the well of her heart

8/9/2019 The Well of Her Heart

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The Well of Her Heart

My father had fallen into one of his despondencies again; the illness creeping around him. Icould see the black tendrils fogging his vision, snaring his eyesight so that he looked only into

the apathetic grayness that promised him a pleasing oblivion at the same time that they trapped

him in nightmarish visions. I could only see to his comfort, arranging the pillows behind him onthe bed and placing a mug of coffee at his side, before, my voice trembling with fear and need, Icalled Michael.

Please, I asked him, would you meet me down by the banyan tree?

A phrase I had stolen from Chicka-Chicka Boom Boom, as I always misremembered it as the

letters A, B and C going down to meet at the banyan tree. In truth, it was a willow tree that wemet at, and it was beside a large and glossy lake, flaming with the last tinges of a merciless

sunset. Michael came down to find me; I had spread out my skirt as though I were a goose-girland I looked into the ripples of the lake, having plashed a stone against it. I shivered as though I

were cold and Michael took off his sweater, wrapping it around me. I looked up at himgratefully, inexpressibly grateful, the silver that shot through his kipa srugah catching the

sunlight for a moment and twinkling with joy.

Whats up, my Lisa? he inquired as he stretched out his long legs and unfolded himself, fadinginto a peacable darkness. For reasons I never quite understood, the darkness seemed bearable

when Michael was around. I unfolded myself as well and leaned against him; his stolid strengthgiving me warmth and thus, strength.

What we did was forbidden. This I well knew, having been schooled in the ways of shomer

negiah since time immemorial, hearing always of the sin and the lustful, lascivious thoughtsconcealed behind the minds of men and boys. I did not care. All that I knew was that I need

protection and wanted to ally myself with someone against the world, against the darkness thatinflamed my heart and made me tremble with despair, and it was Michael who I turned to, as

Michael was the only one who knew me or understood me.

He stroked my hair and I leaned against his chest; he crossed one arm protectively under mybreasts. I shivered. He kissed the top of my head. What has happened now, Lisa? he asked in a

very tender way, a very quiet way, and it was on my lips to thank him for the quietness, except Icould not think but for my father.

Its one of his moods, I said softly. Michael immediately understood. He pulled me closer, so

that I was on his lap, and then he played with the hair behind my ears.

Is it a bad one? he questioned. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Michael had becomefamiliar with our lonely home above the bluff, the hilltop that I considered my own. My father, a

widower, who had lost my mother to a bad bout of cancer, fell prey sometimes to depressionsand strange blacknesses of mood that I could never predict with accuracy. Of late, it had been

more prevalent, and I was frightened. Though there were many in the town who would reach out


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to us, wishing to help us, I was proud and did not wish them to see my father this way. And so Ipretended I was fine, believing I was- to all but Michael.

Do you know what brings them on? he questioned and I shook my head, my lips quivering. I

was struggling not to cry. As I had been bullied when I was younger, I had taught myself not to

cry, not to lose face, and so it was imperative for me never to do so. Not even before Michael. Icould trust no one, least of all Michael, with my weakness. The strength of his touch held meagainst a world I could not otherwise envision; in the darkness and the dusk that set in against the

sunset, I found myself cradled and held and it was with a sense of relief that I snuggled againsthim silently.

He was quiet for several more moments. A tall boy, his brown hair fell in straight smooth layers

that fanned out across his head. Ordinary brown eyes and cheeks spattered with freckles madehim seem very typical, hiding his special qualities. His pants were a plain black cut; his polo

shirt was blue. His tzitzit peeked out from beneath the shirt; I reached for them to soothe me. Iran my fingers across the long entwined strands, looking at the blueness of the one thread amidst

the others. This was the tekheles, the one that was precious to God.

Im never able to be a help to him in these moods, I confided. I try my hardest but I fail. Andhes too proud to seek treatment- Prozac, Zyrtec, who even knows what the drugs are called? I

dont even know if they could help him. I think sometimes these moods are his way of mourningmy mother- of course, that supposes that hes able to control them. Which he isnt, I concluded

quietly.

In the darkness, all you could make out was our silouhettes, entangled and entwined beneath thecomforting willow. She bore down at us, the wind sloughing through her leaves making a sweet

music, the reeds gracefully shaking. There was a soft beauty in the dance the willow performedand it washed over me and strengthened me. I was afraid, and the fear bit into me. It lived within

desperately, even though I struggled to master it. Michael spoke to my fear.

Lisa, he said softly, your love for him sees him through. There is nothing you can do what thedark side of God crosses his path; he cannot be treated unless he wishes for treatment. And you

yourself seem aware that he does not.

I nodded. Nevertheless, I explained, I feel that with me being so often away at college-

The summer tugged at me, tugged at him, knitting our hands together. I twined my fingersthrough his. Dont blame yourself, he suggested, for attempting to continue with your own

life. You have talked to him; you have tried to convince him. What more can you do?

I was thinking perhaps I could go see the doctor myself. Maybe persuade him to give me thepills and crush them up and put them in his food.

And then what would happen as soon as you went back to college again? Michael questioned

and she shrugged uncomfortably. It was difficult, seeing as she still lay against him, so the shrugwas more of a ripple of the arms as they moved against his chest.


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I know that he is the one who needs to seek treatment, she said, but I dont know how to

convince him it is necessary. All that I know is that these dark nights of the soul are a torment tome; that all I wish was that I had the means to make him well again. She hid her face from him,

buried it against his sleeve. The weave of the polo shirt was softer than it was scratchy; it was

clear that he had washed the shirt a couple of times.

He sighed. Lisa, Lisa, he said comfortably, familiarly, just as he had said her name many times

before. It was two years now since he had begun dating her and he was as familiar with her fearsas he was with her joys. He knew that she hid her head against his sleeve because tears had come

into her eyes; there they dangled precariously and she was frightened lest she shed them.

His arm tightened around her back and he pulled her closer, nestled her against him. I wish thatyou would cry, he whispered in her ear. It is not good to be so strong.

She was silent; she could not speak; her voice choked with emotion.

She remembered the teacher with her sinuous grace, her eyes wild and raving as she stood before

her, threatening her. She remembered the teacher but not the words. She saw the woman in herminds eye, saw herself, feeling threatened with tears streaming down her face. She felt sick,

nauseous, as though she had to vomit. She contained the feeling. She couldnt remember thewords and that troubled her. If she couldnt remember the words, perhaps the memory was false.

Perhaps it had never happened. Perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her.

This was her great fear, that she had invented a past that had not quite happened that way, buthad enough truth to confuse her. She wondered at times whether the things she had believed

happened had really happened, surprised by the joy and wonder so many of her other classmatesseemed to feel. She did not understand why she alone was touched by these unhappy thoughts;

she would not accept that it was because she was different that she had been brutalized. Instead,she wondered whether perhaps she was going mad. Perhaps her fathers malady had touched her

as well; perhaps it was inherited. Yet in her it did not manifest as depression, but rather as a formof psychosis.

She shook her head, clearing the thoughts away like cobwebs. Michael looked at her face and

seemed troubled by something he saw in her eyes. What is it? he questioned.

Nothing, she answered brusquely, not wanting to explain it to him.

He stood up. I know that is not true, he answered quietly, brushing the dirt from his pants. Hewas careful not to look at her, knowing she would not want to be viewed in her exposed,

vulnerable state, the sheen of tears in her eyes.

Nothing I want to talk about, she clarified. He nodded.

Ill walk you back to the house, he said. She walked briskly ahead of him; he followed. Sheshould feel grateful to him, to his solicitude, his desire to see her safely home. Instead she felt


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irritated, unworthy, as though by doing this he went out of his way for no one and nobody, aworthless creature who could not repay his kindness in any form.

She clicked open the combination code and went inside, stopping in her fathers bedroom. He

slept. In his sleep he seemed happy, an innocence stole over his features and lit him with a kind

of inner peace. She wondered whether that peace reflected his true dreams; sometimes she hadfound him cowering, crying out because of the nightmares that afflicted him. She believed heoften dreamt of her mother.

Come, Michael motioned to her, and he opened the door to her room. He stepped inside,

waiting as she slipped into her pajamas, which consisted merely of a tanktop and shorts, and theninside her bed. Good night, he said and kissed her on the forehead.

Would you stay with me? she asked, her voice betraying more need than she had wished.

Of course, he said, and pulled up a chair so that he sat next to the bed.

I mean, she began, but then her voice cracked and she could not continue. No matter. He

understood.

Yes, he said, and slipping off his shoes, he climbed beneath the covers and cradled her, willingher to feel safe from all harm.

~

What do you feel the problem is, Ms. Emerson? the doctor questioned her and she fidgeted

nervously. She looked down at her fingers, was twiddling her thumbs anxiously. She startedtapping her feet against the floor. Then she stopped and looked back up at the lady who was

looking at her so kindly. It was hard to formulate the words she wanted to say.

I doubt my own memory, she responded at last. It seemed the simplest formulation to depictthe problem.

Could you elaborate? the kindly doctor questioned.

Its not like Alzheimers or anything. Its just that I seem to have imagined that things happened

to me that couldnt, I mean, didnt really happen that way. Like I have a feeling that somethinghappened that was bad. I have a strong feeling that someone hurt me or attacked me. But I know

this cant be true. Someone would have intervened if that were the case.

The doctors blue eyes focused on her own; she paused for a moment and continued.

Plus, I know it was my own fault.

How was it your fault?


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It was my fault because I provoked it. I would argue with the teachers sometimes. It makessense that I brought this on myself. All these altercations I remember, these one-on-one meetings

in the classroom- I can visualize it in my mind, I remember the classroom and the teachers face-but not her voice. I cant remember what she is saying. Which is why I dont think it happened. I

think that maybe I made it up, maybe I just created it in order to come up with an excuse of why

I am angry with them. It worries me, you see, because I dont quite like the idea that Im goingslowly mad. She had tried to add a tinge of laughter to that, to try to make her problems seemsimpler, more entertaining and less threatening. She had failed, however; it was simply her

nervousness that shone through.

How do you know which memories are real and which ones are false, according to this theory?the doctor questioned kindly.

Lisa laughed. This is going to sound ridiculous, she said, but the only ones I know to be true

are the ones where I have written proof to support my assertions. There was this girl who mademy life a living hell in grade school. I read this book called Sticks and Stones by Miriam

Adahan and it said that sometimes people cant recall specific examples of what happened tothem when pressed and so they should keep a journal. So I wrote down two specific incidents

and those are the only ones that I remember. The same with what happened in my high school.Its only what I wrote down in my Chandlers, my assignment notebook, that I know to be an

absolute and incontrovertible fact. The same with how various friends have treated me. Its onlybecause I have it saved in my Gmail chats that I know it is true. If not for this- if one day they

were all deleted- well, whatever of it I could or would remember I would know happened. Butthe rest of it would not necessarily have happened.

She looked up at the doctor with a sense of mute appeal swimming in her eyes. Could the doctor

restore her memory? Could she grant her some kind of relief?

You say you always had this kind of memory loss? the doctor questioned.

Yes, Lisa answered succinctly. Perhaps it was because I did not want to remember, shethought. I did not want to remember that people could be so cruel. So I blocked it out. I forgot,

because to remember it would hurt me more.

Your memory is entirely linked to visual stimuli. Unless you see it written somewhere else, youdo not remember?

Not exactly, Lisa clarified. Unless I wrote it down at some point. I dont have to see the piece

of paper in front of me to remember it. I just have to remember that I wrote it. My handsremember; they remember typing the words, writing them, forming them with a pen. In my

mind, the paper comes to life and I see it again. But if I did not write it, it is like it did nothappen. As far as I am concerned, then, I cannot trust my memory. Because I dont know

whether it is truth that I remember or whether it is something I made up.

And why would you have made up these things? the doctor asked gently.


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Thats just it, Lisa wondered aloud. I dont know. I dont know why I would have gone to allthe effort, energy and trouble to make up stories about people. But I think a lot of it may have

had to do with recreating situations to fit the emotions I was feeling. Because I was feelingemotionally overwrought, I think I might have decided that my teacher acted a certain way or

that certain things happened to me, even though they didnt. Do you know what I mean?

Lisa, have you ever heard of Dr. Robin Stark? the doctor questioned, brown tendrils of her hairsnaking their way across her labcoat to cover the insignia with her name.

Lisa shook her head no.

She wrote a book about gaslighting. Do you know what gaslighting is?

Lisa didnt understand where the doctor was going with this. No, she answered, confused.

Theres a film called Gaslight, Lisa, in which a woman marries a man who is out to get her

money. In order to achieve this end, he decides to drive her insane. So one of the ways he doesthis is he dims the lights in the house and when she notices and asks him about it, he tells her he

hasnt noticed anything different happening. The lights arent dimmed. She starts to doubt herown sense of reality. She starts to believe she is making things up. Its not until a policeman

shows up at the end of the movie and he tells her that he sees the dimming of the lights as well,that she starts to believe her own sense of reality.

Lisa bit her lip. Mmmhmm, she said.

Do you understand where I am going with this? the doctor prodded gently.

Not exactly, Lisa said. No one took my sense of reality away from me. Im just telling you, I

dont remember things unless I write them down. Thats just a sign of a bad memory. Thats all.She noticed how anxious she sounded to herself, as though she were trying to preserve

someones reputation. She didnt know why she felt so anxious.

Thats possible, the doctor admitted. But I dont think it is probable. I think it is moreprobable that you have been faced with gaslighting throughout portions of your life and therefore

you have begun to doubt your own sense of reality. There is what you saw happening and whatyou were told happened and the two did not accord. It got to a point where you could not trust

what was in your own head. The only times you trusted it were when you wrote it down rightafterwards because you knew you hadnt had time to formulate any potentially- to your mind-

fictitious stories.

Youre saying that people have been able to steal away portions of my mind? Lisa askedincredulously.

Not steal, exactly, the doctor answered, a look of compassion crossing her face. Just make

you feel inferior and inadequate enough that your point of view and your version of the truthdidnt matter. You didnt know what to think and you probably wanted to respect these people in


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positions of authority. You probably didnt want to believe these adults or teachers could becapable of lying or otherwise hurting a mere girl. So you decided to change your perception of

reality to fit with theirs. The problem is that you became unsure of yourself, of your own reality.You also no longer understand who you are- you believe you are an unworthy person.

Lisa didnt want to give the doctor the satisfaction of explaining that it was not a belief but arational point of view. She knew she was an unworthy person. She had not been able to preventher father from falling into melancholic fits of depression. And it was only she who remembered

bouts of anger or cruelty from people everyone else told her had never behaved in a fashion thatwas anything but nice. So she didnt say anything.

Im sorry our time is up for today, the doctor said, putting her clipboard down on the desk.

But I want you to think a little bit about what we discussed. Ill see you again next Monday.

Lisa nodded, then stood up, smoothing out her pleated green skirt. She walked out of the office,her mind filled with questions.

Could it be? she wondered. But no. Why would she play tricks on herself like that? What would

be the point of it?

~

Lisa cried out in her sleep. Michael noticed that beads of sweat knotted on her brow. He calledher name softly.

Lisa, he stated, softly then louder. Lisa!

She woke with a cry, short and feral and harsh, as though she were a dog clawing her way out of

a confrontation.

What were you dreaming? he questioned. He had propped himself up on one elbow.

N-nothing, she said, and the hesitation showed that the dream had disturbed her.

Please, he asked and she looked at him and acquiesced.

A meeting with my therapist, she mumbled, her eyes not meeting his. They scanned the quilton her bed, the patchwork assortment of colors painted a dark blue by the evening light that

filtered through her window.

What was the matter? he questioned. He had not known she had a therapist, did not want tostartle her with questions about the doctor. Why did the dream disturb you?

She opened her eyes wide, looking at him carefully. He met her gaze.

Do you think I am sane? she questioned abruptly.


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What? he asked and his mouth fell open in surprise.

I think sometimes I dont know where I am, whether I am in an imaginary world, a dreamland,or reality. I think sometimes I pretend things happen that never happened. I think I make them

up. I cant know if they are true or false, but from the way everybody else acts, it seems like they

must be false. In short, I dont trust my memory or my perceptions. She stopped, sensing thatshe had said too much.

He traced a finger across the skin left exposed by the tanktop, across one shoulder and around thecurve of her neck. Of course I think you are sane, he answered.

Theres no of course about it, she replied bitterly. What would you think if I only knew

what is real when I write it? That otherwise, I dont know what really happened- I dont knowwhat really mattered- I dont even know whether it is true or not?

Do you know this is real? he questioned, his finger still carefully tracing her skin.

She shook herself irritably. Of course, she answered. But thats not the point. The motivation

of this moment, of you lying in my bed, is subject to interpretation. Later on, depending on how Iview you, I will remember this moment and ascribe all sorts of motivations on you that will vary

based on my mood. I wont know what the real one was, what the true one was. I am lost in acauldron of my own fantasies. I have no ability to perceive what is true. Her voice was shaking;

he could tell how bitterly this upset her.

Then let me clarify it to you, Michael told her. This is love. This is me loving you andwanting you to be well.

She made a noise in her throat that signaled disgust, then froze as she heard steps in the hallway.

Her father was awake and walking! Walking at night was never a good sign. She heard him cometo her door and her heart beat a rapid tattoo in her chest, thinking how ashamed he would be of

her if he saw her in bed with Michael when she was not married, when she was breaking thelaws

He threw open the door, a candle held aloft in his hand. Its shaky yellow glow filled the room.

He stared at her with blinded eyes, eyes all unseeing.

Maria, he called out and Lisa shivered uncontrollably. He was calling for her mother,searching for her ghost. Sometimes he had these vivid dreams, dreams which seemed to him so

real that he did not know the truth from fantasy himself.

He approached the bed and squinted down at her. His hair was silvered; his kind green eyesrheumy. His face was wrinkled. He wore a blue bathrobe and seemed disturbed. Maria? he

questioned again, as though he were lost, like a child.

Father, I am here, Lisa said, getting out of bed. She took her fathers arm and led him, like achild, out of the room and into his own room. There, she blew out the candle and slowly led him


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to sit on the bed. She pressed a cup of water to his lips, guarded him closely as he drank it. Then,untying the robe, she tried to take it off his shoulders but he protested.

Maria, he persisted, Maria, I am lonely here. Wont you stay with me? The depth of pain inthe plea pierced Lisas heart.

Of course I will stay with you, she whispered and crept into bed so that she lay next to herfather, offering him comfort through her nearness.

He closed his eyes wearily. Lisa remained pressed against him a while longer, then carefullyextricated herself from the bed. She stood in the path of the moonlight seeping into the room, the

window curtains blowing in the wind. Her hair was frosted silver; her lips formed a careful line.

Standing by the doorway, Michael saw the sobs that racked her body, saw her tremble as thoughunder the weight of an impossible burden, watched her crumple to the floor. He stepped forward

as though to help her, his hand suspended, wishing to rescue her from an impossible fate andsave her from an impossible doom. But the confusion in her eyes stymied him. There, a deep,

bottomless pit of Lethes dreams swum, almost as though she herself had taken an opiate so as todrug out the world. But it was the fragility of her body in contrast to the terrible weight of the

darkness that took her that unnerved him; it was that which brought the cry to his lips, so that heshouted her name with a pain that was inexpressible. Yet it seemed like his voice died on the

wind, and that no matter how hard he strove with the unrelenting fog, it masked his words andleft him impotently silent. She lay prostrated on the floor and he stood helpless; there was no

way to remove the stone that covered the well of her heart, and the doubt that filled her mindsuffused him with pity. She judged herself mad, as they had judged her mad, and though he knew

her to be sane, he did not have the words or the written proof to move her.

the well of her heart

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