For Your Eyes Only (357 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryLabels: goodfiction
Rating: 2 on 1 review (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Corn Nugget (View user info) at 2004-10-03 22:44:45 EDT
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I sat in the back garden with my parents. It was an abnormally hot day, even for New Orleans. My fathers prize roses were beginning to lilt, as was my mothers face. My father seemed to be taking the news quite well- the hardening of his expression was barely perceptible.
This is what I had told them: "I'm insane, and I think I should see a doctor before I get worse". The night before I had laid across my bed planning my speech. I was going to include some information from my college psych books, I figured they would take things a little easier if there was something factual behind the problem.
The books were still strewn across my bed. Some of them were open to sections on schizophrenia, others were laying closed with the corners dog eared for quick reference to diagnostic tools. None of the theories held any comfort for me. I was interested in Jungs "Collective Consciousness" theory, it was the only thing amidst all of these books that fit.
Lately I have been feeling like I am part of that Collective Consiousness. I believe I can feel what others are feeling, I hear things they are hearing, I can feel the texture of their silk dresses and linen suits. I've really been believing this. I'm convinced that I am experiencing other peoples lives.
But that's insane.
My fathers chair squeeled against the cobblestones as he got up. My mother hesitated, looked at me, and then followed him into the house.
The next day the doctors appointments started. My mother drove me into the center of the city twice a week. I began taking anti-psychosis medication. After my last appointment we stopped for coffee. I was feeling calm and hopeful due to the fact that I was at least sane enough to try and fix my problem.
Then the waiter touched me. He rested his hand on my shoulder and then I flashed into his head. I felt his sadness and his sense of desperation, I saw the cafe through his eyes, I saw myself through his eyes.
And I flashed back.
My mother was staring at me- her skin papery and pale, her face looking worn, her body pretending to be strong enough to hold the weight on her shoulders. The waiter took our order and left us.
The next Tuesday dad insisted on driving me in for my appointment. We hadn't spoke beyond pleasantries for weeks- I suppose there was a deep shame in his only daughter was mentally unstable. For a man like him it must have been a strong burden. He prided himself on his manners, his money, his distinguished lifestyle. And now he had a nut for a daughter.
We drove along in silence. The windows were rolled up and the air conditioning was cranked high. He was going the wrong way, yet I was too timid to correct him.
I stayed silent even while he pulled up to the curb and asked me to get out. I stayed silent as I looked around at the ramshackle houses on the street. I stayed silent as he led me into the house before me. I had never been in a house like this one.
It was regale despite it's current state of disrepair. Vines fought with each other along the porch railings, flowers spilled out of the flower beds, I could hear traditional music flowing out of the open doors and windows. The house seemed sugary sweet. Too sweet, like the frosting on a wedding cake.
A Creole woman greeted us at the door, and I did not fail to notice the odd exchange of greetings between her and my father. I had seen women like her all over New Orleans, yet I had never talked to any of them, let alone walked into their homes. She was wearing a white cotton dress, her hair was wrapped in a tingon made of the same white material- red feathers were randomly poking from the folds of her headwrap. Her eyes were milky with cataracts, reminding me of a fortune tellers crystal ball.
My dad took my arm and led me into this womans house. She gave us tea, and called me "tifi". My silence still held. Her house was warm save for a breeze coming in the nearby front door, and sweat was beginning to collect on my brow.
"It has began, yes, tifi?" she turned her head towards me, and laid her hand on my right cheek. "I always told your father that the girl would carry the magic, I always told him. He no believe, tifi!" she tutted her tounge on the roof of her mouth.
My silence was choking me and I feared I would drown in myself if I didn't release some words soon.
"My name is Eleta", the words overflowed and came out too quick, I was embarrassed by my lack of composure.
"Yes, tifi, I know this. It is the name I gave you." She turned towards my father, tutting her tongue again. "You let her go this long, and no telling her? Nothing?"
tut tut tut
"Your name, child... 'Eleta'... you know in our language it means 'The Choosen One'. This is you", she walked to the front of the room and pulled the blinds open. Dust jumped up and danced in the stream of light coming in through the dirty glass window. "Tifi, I am your grandmother, I see you do not know this, no? I am your fathers mother. He tell you all I'm dead, yes. I can see this. I am not dead. Here I am." She sat on her velvety brown couch, and my thoughts were drawn to noticing that with all the white she was wearing, she reminded me off the dollop of whipped cream on my coffee last week. "You're having these sights, yes? You feeling these things, yes?" She waved her arms about- swirling the air in front of her.
She pointed to her desk and ordered my father to retrieve a book for her. He seemed glad to have a task- relieved to step away from us. She seemed to be staring at me, but I figure this is impossible with the disease lurking on her corneas... but still, it did feel that way... A blind woman staring at me.
Dad found the book. He wiped his hand across the cover to clear the dust, and opened it in the middle. Instantly his mother jumped up, rushing towards him, "no no! This is for her! Not everyone can read these things! These things are history and these are the things of the family women!" she snapped the book shut and took it from him. "These things, tifi... they will help you. You see things now, yes? These things you see, they are the peoples lives. You have the gift, and you do not need to use it as I have," she directed my attention towards a closed door near the desk, "I use this gift, and I use it for money, and this... this is okay. I need this money, no?".
My dad coughed uncomfortably and jammed his hands deep into his pockets.
She handed me the thick book. It was heavy and warm, the texture of the cover was delicious and deep. I wanted to open it, but I didn't want to get yelled at like my dad had, so I let it lay in my lap, closed.
"You come from a Creole family, tifi. You will learn soon about your roots and who you are, but first you must learn to control your mind. All of us women here have this, and it is a curse as much as a gift- but I know you already see it this way, no? A curse". She waved her hand in my fathers direction, tutted again, and told us to leave.
"Tifi, you come back when you finish that book, yes. Do not be ashamed of your roots as your father is. Do not be ashamed." My dad looked defeated, my grandmother looked tenebrous, and the book I carried in my hands looked like it would change things forever. "And, Tifi," she continued, "remember, this book- for your eyes only! Only you, tifi. It is a mirror to your soul, you see."
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Submitted by youarsoghey (user info) at 2005-01-16 12:12:23 EST (#)
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