A Prisoner in the Spaces between Time

 

Chris Marrs

Spring

The door shut behind me and I heard the lock engage. My father and I walked down the corridor to the door leading outside, to freedom. In the hallway, the scent of disinfectant barely masked the smell of desperate sweat. Our shoes squeaked on the waxed linoleum. Then my father was pushing open the outer door and I stepped out into balmy spring sunshine. I was free. Six months surrounded by institutional green and gray had felt like a lifetime. It was an experience I didn’t want to repeat.

With my father’s hand gently cupping my elbow, I walked down the steps to our Model T. On the lawn, a group of nurses guided the feebleminded in a chaotic game of croquette. Those of us in my former ward weren’t allowed out in groups. Only if we behaved were we rewarded by a half hour outside, alone but with a nurse, of course. A bee droned around a rose whose fragrance hung thick in the air. Hidden by the branches of a eucalyptus tree, a bird sang a sweet melody. All around me, nature whirred, hummed, and twittered, but there were no voices. Their absence gave me my freedom back.

~

Early Fall

“What if I were to tell you I heard voices when no one was around?”

I didn’t know why I asked what I did—it just slipped out—nor did I know how much Father Joshua, the young new priest who would soon take Father Edward’s place once he retired, knew of my past.

Father Joshua didn’t answer at first. Laughter and good-natured chatter from the little group walking not too far ahead of us filled his silence. Frogs croaked in the pond behind us, a twig snapped, and an owl asked, “Who?” Low-lying fog hid the blanket of cedar chips covering the path and muted the sound of our footsteps as we walked back to the mansion. Lights from the house twinkled intermittently through the foliage. I shivered in the cool night and, as I rubbed my exposed biceps for warmth, wished I’d thought to bring my shawl. My new dress wasn’t meant for nighttime strolls. Father Joshua removed his coat and draped it over my shoulders. The lapels smelled of incense and pipe tobacco. I mumbled an awkward thank you.

“Did you say you hear voices?”

From his tone, I couldn’t discern if he’d been informed of my past issue, so I said, “No, I’m speaking hypothetically.”

A giggle from the group ahead rolled toward us.

“How did you move from the Latin names of conifers and deciduous trees to hypothetical voices?” he asked.

I watched the fog shift and twist while I thought of a plausible answer. Tendrils of mist crept up the tree trunks like gray flames and I had my answer.

“I was reading about Joan of Arc and her recent canonization,” I said.

“For class? Surely they aren’t teaching you about saints in public school?”

Before I had time to reply, my brother Marcus turned and called, “Come on, slowpoke.”

I hastened my pace. When I caught up to Marcus and his friends, I slid into the middle of the pack and struck up a conversation with his fiancée. The flapper dress she wore was the cat’s pajamas and I told her so. Envy crept into my voice. In one more year, I’d be a woman and able to choose my own clothing, my own life. I could hardly wait.

We rounded a corner and the mansion came into view. All eyes turned our way when we walked up. My mother noticed us and excused herself.

“We’ll continue our conversation later,” Father Joshua said when he’d caught up to me.

Remembering Father Joshua’s coat still lay around my shoulders, I slipped it off and handed it to him.

“Thank you again,” I said.

“My pleasure,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll go extend my farewells.”

Father Joshua ascended the steps as my mother descended. Her heels clacked on the stone steps. The gold cross around her neck caught the light and flashed. She nodded at the priest and came toward me.

“Did you enjoy your walk?” Her blue eyes searched my face as if she had a question she wanted to ask but dared not.

“It was delightful,” I said. Then, because the look on her face spurred me on, I added, “And Father Joshua is quite understanding about the voices. He said I should talk to them.”

My mother’s round little face blanched. Her hand flew to her throat and fondled the cross. Instantly, guilt washed over me and I wanted to take my words back.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I was teasing. It was out of line and I apologize.”

“Not funny, Greta.” She frowned. “I think it’s time you go up to your room to bed. Tomorrow’s a big day. You’ll want to be alert for Mass and to bid your father and brother goodbye.” She referred to my father and brother’s journey to Africa for a safari. They wouldn’t be back until Christmas.

Not quite ready to head to my room, I shifted my weight from foot to foot while thinking up a way to convince her to let me stay. In the end, I decided not to push my luck, kissed my mother on the cheek, and bid her a good night. While I made my way into the house, the ladies gathered there tried to be discreet as they watched me pass by. They’d been told I spent the winter and spring with an aunt in New York, but not why. It bothered them. I’m sure they believed, gossipy ladies that they were, that my stay in New York was to hide a possible scandal, one taking nine months to gestate. I smiled to myself. Let them think it.

Once in my room, I closed the door, sat at my vanity, and picked up my hairbrush. As I ran the brush through my hair, I wondered about my voices and why they’d returned. I’d thought they were gone for good, figured my internment in the mental hospital had cured me, but apparently not. They weren’t the righteous voices Joan of Arc heard, or I didn’t think they were. Joan of Arc claimed, according to my readings, what she heard was the voice of God commanding her to greatness. Maybe that’s why they’d come back; maybe they were angels testing me to see if I was worthy. No, angels wouldn’t ask the same mundane questions over and over again.

Are you here?

My hand opened involuntarily. The brush clattered onto the vanity and knocked into the little jars of creams and makeup collected there. I put a hand on my chest, thinking the action would settle the pounding of my heart. Angels or not, they still startled me. I wanted them to leave me alone. I didn’t want to go back to the hospital.

If you can hear us, show us by making the lights on the device sitting on the bed flash.

I opened my music box to drown out the voices. The little ballerina spun her slow pirouette, forever on one foot, her image eternally confined to the small round mirror. Für Elise plinked and plunked as the little metal drum revolved and the forks caught on the raised bumps of the tune. I know this, because I once took a different music box apart to see how the song was played. Father had applauded my curiosity. Mother said it was unladylike to disassemble things to see how they work.

There. Look. Did you see that? The lights moved.

“What lights?”

I clamped a hand over my mouth. I’d never spoken to the voices before.

No answer. The tinny sound of the music box started to jar on my nerves so I closed it, cutting off Für Elise mid-plink.

There, they moved again. What is your name?

Feeling bold, I answered, “Greta. What are your names?”

Again they didn’t reply. I wondered if there was a connection between the lights they spoke of and my music box, so I reopened it. Excited chatter wove through the song.

Is this Simon? A pause. Is this Elizabeth?

“No, it’s Greta,” I said.

A tentative knock on the door startled me and I slammed the music box shut. I ignored the exclaiming voices and prayed that whoever knocked hadn’t been listening at the door.

“Come in,” I said.

My father came in and shut the door, one hand on the knob and one on the door to ensure it closed without a sound. I was surprised to see him and not my mother.

“Who were you talking to?” he asked. My scalp prickled as a blush crept over my cheeks. I looked away. “Please tell me you’re not hearing voices again.”

“I’m not, Father. They’re gone.” The lie sounded raspy as it left my dry mouth.

“Are you still taking your medication?”

My ears grew hot and I picked at a loose cuticle. “Of course.”

“Did you really tell Father Joshua about the voices?”

I stopped picking and looked up. A log in the fire crackled, then shifted and sent sparks whirling up the chimney. The lines around my father’s green eyes looked deeper. His shoulders stooped forward and his bowtie hung crooked. He seemed weary. I felt bad for what I said to Mother, for causing unintentional trouble during his bon voyage party.

“No,” I said. Not a complete falsehood. “And I’m sorry I told her I did.”

“Greta, honey, am I going to have to worry about you while I’m gone?” he asked.

“No.”

He clapped his hands together as if in relief. “That’s good, then.” A ghost of a devilish smile crossed his lips. “Maybe I’ll bring you home a lion skin for your wall.”

“Eww, no thanks. A tribal mask would be nice.”

“We’ll see.” He opened the door. “See you in the morning, pumpkin.” Without waiting for a reply, he left.

I picked up my hairbrush, put it down without combing my hair, and stripped from my dress instead. The cooling air raised goose bumps up and down my arms. It reminded me how nippy nights were in the institution. Not wanting to think about my time there, I stood, grabbed my nightgown from the bed, and pulled it over my head. My gold cross, a twin of my mother’s, slipped under the neckline and hung cold against my skin.

I flopped into bed, clicked off the lamp, and snuggled under the down comforter, so soft compared the wool blanket… I wasn’t going to complete the thought, so I listened to the faint noises of the party downstairs. Soon the conversation died away. From outside came the various sounds of cars starting. The last of the guests were on their way home. I turned onto my back as the ticking of the clock on the mantle—and the creaks and groans of a house settling into sleep—became the only noises.

On a whim, I whispered, “Are you there?”

Silence.

~

Mist rose off the surface of the pond as I watched early morning water skippers skate across the surface. The sun shone between the tree branches to warm the top of my head, yet the rest of me remained chilly. A family of deer emerged from the brush on the other side of the pond and stopped to sniff the air before walking down the gentle rise. The buck stood guard as the doe and her fawn drank. As I watched the family, a sense of elation warmed the parts of me the sun didn’t reach. Muscles I didn’t know were tense relaxed. I began to believe everything was going to be all right.

“Why, hello there,” I said to them.

“Who are you talking to?” my mother asked. I jumped. I hadn’t heard her come up. “The voices are back, aren’t they?”

Since the night of the bon voyage party a week ago, the voices had asked their questions. Even though I had taken up answering them, they never heard me. It exasperated me. If they wanted to communicate, why didn’t they hear me? Of course, I wasn’t going to tell my mother this.

“I was talking to the deer,” I said. Then to switch topics, “Have you heard from Father and Marcus yet?”

My mother drew me to her side and said, “Greta, please feel you can confide in me if the voices come back.” Apparently, she wasn’t going to drop the subject. “I only care about your well-being.”

“Of course, Mother.”

~

When the little partition slid back, I said, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last confession.” I paused. A part of me didn’t want to confess the sin of my lie, but the guilt sat heavy on my conscience.

“Go on, my child. State your sins,” a deep male voice said, muffled by the grate dividing the confessional booth.

I took a breath and barreled ahead. “I lied to my parents by telling them everything was well with me. And I lied to Father Joshua.” I heard a sharp intake of air come from the other side. “I told him I was curious about hearing voices because of Joan of Arc, but the truth is, I am hearing the voices again.”

The priest shifted on his bench. A waft of pipe tobacco, subtle yet familiar, cut through the myrrh. What was Father Joshua doing here? This wasn’t his church; it was Father Patrick’s. I chastised myself as I remembered Father Patrick had fallen ill and Father Joshua would replace him in the interim. The confessional seemed to shrink.

My heart pounded. The blood rushing through my body sounded like the whispers of a seashell held to the ear. I struggled with the doorknob. My sweat-slicked palms slipped from the cool brass. I wiped my hands on my coat, tried again, and managed to turn the knob. I tumbled out into the church and bolted down the aisle. An older woman looked up from her prayer and frowned as I ran past. I didn’t mumble an apology, just kept running.

I burst out into the foggy day. The chilly mist wrapped me in its embrace as my wool coat bounced against the back of my calves. My hair swept back from my face. The cold nipped at my exposed ears. My hat. I’d left it on the bench. Mother wouldn’t be impressed I’d lost my new hat, but I didn’t dare return to retrieve it. When the outline of our car emerged from the fog, I slowed my pace. Henry, our handyman and driver, stood with one foot on the front tire while he smoked a cigarette. He flicked it into the street once he noticed me.

“About finished with your shopping?” he asked. His gaze moved to my empty hands and he raised an eyebrow.

“Couldn’t find what I was looking for,” I said. “Please take me home now.”

I opened the back door and slid in. Worries and what-ifs cycled around my brain. I chewed on my bottom lip. People walked by, but I didn’t really see them. They were only vague, moving shadows as I prayed I wouldn’t be sent back to the hospital. Henry cursed when the car wouldn’t start at first, then we were off and heading toward home.

~

Following the scent of bacon, I skipped down the stairs, lighthearted. Three weeks had passed since my confession and I’d neither seen nor heard from Father Joshua. To add to my happiness, a letter had arrived from my father, saying they’d reached Africa safely. My favorite day of the year, Halloween, was nearing. Today was a day off from classes. Everything in my world was the bee’s knees.

I fairly waltzed through the foyer to the dining room, then froze in mid-step. On top of the table by the door sat my forgotten hat. Voices carried from the great room and, as their conspiratorial tone reached my ears, I recognized the male voice. The bacon forgotten, I crept forward to eavesdrop.

“Are you sure this is the only way?” my mother asked.

“Yes,” Father Joshua said. “And, given the hospital’s failure, so does the Church. The sanction for an exorcism arrived yesterday.”

My hands shook as I back away. Tremors rolled up my arms, into my shoulders, and down my back. Before they reached my legs, I turned and slunk back to my room. I wasn’t able to think of anywhere else to go. Quietly, I shut the door and stared at it. A tornado of questions tumbled through my mind. Foremost was whether my mother would allow him to perform an exorcism or would she have me recommitted?

If you can hear us, give us a sign.

My stomach plummeted. I groaned inwardly. Not now.

I don’t think anyone’s here.

“Leave me alone.” I knew they wouldn’t hear me, but a part hoped they’d sense I wanted them gone.

Give it a minute.

“No!” I yelled. Then, realizing what I’d done, I whispered, “Go away.”

The doorknob rattled and Father Joshua stormed into the room, his handsome face twisted into ugliness by the downward points of his lips. I backed away until my knees hit the edge of the bed and forced me to sit. His long legs carried him to my bed in a couple of strides. He cocked his head and stared down, gray eyes narrowing while he studied me. My mother hovered in the hallway and wrung her hands.

“To whom are you talking?” he asked, his tone hard and clipped.

I tried to scrabble to the other side of the bed, but he grabbed my arms and pinned them to my sides.

“Don’t just stand there. Help me!” I called to my mother. She remained where she was.

“Is it Satan?” he asked.

“No, it’s no one.” I gazed at his belt buckle.

He crouched, so I had no choice but to look at him. “Liar.”

Spittle misted my cheeks.

“Don’t let him do this to me, Mother.” The frustration I felt building in my chest brought tears to my eyes. They spilled over. “The voices, they’re gone. I was only talking to myself.”

“Greta, lying won’t make things easier,” she said. “Father Joshua knows what he’s doing. It’s for the best, you’ll see.”

Pain flared along my forearms as he tightened his hold. Panic displaced the frustration. It constricted my breath and, acting on instinct, I kicked at his shins. He grunted and took a small step back. It gave me an idea. I lifted both feet to his chest, then, before he registered my intent, pushed with all my strength. He let go of my arms and tried to catch his balance.

“Ellen, get some rope,” he said.

“Is that really necessary, Father?”

“Do it. Now,” he said. I heard her scurry away. Just then, I hated her for obeying him and not helping me.

I scooted to the other side of the bed in an attempt to get away, but Father Joshua took hold of my ankles and drew me toward him. I twisted and bucked. No use. The skirt of my dress bunched up around my waist and I felt a cool draft on my thighs. Humiliation colored my cheeks. A fresh round of tears prickled my eyes, turning his features into a broken kaleidoscope image. I blinked them away. Father Joshua fell into focus once more, only I wished he hadn’t. He stared at the undergarments exposed by my hiked-up dress. The unmasked desire that flickered across his features frightened me.

He noticed me watching him and said, “Satan is strong in you, Greta.”

A fresh surge of adrenaline pumped through my system. I heaved myself to the left, then the right. My skull cracked against the headboard. I’d misjudged how close to the top of the bed I was. Black dots twinkled through my vision. As I shook my head to clear it, Father Joshua took advantage of my dazed state to pin my arms again and straddle my chest.

At that moment, Mother came in with the ropes. When she saw him atop me, she pursed her lips but remained silent. Father Joshua directed her what to do. While they tied me to the bed, my mother refused to look at me. Once they’d bound me, arms to the headboard and feet to the footboard, she smoothed down my dress. I glared at her.

“Don’t be afraid.” She kissed me on the forehead. “Trust Father Joshua. He’ll rid you of your demons and bring you back into God’s light.” Denying me the chance to plead again for her help, she left.

Father Joshua took a glass syringe out of his jacket pocket. Lucky for him, it hadn’t shattered during the struggle.

A fresh wave of fear crested to become terror. “What’s that for?”

“Just something to relax you so I can exorcise Satan and his demons from your body,” he said. “Hold still.”

Even if I wanted to, I wasn’t able to move, so taut had they tied my arms above my head. A sharp prick, then the sensation of coolness flooded my vein. I screamed.

Did you hear that?

“Help me,” I yelled, even though I knew it would go unheeded.

Yeah, it sounded like someone asked for help.

Screamed first, then asked for help.

“It was me. I asked for help.”

Father Joshua backhanded me across my face.

My head snapped to the side. I tasted blood. The sharp ache along the tip of my tongue overrode the sting of his slap.

“Be quiet, Satan,” he said. He removed his Bible from another pocket, shrugged off his coat, and started to recite the Lord’s Prayer. “Our Father who art in Heaven.”

The sedative drew my thoughts into its swaddled cotton embrace. Father Joshua’s words slid past my ears like a gramophone winding down. Their elongated sound lost meaning.

“Give us this day,” Father Joshua continued.

I can’t hear anything now. Ask a question.

“Help me,” I said one more time, before the darkness overwhelmed me.

~

I surfaced to an argument.

“Stop,” my mother said. “Hasn’t she suffered enough?”

“I’ll cease when Satan has left her,” Father Joshua said.

My head pounded and their harsh words exacerbated the throbbing. I turned in their direction. The world spun with the pain, blinding me, and I only saw blurry forms. When I tried to tell them to be quiet, the words stuck in my dry throat.

“Maybe I should call the doctor,” my mother said, not quite a question and not a statement either.

The tension in the air became almost palpable. Father Joshua sighed.

“Don’t let your faith fail you,” he said. “Put your trust in God and me and go pray. Pray for your daughter’s soul.”

“But look at her, look at how thin she’s become. I can’t stand it much longer.” I saw her shadowy form walk to the bed and lean over me. “How much longer?”

I wanted to tell her I’d rather spend a year in the mental institution than another day here, but I was slipping back into the void.

I definitely heard voices this time. It almost sounded like an argument. Let’s go see if we picked it up on the recorder.

~

Next time I rose into awareness, Father Joshua was standing over me, shaking a vial and speaking in Latin. His hair stood in points, resembling a deranged aura, and his open belt buckle clacked with each thrust of his arm. The cool liquid splashed down and soothed my burning body.

“…burns…” I said, my tongue thick and furry, my mouth dry, as I tried to say the water felt cool on my burns.

Father Joshua switched to English and began shouting for Satan to get back in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Up and down, up and down went the vial. I felt myself fading away.

The last thing I saw before the dark took me was my music box. The ballerina waited for the music to begin so she could dance.

~

Summer

I watched my mother sit on my bed and sob as she did every time my birthday came around. She never saw me, though, nor did she hear me. In her pain, she haunted a different space than I.

I swear I just heard someone crying.

I did, too.

My father never came into my room to cry on my bed. He still held hope I would return from wherever it was I’d run to while he was in Africa.

Sometimes I stand by the mantle and watch my mother. I wish she’d had the strength to stop Father Joshua. Sometimes, I try to leave my bedroom. I yearn to know where they buried my body, but something keeps me here. Has been doing so for too many years for me to count.

If you are with us, please make the lights on the device on the bed flash.

I knew what they meant now, what device they spoke of. Every so often, I’m able to make the weird little lights dance for them. Once I’d even seen them. I thought, judging by their reactions, they might have seen me as well. Their clothing is strange; even the women wear pants all the time. All I know is that they are from a future far from here. I still don’t know who they are or why they try to communicate with me. I have eternity to find out.

What is your name?

“Greta,” I say.

They still don’t really hear me, though, and neither does the other Greta. She is trapped in repeating her—my—tragic end over and over while all I can do is watch, a prisoner in the spaces between time. One who can only relive the pain and feel frustrated and angry at my inability to stop if from happening again.

I’m sure I heard a name this time. Let’s go listen to the recording.

Fall is rapidly approaching and I sense the gathering of energy. It’s almost time.