Paint Me a Monster (27 page)

“Yes. They do say funny things,” she chuckles. “I want to show you something.” Mrs. Fox sifts through the top drawer of her desk.

“Emily brought this in from home.” She hands me a paper colored with markers. Five oddly rounded figures with long rounded arms and legs bob in the middle of the page.

“There are four people in Emily’s family,” Mrs. Fox continues. “Emily, her older sister, mother, and father. Do you know who the fifth person is?” She taps one of the distorted ovals.

“Her nanny?”

“It’s you. Emily told me that this is her family and that ‘Rinnie is with me because I love her. She’s here for dinner.’ You’ve become a part of her life. As you have with the other children.”

A fog of feelings collects in the back of my throat and clogs any words from coming out.

“It’s quite a compliment,” she says.

“It is!” I say. I hope Mrs. Fox can’t hear my disbelief.

“I thought you’d like to know. Take a look at this.” Mrs. Fox maneuvers her hand over the scissors, around the marshmallow cookies, the picture books, and the stapler. She hands me a spiral-bound notebook. It’s filled with things she’s written down about what I’ve done with the kids. The list is long. I read a few lines.

Utilizes water table as a “pond” in which to fish. Rinnie attached a string to a drumstick and dangled a magnet from the string. The magnet is the bait and catches paper clips that are fastened to assorted objects in the water.

Cuts large letters from magazines. Spreads them on a table then has child locate the letters in his name. Child glues letters in proper order to paper, to make a name tag. Uses letters to spell other words. Also cuts jewelry out of fashion magazines. Uses tape to make bracelets and crowns for the children.

Fills empty water table with cooked spaghetti that has been dyed with food coloring
—
Tactile activity. Also places pasta on white paper in various shapes to make a picture. Starch makes pasta stick. Spells words with pasta.

I hand the notebook back to her.

“You’ll notice in the coming weeks that I’ve incorporated aspects of your creative play into the curriculum for all pre-kindergarten classes. I’ve kept this notebook of your ideas. We’ll continue to use them with your permission. I’d like to adapt your Rinnie-style storytelling techniques to promote pre-reading, deductive thinking, and social skills. You’ve been an asset to the class. And by the way, I hope you’ll keep painting. As long as you have a paintbrush in your hand, you’ll never be bored.”

“I appreciate you letting me use the supplies.”

“You were born to create, Rinnie. Don’t ever forget that,” Mrs. Fox says.

She gathers her coat, scarf, and canvas bag filled with books with photographs of bears, frogs, squirrels, and snakes on the covers. “If you decide to become a teacher, your children will be very lucky.”

“What’s the topic next week?” I ask.

“Animals that hibernate.”

“It would be fun if the kids could wear their pajamas to school.”

“Rinnie, that idea’s a gem. See what I mean? A diamond in the rough.”

“Thanks,” I say. And I sparkle all the way home.

“Mr. Algrin, I’ve been thinking about monsters. I think I understand what my mother meant.”

“I’m all ears, Rinnie. I’d really like to hear what you have to say.” He sits back in his chair so serenely, it’s as if he’s already heard what I have to say.

“Monsters are scary, right? OK. People are scared of things they don’t understand. Scared of things they think will hurt them. Scared of things that question their value. Scared of things they don’t want to know about themselves.”

“This is a sophisticated conversation. How did you come to those conclusions?”

I grin and tell him, “I continued to do what you said I was already doing: Talking, questioning, and considering.”

Mr. Algrin puts his feet on his desk, massages his fingers through his hair, and claps his hands together making a loud pop.

“You are Rinnie the Lionheart, you really are,” he says.

“There’s more,” I continue. “I was a scared person—scared of not being good enough, of not being wanted, of being nothing. I don’t want to be scared anymore. I’m not afraid to ‘look under the blanket.’ And I don’t believe that I’m scary.”

“No, you’re not scary,” Mr. Algrin draws the words out. “You’re kind and fair, empathetic and industrious, but not scary.”

“To Mom I was scary. I think she thought I had something she lost.”

“What’s that?”

“Potential. I remember one night when Dad tucked me into bed, he read the fairy tale
Sleeping Beauty
. When the story ended, he said that Mom and I shared many gifts. I thought he meant like Chanukah or Christmas gifts, and I told him I thought my gifts were just for me. Dad explained about inner gifts. He said Mom and I shared inner gifts: curiosity, courage, feistiness, friendliness, and that we were both beautiful. After their divorce, I think every time I went out with a new guy, had boys over, refused to cry when Mom went nuts, refused to compromise my morals—that made Mom sad and angry. My successes mirrored her losses. I became the big bad wolf— a monster.”

“That’s very astute and not easy to confront.”

“There’s one more piece. I’m a lot like my dad. We’re both good athletes, detail oriented, artistic, practical, and we don’t give up easily. I reminded Mom of him too much. He hurt her. He was a monster to her and that made me one, too.”

“Did I mention that you are also perceptive?” Mr. Algrin asks.

I want to say perceptive and astute are redundant, but I don’t.

“In a way, your mother probably did want your freedom and talent. She needed your unconditional love. She needed you to parent her. But that was impossible and not your job. She had a tough time, too.”

“Pretty weird,” I say. “I understand it here,” pointing to my head, “but not entirely here,” pointing to my heart.

“It’ll take time. I have confidence you will.”

He’s so sure he makes me sure as well.

Mr. Algrin loses his informal air and locks his eyes on mine. He’s so close I can smell the starch in his shirt.

“You can re-parent yourself, Rinnie. You can choose to love yourself unconditionally. It’s your life. You get to write it. What do you want on your tombstone?
She never made a mistake because she was afraid to take a risk
OR
She celebrated every day and loved her life.”

“How do I start?”

“You already have. Baby steps. First one, then another. Remember the pebbles in the road, the easy ones to pick up? You’re ready for stones, rocks, even small boulders.”

I remember a saying from long ago, on one of Mr. Algrin’s slips of paper.

I say the words out loud. ‘“Look for answers where they can’t be seen.’ I never
understood this until now. The answers are tangled inside me, in the darkness, in the scary places. I’m not afraid to go there anymore. I’m not alone, am I?”

“You’re not alone. You never have to be. Like you said, ‘You don’t give up easily.’” Mr. Algrin’s face shines. “You’re Rinnie from Rin Tin Tin: fast, smart, brave, and you save people. That includes you.”

“I remember a dream I had as a little girl. There’s a poem I used to hear in my sleep . . . a monster taunted me with a poem. It was a long, long time ago,” I say.

“Can you recite the poem?” Mr. Algrin asks.

The words recall themselves from a curtained memory.

“
If you ever, ever, ever,
Try to sneak away,
I’ll be waiting in the night.
I’ll be waiting in the day.
You never will escape me.
You never will be free.
You’re my forever, ever, ever
You’re the lock that fits my key.
”

Mr. Algrin is quiet. So am I.

“Forever, ever, ever.” He chants the phrase like an evil spell. “It’s chilling. What do you think the poem means?”

A belly breath speaks for me, and then I say, “I think it’s about Mom and me. Mom needed a place for her pain. The place had to be well guarded, and it had to be malleable. It had to be strong to hold on to holding on. It had to be tough enough to endure. The place was the lock. Mom fit what she hated about herself and her life into the lock. The lock is a metaphor.”

“Yes,” he pauses. “Yes. Do you know where the lock is?”

I pause. “In front of you . . . I’m in front of you,” I say. “I am the lock!” 

Mr. Algrin swallows. I swear there are tears in his eyes.

“Mom was the key.” I stop and wipe away my own tear. “We were miscast. Her key never fit my lock, did it?”

The thought reminds me of a drawing I made. “Remember the picture I drew of a faceless house?”

“I remember you wondered who would live in a house like that.”

“I wrote a poem that goes with that house. I want to share it with you,” I say. I close my eyes, slow my breath, and start:

“
Whose house is this I’d like to know,
It’s like a bride without trousseau.
It lacks both windows and a door
It greets the eye and nothing more.
Why build a structure blind and mute,
A non-fulfilling substitute.
For openhearted give and take.
Aborted life, a big mistake.
”

We both sit quietly, the poem still noisy in the air.

“No windows, no door, no chimney. No exit, no entry—by me or anyone else. I built that house around me. It seemed the safest way to exist,” I say in a whisper. “I want more than to just exist. I’m drawing a door—and windows.”

Mr. Algrin gets up slowly and stands next to me. He doesn’t move and then he claps me on the back and says, “Good work, Rinnie.”

I hug myself and laugh. It’s an odd sound in Mr. Algrin’s office.

It feels good.

My name is Rinnie Gardener. I am truly a gardener. I have planted seeds. I’m growing perennials. One perennial is hope, another trust, and a third freedom. My garden is big. There’s room to grow many more things. I’m posting a sign in the garden that says “Visitors Welcome.”

I think the growing season will be a long one. I know there will be freezes, insects, drought, or heavy rains. I also know there will be sunny days, filled with butterflies and fluffy white clouds. Fluffy white clouds tucked in a bed of blue sky. Tranquil. Almost as healing as painting.

Thank you to Jane Resh Thomas for encouraging me to “just write.” A thousand thanks to Alison McGee. To Andy and Cris, I can’t imagine life without you. And to Brad, for encouraging me to illustrate children’s books. If you hadn’t, Rinnie would never have been born.

About This Electronic Book:
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Copyright © 2014 by Janie Baskin

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Baskin, Janie.
Paint me a monster / Janie Baskin.
pages cm
Summary: Rinnie relates a childhood marked by privilege but also abuse, which steadily increases after her parents’ divorce and remarriages, emotionally crippling Rinnie until a school counselor helps her begin to heal.
ISBN 978-1-62324-018-9
[1. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 2. Family problems—Fiction. 3. Emotional problems—Fiction. 4. Psychotherapy—Fiction. 5. Eating disorders—Fiction. 6. Family life—Ohio—Fiction. 7. Jews—United States—Fiction. 8. Cincinnati (Ohio)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ.7.B29228Pai 2014
[Fic]—dc23
2012051040

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ISBN-13: 978-1-62324-005-9