise you to go back to high school in
Groveton and look for some professional course directed to the
local market—anything that gives you a chance to get a job right
away.” She stroked her forehead and sighed again. “That is, if you
really want a reasonable place in the work force.”

At that moment the phone rang and she
dismissed me with an abrupt wave of her hand. So that was it. No
congratulations, no “Happy Birthday, my dear!” or
“Don
’t
worry, we’ll support you!” Nothing at all. I knew I would need to
learn to make my own way...alone. My mind felt the weight of
depression, but I really didn’t expect anything else.

I returned to the dormitory. I gathered my
belongings quickly, with no real awareness of the objects and
clothes I was packing into my old suitcase. Finally, I stopped and
took a deep breath, then forced myself to look carefully at each
item, trying not to forget anything important.
As if it really matters!
I looked at my
stuff. It was part of my history, so I supposed I needed to
preserve it, but why? Who would want to know about my insignificant
origin? It was more likely that I would become just another
statistic.

All of a sudden I realized that I’d
already left the gloomy environment behind and moved into the
sunshine. I was insensitive to the gravity of the situation, as if
I was on automatic pilot. I think any girl could have a hysterical
attack, but not me. Never again would anyone see me cry in public
or have an outburst because of my problems. Somewhere on the
Internet I read that what I was experiencing could be a reaction to
extreme situations—my brain’s defense against the impact of stress.
I left behind the noise of children playing on the playground and
followed the dirt road until I was off of the orphanage property.
No one noticed my departure.

As I entered Dailey’s Crossing, I
realized that it was as silent then as it was most of the day and
night, every day of the week. The air was warm, making that reality
something more depressing than it already was. As I looked around
to say goodbye, flashes of my sad past started popping into my
mind. I rapidly blinked my eyes, trying to force the memories
away.

The town’s few houses were all
unattractive and run-down looking, graceless, and would continue to
be for a long time. In that scenario, the grocery store was the
only innovation in ten years—a square structure painted yellow and
beige, with tall glass windows and a gas station in front. Later,
it was the little church that urgently needed renovation. The
priest who took the presbytery came from Lancaster and only on days
of worship; therefore, the church remained closed most of the
week.

The small cemetery behind
the church
looked like the one in Tim
Burton’s movie,
Sleepy Hollow
. My father was buried there. Upon reaching the
ruins of the porch, I hesitated. From where I was standing, I could
distinguish my daddy’s headstone among those that were in the front
row, causing an ancient pain to pulsate in the bottom of my heart.
I felt inexplicably guilty, like I was abandoning him.

I wiped my wet eyes, knowing full
well that it was stupid to feel that way. First, he’d been a man
not given to establishing roots. He was always traveling with his
band and the only reason he stopped was because he’d gotten sick.
Second, he’d want the best for me, even if that meant having to
leave the village. If that was the only way to succeed in life,
then that was what had to be done. He would approve of my
decision.

“
One day I will return to put flowers
on his grave,” I vowed. “I will be driving a cool car with four
doors.”
Wow!
That was the first optimistic thought I’d had in the last several
days
!

I don’t know how long or how far I’d
walked, pulling my old suitcase. The wheels gave me problems,
jamming in every uneven expanse of concrete, hindering my
movements. Looking around, I realized that I must have walked quite
a distance because the landscape had changed considerably. At
least, I’d left the little cluster of houses behind as the area
gave way to scattered farms.

Shortly before reaching the fork in the road, each
fork subdivided into two opposite directions, I saw the outlines of
the ramshackle hospital where my father died. It was another bleak
picture, just like the cemetery, although some of the magnificent
stained glass windows were still intact. I could spot them among
the leaves of trees, glowing in the glare of the sun.

I walked a little farther and looked
in both directions. I was right in the middle where the road
forked.
Now
what? Should I go to Berlin or Lancaster?
Considering that I was closer to
Stark than to Groveton, Berlin was the logical choice. How much
longer could I stand here under the relentless sun? I hated the
summer heat.
I hated my birthday!

As much as the place evoked painful
memories, I was sorely tempted to go back a few meters and seek
shelter inside the ruins of the old hospital. As I was
contemplating what to do, suddenly a pickup stopped beside me,
raising a cloud of dust. I had to lift my T-shirt neck to cover my
mouth and nose. Even through cloud of dust, it
wasn
’t
difficult for me to see the driver—Mrs. Jones, a
“jack-of-all-trades” and for the moment, secretary to Director
Winfield.

“
Get in, Melissa. I’ll give you a
ride,” she said, smiling warmly.

I didn’t think twice. I threw my
suitcase and backpack into the pickup’s bed and walked around to
the passenger door. Mrs. Jones was still smiling when the engine
made the vehicle lurch and choke before she got
coordinated.

“
I’m sorry,” she laughed without the
slightest embarrassment. “I still haven’t gotten used to this
monstrosity, but Bill insists I use it while my car is being
repaired.”

I smiled while contemplating the landscape. I was
too tired to talk.

“
You know where you’re going,
Mel?”

I looked at her, but she remained focused on the
road.

“
No. I have no idea.”

She pursed her lips. “You should have waited for
Janet. She was going to tell you that you could stay at the
orphanage until you get a job.”

I considered her words for a moment
and then answered with a certainty that even surprised me. “I don’t
want to live in Dailey’s Crossing anymore, Mrs. Jones. There are no
job prospects here. I prefer to start anew.”
Preferably where people don’t
know my psychiatric history
.

Soon we left Stark behind. About twenty minutes
later, we reached Berlin. Mrs. Jones said she planned to do some
shopping before returning home, so my final destination was the
sidewalk outside the local mini-market. When she pulled up and
stopped, I thanked her for the ride and opened the door. She slowly
exited the vehicle and watched me pick up my bag. She wore a
concerned expression.