movie and coffee. He's bringing the movie. You make the coffee. Do that. Now.
The coffee is set. I still have time. Debussy on the stereo and a vanilla candle set the mood.
I sit and meditate -- to calm the butterflies. The flame flickers . . . my heart quiets; my
breathing slows. The flame flickers . . . thoughts, and the butterflies, flit and float away.
The flame flickers . . . the room fades away.
my time these past few years. Discovering myself. Enlightening myself. It's a place I love to visit. Each
room has a purpose and holds a special part of me. I begin each journey here. Sometimes I just linger
here for a while; other times, I visit a particular room, to keep in touch. Tonight, I will visit each room; to be
sure everything is in order. Maybe Steve is the one -- the only one -- that will ever visit here. I must be
ready.
Tonight will be our fifth date. There hasn't been anyone else since Bill died seven years ago. Not even Bill
came here. It wasn't until my father died six years ago that I discovered this place.
At first it wasn't easy. There was too much pain. Too much hurt that I never faced, until dad was gone. I
called him dad, though he wasn't really my father. Mom married him when I was three. When I didn't have
to look into those eyes again, and pretend that everything was OK, then and only then could I face the
past;- and the pain. I sometimes regret never letting Bill in here; but how could I let him inside of me to
know the truth when I couldn't face it myself?
Time to let someone else in. I must go through each room and make sure all is right. I
must be ready.
I rest a moment in this familiar room. The vanilla candle flickers on the coffee table in
front of me. The downy, white, pillow-strewn sofa is warm and comfortable. Several
of my paintings hang on the walls. I step up to the mirror in the corner and see the
woman I am today. Patricia McMillan née Stockbridge, at forty-seven, still attractive,
though a few pounds heavier than in my youth.
in. Caressing the oiled wood banister, each of the twenty-two downward steps
brings me deeper into the meditation. At the bottom of the stairs, I take a deep
breath before moving on.
A sign on the door to my left says, "Do Not Enter". I take it down. It was there
for me, for Patsy's room used to be painful for me to enter. Patsy is my
thirteen-year-old "inner child".
healed. I knock before entering. Getting no reply, I turn the knob. It's locked. I don't
understand. It's getting late and I don't have time to play games. I knock again and
call her name, "Patsy. Patsy, honey, it's only me, open up." No reply. There's a
familiar trembling in the pit of my stomach. I don't understand. It's been over two
years since I felt it. I know it's getting late. I try again, in vain, "Patsy, please,
everything is OK." No reply. Reluctantly, I move on. I look back; the "Do Not Enter"
sign is on the door again.
filled with pictures -- our wedding photo; little Jimmy at two days old in my arms;
Jimmy's school pictures through graduation; and the three of us together during
holidays and vacations throughout the years. Soon there will be a grandson to add -
that would make Bill very happy. He couldn't wait for the day when he became a
grandfather. Unlike me, I was never ready to admit that I could be old enough to be
a grandmother. But now, as the day grows nearer, I like the idea more and more.
After all, I'm not really that old. I was only eighteen when I married Bill. Jimmy was
born less than a year later.
love him in the beginning. I jumped at the chance to leave home when he asked me
to marry him. I was a damsel in distress; he my knight in shining armor. He rescued
me and I convinced myself that I loved him. But through the years, he was always
there for me, made a fine home for me and Jimmy, was never unfaithful, and always
looked the other way when I made mistakes -- and I did grow to love him over time.
room, I can tell him. I pick up his picture and absently, lovingly, caress his face.
Looking into his eyes, I tell him I love him but it's time to live again. It's time to
love again. Standing before the triple dresser mirror, I see myself as I was
fifteen years ago, twenty pounds lighter, hair shorter and redder. Putting the
picture down, I look up again; Bill is standing behind me in the mirror. Looking
over my shoulder, he's adjusting his tie. "She's scared you know. Patsy. She's
afraid of another man coming into your life," he says. Staring at him in the
mirror, I say, "Bill, I didn't know you knew." From far away I hear him say, "Of
course, I knew. I always knew. I suspected it the first night we met and you
confirmed it on our honeymoon." I don't understand. Holding back the tears, I
say, "But, I never said anything. I didn't even remember." He shakes his head,
"You didn't have to and it
Now I'm crying, "Oh, Bill." I see him fading away in the mirror.
"It's getting late," he says, "life's passing by. You don't want to miss it. Be happy. I love you."
With tears in my eyes, I turn to hug him . . . but he's gone. I cry . . . because I love him . . . because I miss
him . . . because I know that he wants me to love again. I can't move. I stand there and cry for a while.
It's time to move on. I step outside and close the door. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I rest my head on
the door and whisper, "I love you."
outside. It's a small sewing room, decorated with all sorts of handmade crafts. The
pair of curtains that I "helped" mom make when I was six, hang on the windows. I
recall one of my earlier visits to this room, four years ago. Mom, as usual, was sitting
at her sewing machine, making a new dress for me. "Why did you die?" I screamed at
her before I even said hello. With tears in my eyes, I ran at her and began beating at
her. At fourteen, I was almost as tall as she. "If you didn't die, he wouldn't have done
what he did to me. Why weren't you there to protect me? Why did you leave me alone
with him? Why? Why? Why did you have to die?"
She kneels down beside me and enfolds me in her arms. She sobs, "I'm sorry, I'm so
sorry." She rocks me. "I didn't die on purpose. I didn't leave you alone with him on
purpose. I know what a tyrant he was. I wouldn't do that to you. You must know that."
"Tyrant? Did you say tyrant? Try rapist, mother. Tyrant just doesn't cut it."
It took many visits after that to convince her. Now she knows. I take a deep breath before knocking on the
door, thankful that I'll never have to go through that with her again.
I enter when I hear, "Come in, sweetheart." As usual, she's sitting at the sewing machine. "I hope you
don't mind," she says, "I'm making new curtains. I want this place to look nice for your beau."
"So, you know."
"Of course I know. I've been sewing for days. I know how you feel. I keep thinking about your father - your
real father. I remember what it felt like to be in love. Come, sit for a while. Let me tell you again about your
father - your real father."
"Mother, it's late."
"I know, I know, but I want to tell you, so you know how it should feel when it's right."
I sit on the floor at her feet, like I did when I was six. She continues. "It was love at first sight. I knew I
wanted to marry him after our first goodnight kiss. Three weeks later, he got his draft notice and asked
me to marry him. 'Don't worry,' he said, 'the war's almost over. I'll be back in a few months and we can
start a family.' Everyone said I was crazy. Especially your Aunt Jane. 'Don't do this now,' she said. 'Wait
till he comes home.' But I wouldn't listen. I loved him and I was gonna marry him before he left and that
was that. We spent one week together before he left."
While she's talking, I become six again. I climb up in her lap and ask, "Why are you crying, Mommy?"
the Army officer knocked on the door. Your father was a hero, he said. We should be proud of him."
"Momma," I stand and sigh as I wipe away my tears - I'm forty-five again. "I know how much you loved
him. What I don't think I'll ever understand is - why you married -- 'daddy'?"
"You have to understand. I was alone - with a three year old little girl. Grandma and Aunt Jane couldn't
help me. He said he loved me and I believed him. He was really gentle and sweet before we married,
honest. He turned mean and yelled a lot and I always had to do things his way, but he fed us and kept a
roof over our heads. And I would have done anything to give you a real home." Tears come to her eyes
again as she continues, "Isn't it ironic that the man I thought would protect you, hurt you more than anyone
ever could? I'm so sorry."
you would have protected me if you could."
We sit a while without saying anything. When our tears are all dried, I stand up. "I
have to go now, mother. It's getting late."
"Yes, yes, of course it is. You don't want to be late."
"I love you, too. Be happy."
As I leave the room, I turn and say, "I love the curtains. Please finish them."
Patsy. I must talk to Patsy. I walk over to her door. The sign still reads, "Do Not
Enter." I knock and turn the knob. It's locked. "Patsy," I call out. "Honey, it's OK.
There's nothing to be scared of. Please, open up." Silence. "It's okay, honey. I
understand. We'll talk another time." Reluctantly, I begin to turn away. The lock
clicks and the door squeaks. I push it open.
I look around. All I see is pink -- pink wallpaper with little white flowers -- a pink and
white lace canopy bed with matching curtains -- and a pink light bulb in a pink shaded
lamp. Her easel stands in the corner with a few brush strokes on an otherwise blank
canvas. No sign of Patsy. "Patsy, where are you?" I hear a whimper. I see her sitting
crossed legged on the pink carpeting behind the easel. At thirteen, she's all arms and
legs. Her face is buried in a pink teddy bear that she's rocking in her lap.
"You've been scared and crying and I haven't been listening, have I?"
I take her in my arms as she starts sobbing. "You -- haven't -- come -- in over -- a week -- you -- don't -- don't
-- care -- about me -- all -- all -- you care -- about -- now -- is -- is -- is -- him -- I -- don't -- don't -- want -- him --
here."
"Patsy, you know that's not true. Of course I love you." She climbs into my lap and I start rocking her. "Can
you tell me why you're afraid?"
"You -- know -- why." She pauses. "He's -- he's -- a -- man."
"Bill, was a man and you weren't afraid of him, were you?"
"Bill -- was -- was -- dif -- different. He -- he -- didn't -- hurt -- hurt -- me."
me. You have to believe that I'll never let anyone hurt you again. Give him a chance. I'm sure you will love
him and he will love you. He loves your painting, the one of the garden. He said so the first night he came to
pick me up. Did you know that he paints, too?" We rock in silence until she stops sobbing. I dry her eyes
again and kiss her nose. "We'll take this very slowly. I promise, I won't let him know about you until we're
both ready to let him in. Okay?"
"I love you, too."
"Do you have to go now?"
"It's getting late."
"Will you come again soon?"
"Tomorrow. I promise."
"I'll finish my painting for you." She goes to the easel and picks up a brush.
hurt never really goes away. It's always there, lurking inside - but never out of reach anymore. If you
spend a little time inside, you learn to accept it as a part of yourself. And hope that those you love can
understand and accept it, too. Will Steve accept it? Only time will tell. It's getting late. Only one more
room to visit.
door -- right after my fourth date with Steve. Facing the entrance as you walk in, it's a
warm, inviting room with a blazing fire, a love seat, thick deep pile carpeting and lots of
pillows. I scrutinize every detail for this is where, I hope, Steve and I will get to know each
other. Vanilla candles flicker in every corner casting a romantic glow. Debussy is on the
stereo . . . and someone is knocking . . .
© 1998 Bobbie Ann Pimm
Book 1 Book 2 Book 3 Book 4 Book 5