The Glass Secret (Chain of Secrets) (16 page)

I waited for a minute without saying a word. That sense of disquieted concern came rushing back.

“Is there something wrong?” I asked, passing my eyes over my body, concerned that I was turning blue or having a bad reaction to the drugs, or something worst, that I couldn’t see from my perspective.

“I don’t think so.” His voice was dry and unreadable.

He looked at me curiously, as though he knew something I didn’t. Or as if I had said or done something that he found particularly interesting. I supposed if someone told you they hear voices that would raise a brow or two.

I wondered if he thought that I was a complete nut-job—I had never so much as talked to anyone outside of my family about the voices, until then.

Just wait doc, it gets better!

“Please continue,” he requested.

I intently watched him, still pondering my thoughts, as he pushed up from his chair and turned on a funky-looking portable tape recorder. He placed his chair closer to the bedside, and he rapidly jotted down notes as I continued to speak.



At the time I didn’t understand the proposal; however, I knew this really upset my mother. She rallied in the streets, protesting with others who were against capital punishment. In June of 2004, the Court of Appeals ruled the death penalty unconstitutional, but it still exists in a few other states. The whole concept seems a bit hard-core to me, but then again, if someone murdered someone in my family, or a friend, I might change capital punishment. After all, it’s hard to really know your core beliefs until you’re in the face of adversity.

The universe made the choice for my mother when she dropped out of law school once she discovered she was pregnant. Unfortunately, that didn’t work out either way.

My grandmother told me it nearly killed my mother when she lost the baby during the delivery. It was a little girl. To this day, I still think that she lost a part of her soul when her baby girl died, and my mother’s dreams died with her; she never returned to school to finish her law degree.

After losing her first child, it was nearly seven years later when she became pregnant with me.



I wasn’t one to stop anything when told. I needed her to understand the voices were not mine. “Well,
my inside voice
is like a man’s voice—and there are lots of them and they talk like daddy.” I lowered my voice to a deeper husky tone, personating my father’s sleepy morning banter. “Good morning, Brielle.”

“Wow, that is really deep.” My mother chuckled endearingly.

I wrinkled my nose and shrugged. “I don’t want to be a man on the inside,” I whined.

My mother exhaled heavily out of frustration. “Brielle, you are not a man or a boy. Look, you’re a pretty little girl”—she took my hand and stood me in front of the mirror. In the reflection of the mirror—me—a scrawny twig, with big cotton candy pale blonde hair, bug eyes and lips that were too big for my face. I was dressed in a pink tutu and tights. I followed my mother’s eyes as she scanned the full area of my room—“Everything you own is pink, my sweet princess.” She smoothed down the wild-waves of my hair.

Looking back at the decor in my room, my mother was right about all that pink. I had pink sheets, pink curtains, pink walls, and even pink carpet—I had never realized a bottle of
Pepto Bismol
had thrown-up all over my bedroom. The side effects of all the pink made me want to puke, remembering it again.

“You love dolls and girly-girl things. A little boy would
not
want to play with dolls, ever.” My mother’s grimace turned into a squirrelly and contradictive grin. She flushed. “That was a catch-22,” she whispered under her breath, trying to hide the comment from me, but I heard it.

“What does catch-22 mean?” I bobbed my head with a tight-lined smile plastered on my face. Even at four years old, I knew her behavior was slightly cryptic.

“Hum...here, let’s try this.” She ignored my question. It was not until many years later that I realized why she diverted my question.
Some boys do play with dolls.
“Think of something and say it to yourself in your head, without saying your words out loud.”

“Okay,” I replied, agreeing.
I love you Mommy,
I said inwardly.

“Now tell me, what did you say on the inside?”

“I said...I love you mommy.” I grinned, aching to hear her say the words back to me.

“I love you too”—she squeezed me tight—“See, it sounded like your own voice, right?” Her brows rose inquisitively.

“Yep.” I jumped into her lap and hugged her back in a death grip.

“Good. I am glad we figured this out together.”

“But, Mommy, the voices they—they’re not like my inside voice,” I whined.

“Brielle, this is your imagination. Please sweetie, you need to make the voices go away.” Her words were followed by a weary look of despair, which again, she tried to hide from me. I smiled up into her misted green eyes.

“Tell me why, Mommy?” When our eyes locked so did our hearts, as always, and the despaired look on her face was chased away by a slight smile that slowly panned her face.

“Brielle...” She paused and batted her lashes, breaking our connection. “Talk to them right now and tell them to go away. Now,” she demanded sternly.

“But, why Mommy?” I asked, pursing out my bottom lip.

“Now, Brielle.  Tell them to go away.”

“Fine then.” I sluggishly crawled out of her lap. “Go away!” I yelled as loud as I could, jutting out my hip to one side in what I imagined was a very fierce manner. There was no answer. I waited. My mother’s eyes were glued to me in a hard-pressed stare. I rolled my eyes around, upward, then side to side. “I guess they’re gone.” I shrugged, arms wavering at the elbows, fingers curled in and palms facing up.

She pursed her lips and said, “Thank goodness,” as she lifted herself from the rug.

“You are mean. You made them go away,” I shouted, throwing myself face down on my bed. “I like it when they sing to me.”

“They sing?” Her words vibrated as she said them and an intense expression of concern filled her eyes. “What do they sing to you?” She crawled across my bed, and positioned herself on her side next to me, curious about my answer.

I anchored my shoulders, leaning up toward her. “I don’t know.” I paused, contemplating as children do, while I caressed one of my mother’s pink cheeks softly with my small polished fingertips. Pink fingertips.

“Do you remember Papa Grant, Mommy?”

“Of course I do. He was my grandfather, but I am surprised you still remember him.”

“I do. Kind of...he was really old, with a bald head, right?” I asked, and she responded by nodding, yes.

“Did you know that I called him Papa Shark?” she asked, smiling.

“Nope. Did you call him that because he had no hair like a shark?” I asked, and then chomped my teeth up and down imitating a shark’s bite.

“No, because he used to pretend to be a shark—he would chase me around the pool like a big mean shark and acted like he was going to gobble me up. I always acted like I was scared and screamed at the top of my lungs, but I really loved it. I sure do miss him.” Her voice trailed, and her gaze fell distant for a moment. The lines on her forehead relaxed, she looked peaceful.

“That’s a nice memory, Mommy.”

“Yes it is...he was a wonderful man.” She paused, sitting up, still reflecting on her memories. “I think I heard Daddy come in downstairs.” She listlessly wandered towards the doorway.

If I had known better, I would have just let her leave my room. But instead, I just kept rambling on about the voices. I’m not sure what triggered me to go on about them. I guess I was making a point.

“Well, Mommy, the voices—they sing songs like Papa Grant did. Those funny olden day songs.”

In my eyes, my mother was the sweetest person that walked the face of the earth. Aside from my grandmother, my mom was my best friend. However, on that particular evening she turned on me, and her understanding nature disappeared. At the mere mention of the voices, she whipped back around, and I could have sworn that her pale complexion turned to a whiter shade; it was as if she had seen a ghost. She grabbed me tightly by the forearms and scolded me, harshly.

“I don’t like you having voices in your head. This is bad, Brielle. We will not talk about them ever again! I mean this...do you understand me?” Her voice pierced my eardrums.

“No. I don’t. I don’t understand, Mommy,” I stammered, stomping my foot for effect. My eyes pulled together tightly, piercing into hers. I could feel my cheeks turning red.

My mother rivaled blueberry punch stains everyday, which are stubborn, but not as stubborn as I was. Certainly, I was my mother’s cross to bear, at times, but she never accused me of being such a demanding child.

“Do not challenge me, Brielle. You do not need to understand everything right now, except for, there are no such things as voices in your head—people will call you terrible names if you talk about—No more voices...make them go away or—or a doctor will...” Her words had sharp edges.

A doctor? What would the doctor do to me?
The threat of a doctor was enough to scare me into obeying.

“Okay, no doctors. But why?” I cried. Tears dampened my cheeks. My mother offered no explanation, of course, I was four years old at the time so why should she?

“Because I said so...don’t ask me any more questions. Just obey me or—or I will—I will spank you.” Her tone was fuming.

She bit her bottom lip, hard, as if even she was shocked by her own threats. My mother had never threatened to spank me prior to that day. This was also the one and only time in my life she used the lame phrase, as many parents do,
“Because I said so.
”

I stood there shaking like a leaf. Tears welled in my eyes. The grave seriousness in her voice, in that moment, caused me to fear her for the very first time. She paced my room, back and forth, speechless. Then she suddenly buckled to her knees and began sobbing.

“Please, it’s okay...I would never spank you. I promise but—” She hung her face to hide her tears from me.

I dried my tears with my tiny fingers. I assured her that my invisible friends would never hurt me. This made her emotional angst worsen; she burst into uncontrollable cries. This frightened me to death. I was afraid she would never stop crying, and I would be the one to blame.

“Mom...mie, I promise too, I will never talk to them again. Don’t cry, Mommy,” I pleaded with her. Between her cries, she pleaded with me too, reinforcing once again, that I was to never speak to the voices in my head ever again.

My mother held true to her promise and, through the years, she had never paddled me. Over time, the voices disappeared and life went on as usual. Well, until it did not anymore.

-17-

An Understanding

On a rainy night, long after the voices had vanished, I crawled into my bed. My troop of stuffed animals stared back at me in my dimly lit room. The shadow from the moon shining through my window, distorted the images of my dolls, making them look haunted in the dark. I shut my eyes, pulling the blanket over my head and hummed my favorite song:
Hush A Bye Mountain
. I knew every word. I learned it from watching the movie
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
over and over again.

The movie and my repetitive watching of it often helped me to fall asleep. Then, like magic, the music and the words manifested into something much more than just the music that lulled me to sleep every night.

The song grew louder and louder, mixing with my voice. My eyes batted open, and I sprung up to investigate the change. The lullaby was not playing on the radio or on the television, and instead, it suffused in my head.

“You’re back,” I blurted out. I covered my mouth, trying to stifle my words. I could not talk to them; I promised. I had to obey my mother. But, the voices continued to sing. They sounded so lovely together, so I leaned back against my pillow and listened. Before I knew it, I had fallen asleep.

Night after night, they sang to me. I loved all their voices and their songs. I pretended I could not hear them. This wasn’t easy. I had to keep my promise to my mother, so I just listened and refrained from singing along. I was also careful not to speak to anyone about them. In order to keep my word, I refused to communicate with them for the longest time.

Days and weeks and months passed by without uttering a word, or even acknowledging the voices, other than by listening to their magical tunes. I honestly did my best to ignore them.

“Brielle—Brielle—Brielle. Talk to me. No. Talk to me. Brielle, you only need to talk to me for now.”
They all spoke in tandem—at once. I found it funny—their parents must not have taught them any manners.

Without thinking I blurted out, “You’re going to get me in trouble. I’m not allowed to talk to you guys anymore,” I firmly said, and then hoped that they didn’t hear me.

It was too late; I had broken the ice. They knew I could hear them now. This ignited a rampage of banter between them. It seemed that they were all pining for my attention.