Irene Wilde
New Member
"Just let it go….it isn't worth it," I told myself, shaking off a recurring dream that had visited me in the night.
I'd found myself in that same little neighborhood in Baldwin Park, even though I've been back there and I know the whole place has been torn down and replaced with a mini-mall covered in beige stucco and signs written almost exclusively in Chinese. But in my dream it is always there, always unchanged. Several blocks of tract houses bordered north and south with elementary schools built in the 1940s, and on the west by railroad tracks. As children, we never ventured east. There seemed to be nothing there but more rows of little houses with white fences and sagging front porches of painted wood. I'm at the school on the northern boundary of what had been our territory on summer days that went on forever, playing until the street lights came on and a grown up would call for us from the porch of one particular little house, otherwise indistinguishable from the others.
So I am there again, where the gate creates a break in the fence around the school. That indistinguishable house is on one of those three streets opposite, but I'm never certain which. Instinct always guides me down the middle street, most directly opposite the rusted, padlocked, wrought iron gate. The houses are older now, shabbier than they were even then. The large trees lining the street seem wild and overgrown, but the shade they provide seems welcoming, not ominous. Nervous excitement makes my heart pound. I know I appear very calm on the outside, even though the street is deserted and there’s no audience to observe my bravery. It was somewhere in the middle of the block, I think…closer to the other school this one, because we always played there. The house across the street was pink and had a banana tree in the front yard. We would get in trouble for plucking the heavy flat leaves off to use as playthings. "Would they remember that? Would they remember me? Does really matter anymore?"
I see the house. Still the same green and white. A sparse lawn of half dead grass, a weedy looking willow tree almost obscuring a porch lined with potted cacti, to the right a drive leading back to where we used to play on the clothesline until a grown up would chase us off. I wonder if the clothesline is still there. "The old people are probably dead by now," I think. "It was foolish to come back here."
I stand on the cracked and uneven sidewalk debating the point of going forward and seeking the courage to knock on the front door. I square my shoulders and move up the walk, curiosity overcoming fear. I put on my game face, smiling and forcing myself to project a confidence I don't feel. There are just a few more steps to take and maybe I'll solve the biggest mystery of my life.
The front door is open and there seems to be a gathering of some type going on in the tiny living room. The décor is lighter and more cheery than I remember, yet it seems to have stood still in time. It is still a living room of the 1960s, not of the 21st century. At first glance I can tell that these people are all family to one another. It must be someone’s birthday or anniversary. But none of the faces are familiar to me. "They moved. They're dead. You've wasted your time," my common sense tells me, and I experience a mix of relief and disappointment.
I'm ready to move away from the door when someone in the house notices me. I introduce myself and explain that I used to know someone who lived here, many years ago. They were my grandparents, though not exactly. I used to play here as child. There were two children, a boy and girl…
"We've lived here more than fifty years," says an old woman with thinning gray hair, wearing a simple green-checked dress and bedroom slippers. There isn't anything familiar about her. Shouldn't there be some sense of recognition, even after all these years? I start over, addressing myself directly to her.
"My name is Irene Wilde. My father was married to a woman named Chloe. She had two children, John and Nichola, who everyone called by her second name, Amber…" I begin to explain, hope rising within me, a tremble starting in my right arm. I clinch my hand into a fist to keep it from shaking.
"Chloe's here," the old woman, who is really Grandma Garnet even if she doesn’t look like her, announces. "She's sleeping in the back room. I'll go get her."
"No!" I think. "Not her! I don’t want to see her!" my brain screams. "The children! I only came to see the children!" I want to rush to stop her, but I can't make myself move. I can't call out. A group of people emerge from the kitchen blocking my view of the door that leads into the bedrooms. I try to assure myself it will be ok. I can face her. She is old now and I am grown -- a mother myself. A better mother and strong, too. I can face her.
One of the other people in the room explains to me that John and Amber won't be there today. I can no longer think clearly enough to think to ask for addresses or telephone numbers. Even to ask how they are, how they grew up, are they okay. I am mute and paralyzed -- only my eyes seem capable of moment --looking both for Chloe and for a way out. The old woman returns.
"She says she tired and can't come out," my one-time grandma tells me. "Typical," I think. "I was her daughter for nearly seven years. But still I'm not good enough. Sight unseen, I'm not good enough."
I leave and walk back toward where, in my dream, the old movie theater still stands. And in my dream, I still hurt. The woman who filled the void after my mother died. The woman who used to make potato candy and Jell-o & Cool Whip pie. The woman who beat me when I was six years old, knocking me out of my shoes and into the refrigerator door. The woman who scarred my back when she slapped me and I fell against the sharp edge of a bathroom cabinet. The woman whose children I called brother and sister for all those years. The woman who left us. The woman who disappeared, taking John and Amber with her, with no good-bye. The woman who tried to cover my bruises with make up she got from the Avon Lady so I looked presentable enough to go to school. She is best left sleeping unseen in a backroom.
"Just let it go….it isn’t worth it," I told myself.
****************************************
A Post-Script
It took me years to find the recipe for potato candy. My latest attempt at a Jell-o & Cool Whip pie from two nights ago was still not right. I’ll have to look for another recipe to try. I’ve gone through three or four. I’ve tried over the years to find John and Amber with less success than the Jell-o & Cool Whip recipe. And mystery of why, out of four children in the house, Chloe only beat me, I can only hope she has taken to her grave.
I'd found myself in that same little neighborhood in Baldwin Park, even though I've been back there and I know the whole place has been torn down and replaced with a mini-mall covered in beige stucco and signs written almost exclusively in Chinese. But in my dream it is always there, always unchanged. Several blocks of tract houses bordered north and south with elementary schools built in the 1940s, and on the west by railroad tracks. As children, we never ventured east. There seemed to be nothing there but more rows of little houses with white fences and sagging front porches of painted wood. I'm at the school on the northern boundary of what had been our territory on summer days that went on forever, playing until the street lights came on and a grown up would call for us from the porch of one particular little house, otherwise indistinguishable from the others.
So I am there again, where the gate creates a break in the fence around the school. That indistinguishable house is on one of those three streets opposite, but I'm never certain which. Instinct always guides me down the middle street, most directly opposite the rusted, padlocked, wrought iron gate. The houses are older now, shabbier than they were even then. The large trees lining the street seem wild and overgrown, but the shade they provide seems welcoming, not ominous. Nervous excitement makes my heart pound. I know I appear very calm on the outside, even though the street is deserted and there’s no audience to observe my bravery. It was somewhere in the middle of the block, I think…closer to the other school this one, because we always played there. The house across the street was pink and had a banana tree in the front yard. We would get in trouble for plucking the heavy flat leaves off to use as playthings. "Would they remember that? Would they remember me? Does really matter anymore?"
I see the house. Still the same green and white. A sparse lawn of half dead grass, a weedy looking willow tree almost obscuring a porch lined with potted cacti, to the right a drive leading back to where we used to play on the clothesline until a grown up would chase us off. I wonder if the clothesline is still there. "The old people are probably dead by now," I think. "It was foolish to come back here."
I stand on the cracked and uneven sidewalk debating the point of going forward and seeking the courage to knock on the front door. I square my shoulders and move up the walk, curiosity overcoming fear. I put on my game face, smiling and forcing myself to project a confidence I don't feel. There are just a few more steps to take and maybe I'll solve the biggest mystery of my life.
The front door is open and there seems to be a gathering of some type going on in the tiny living room. The décor is lighter and more cheery than I remember, yet it seems to have stood still in time. It is still a living room of the 1960s, not of the 21st century. At first glance I can tell that these people are all family to one another. It must be someone’s birthday or anniversary. But none of the faces are familiar to me. "They moved. They're dead. You've wasted your time," my common sense tells me, and I experience a mix of relief and disappointment.
I'm ready to move away from the door when someone in the house notices me. I introduce myself and explain that I used to know someone who lived here, many years ago. They were my grandparents, though not exactly. I used to play here as child. There were two children, a boy and girl…
"We've lived here more than fifty years," says an old woman with thinning gray hair, wearing a simple green-checked dress and bedroom slippers. There isn't anything familiar about her. Shouldn't there be some sense of recognition, even after all these years? I start over, addressing myself directly to her.
"My name is Irene Wilde. My father was married to a woman named Chloe. She had two children, John and Nichola, who everyone called by her second name, Amber…" I begin to explain, hope rising within me, a tremble starting in my right arm. I clinch my hand into a fist to keep it from shaking.
"Chloe's here," the old woman, who is really Grandma Garnet even if she doesn’t look like her, announces. "She's sleeping in the back room. I'll go get her."
"No!" I think. "Not her! I don’t want to see her!" my brain screams. "The children! I only came to see the children!" I want to rush to stop her, but I can't make myself move. I can't call out. A group of people emerge from the kitchen blocking my view of the door that leads into the bedrooms. I try to assure myself it will be ok. I can face her. She is old now and I am grown -- a mother myself. A better mother and strong, too. I can face her.
One of the other people in the room explains to me that John and Amber won't be there today. I can no longer think clearly enough to think to ask for addresses or telephone numbers. Even to ask how they are, how they grew up, are they okay. I am mute and paralyzed -- only my eyes seem capable of moment --looking both for Chloe and for a way out. The old woman returns.
"She says she tired and can't come out," my one-time grandma tells me. "Typical," I think. "I was her daughter for nearly seven years. But still I'm not good enough. Sight unseen, I'm not good enough."
I leave and walk back toward where, in my dream, the old movie theater still stands. And in my dream, I still hurt. The woman who filled the void after my mother died. The woman who used to make potato candy and Jell-o & Cool Whip pie. The woman who beat me when I was six years old, knocking me out of my shoes and into the refrigerator door. The woman who scarred my back when she slapped me and I fell against the sharp edge of a bathroom cabinet. The woman whose children I called brother and sister for all those years. The woman who left us. The woman who disappeared, taking John and Amber with her, with no good-bye. The woman who tried to cover my bruises with make up she got from the Avon Lady so I looked presentable enough to go to school. She is best left sleeping unseen in a backroom.
"Just let it go….it isn’t worth it," I told myself.
****************************************
A Post-Script
It took me years to find the recipe for potato candy. My latest attempt at a Jell-o & Cool Whip pie from two nights ago was still not right. I’ll have to look for another recipe to try. I’ve gone through three or four. I’ve tried over the years to find John and Amber with less success than the Jell-o & Cool Whip recipe. And mystery of why, out of four children in the house, Chloe only beat me, I can only hope she has taken to her grave.
