I open the bedroom door to reveal four walls coated in beige paint and matching carpet. Two boxes under the narrow window are filled with relics from my old life.
While most teenagers' plaster posters of Hollywood heartthrobs and pages torn from Teen Beat magazine on their walls, Gloria forbid me from putting holes in her new drywall. Tape is also out of the question because it could peel the paint. She did allow me the privilege of picking out a new, grown up comforter set to replace the pink gingham and lace coverlet resting on my twin canopy bed since childhood. The white lace canopy remains, a memory of childhood innocence.
I hit the play button on the cassette tape deck of my stereo to listen to my new mixtape. The patchwork of songs recorded off the radio and dubbed from my brother's impressive CD collection is now the soundtrack to my pathetic existence. I flop down on my new comforter, which Ryan says looks like it belongs in a grandma's house.
Fine by me. Grandma's house was always my favorite place to be.
I reach for the only decoration I put on display the day we moved in, a simple, oak picture frame on my nightstand. Inside it is a younger version of Grandma Josephine, my Dad's mom. Grandma Jo's long, silver hair is swept up loosely in her signature braid. Her wide-set brown eyes sparkle with a youthful exuberance despite the deep creases at their corners. Inside the frame, she stands tall holding Ryan, just a baby, cradled in one arm, and me, a cherubic three-year old, on her hip. Beneath her prominent cheekbones lays a crooked smile which speaks of perfect imperfection, a fearless spirit, and fiery wit.
I like to think I take after her with the same strong forehead, cheekbones and jawline. Except for one thing. Grandma Jo's large eyes and sparkling smile exude confidence and command attention but I am uncomfortable in my own skin. Every time I look in the mirror, I fixate on all my imperfections. The protruding ears, full cheeks, wild patches of freckles and I still see crooked teeth, even though my braces have been off for six months.
The taunts of schoolyard bullies from years past hang around like ghosts and the chill of their presence is always perceptible on the back of my neck. Grandma sensed my unwanted companions, even when I was young. A memory fills my mind and I hear her voice.
"What's got you down, sweetheart?" she asks with a hint of a southern twang.
The image of my nine-year old self, curled up on her living room shag carpet, staring past the flickering lights of the television set lights up inside my head. It's past my bedtime and my little self is tired from a day spent in the sunshine, helping Grandma pull weeds in her garden while Ryan raced Matchbox cars in the dirt. He sleeps soundly next to me on the pullout couch. The thought of Mom and Dad hundreds of miles away in Las Vegas for their anniversary is making me feel sorrier for myself than usual.
"There's this boy back home," I tell her. "He's older than me and he's always teasing me with his friends at the bus stop. They call me names."
"Like what?" Grandma Jo's eyebrows press together.
"Freckle face, Little Orphan Annie, Mickey Mouse, because of my ears." I flick one of them.
"Oh, shoot," she says with a fling of her wrist. "Those boys wouldn't know a pretty girl if she slapped them in the face. Don't you go slapping them in the face, now."
I laugh. "Don't worry, I didn't. But, I was mad, so I called them stupid idiots, and do you know what they did?"
"What, sweetie?"
"They took my backpack right off me and threw it like a football."
"Oh, my."
"And then, they tossed it down the storm drain and ran away. Dad was so mad when he got home. He had to use the fishing pole to get it back out and my homework was all wet by then. He went and talked to the boy's dad about it, but I still feel scared."
"Scared of the boys?"
"Yeah, but mostly, I'm scared to say something to them if they pick on me again. I don't know what to say. I just feel weak and afraid."
Grandma Jo gets up off the couch and carefully sinks down on her knees next to me.
"It's okay to be weak." She brushes a strand of hair from my face. "And, it's okay to be strong."
"I'm not strong."
"Why sure you are! Did you know, when you were a baby, you had pneumonia twice?" I nod. "You pulled through. And, how about when the doctor's learned your hips weren't in the proper place? They said you might never walk like a normal child. And, last summer, you danced at your ballet recital."
"The doctors did it, not me." I shrug.
"No one can do anything to you without your consent."
"Consent?" I scrunched up my nose.
"Your permission, Josephine Rose." She was the only one to call me by my given name. Her name. "Don't believe what those silly boys say. Don't give them power over you. You go your way and you'll be just fine."
"My way?"
"Your way," she said with a twinkle in her eye, "is your destiny. You believe in destiny, don't you?"
Another word I didn't know.
"Your heart, sweetie. Follow your heart. Do what brings you happiness." She pokes me in the chest softly. "Listen to the voice inside."
"But what if it isn't a good voice?" I ask. "What if it tells me I'm stupid and ugly?"
"Hmm. That reminds me of a story."
I love Grandma's stories. They sound like something you'd hear around a campfire beneath the stars. I wiggle on the carpet and wait for her to continue.
"Once upon a time, a wise, old man explained to his grandson there is a battle between two wolves going on inside everyone. There's the wolf that lives in the shadows. It's anger, sadness and fear. The the voice that tells you the world is against you. The ego."
"Ego?" I asked.
"You know, the voice in your head always comparing yourself to everyone else and always wanting to be something different than you are?"
I nod because I know it all too well.
"Then, he told his grandson about the second wolf. The wolf that lives in the light. It is the opposite of the ego. Happiness. Truth. Love."
The final word stirs something in my chest, a yearning, like arms reaching for a hug.
Grandma Jo continues in a whisper. "The boy thought about it for a while and then asked his grandfather, 'Which wolf will win?' The grandfather looked at him and said..."
"Oh, wait." I cheerfully interrupt. "I think I've heard this story before. It's in some book Mom has by some preacher guy called Billy Graham. The answer is the wolf you feed."
I expect Grandma Jo to smile because I am so wise. Instead she frowns.
"Not so fast," she says with a tisk. "Don't believe everything you read. My version of the story ends a little differently. The grandfather simply says, 'If you feed them right, they both win.'"
"Both? I don't get it."
Grandma pats my hand. "The grandfather tells the boy, 'You see, if I only feed the wolf in the light, the one in the shadows will be hiding around every corner waiting for me to become distracted, and jump to get the attention it wants. He will always be fighting with the other wolf. But, if I befriend to the wolf in the shadows, and take care of him, then he's happy—and the wolf in the light is happy, too.'"
"But the wolf who lives in the dark is bad, right?" I asked.
The creases in Grandma's eyes grow deeper. "Well, it depends on the way you look at it. The grandfather would say that wolf is important. He's strong-willed, brave and tricky. These are things we need sometimes. Things the other wolf lacks. So, you see, the wolf in the light needs the wolf in the dark at his side. To feed one would starve the other. To feed and care for them both, well, both wolves will serve you well. Feed them both, and there will be no more battle inside your heart. Then you can listen to your inner voice, and trust it. It will guide you.'"
"Guide you to what?" I ask.
"That's for you to figure out," she says with a wink.
My consciousness returns to the present and a sharp stab of grief sweeps across my chest. Grandma Jo passed away last summer. She was two months past her seventy-third birthday when a neighbor found her lying lifeless in her backyard garden. It was too late to resuscitate her when the paramedics arrived. The coroner said it was a massive heart attack.
I sift through the memories from last summer like it's a movie playing on the ceiling of my room. I remember Dad's face going white when he got the call. Her funeral, a simple graveside service with a closed casket, is the first first burial Ryan and I ever attend. Not seeing Grandma's remains makes it all the more surreal. It is still so hard for me to imagine she is gone.
Even when Ryan and I help Mom and Dad sort the contents of Grandma's closet into two piles—stuff to donate and stuff to keep—it's like she's standing right over my shoulder. Going through her personal things and tossing them racks me with guilt because she hated a mess more than the devil himself.
When Dad spills the contents of her wooden jewelry box onto the bed, I gasp in horror.
"Relax, honey. She wouldn't be upset. In fact, I think she'd be glad I was sifting through this old stuff." I recall him rummaging through the tangled mass of silver and gold, sweeping the cheap costume jewelry to one side of the bed. "Ah, ha. Here it is."
I can still recall Dad walking over to where I was kneeling on the floor, carrying something small and silver in the wide palm of his hand.
"She would want you to have this." He drops a vintage necklace in my outstretched hands.
I admire the small silver pendant, a magnificent bird with its wings stretched in flight. Its feathers are etched into the silver and I count seven of each wing, and four in the tail. The body of the bird is smooth, long and lean and about an inch long, dangling from a thin, silver chain.
"Is this an eagle or something?" I wonder aloud.
Dad pushes up his glasses. "Maybe. You know, birds are an important symbol."
"A symbol?" I think of the bald eagle which is the symbol of the United States.
Dad pushes up his glasses again, looking a little bit like a raven-haired Indiana Jones—the professor, not the adventurous archeologist. I want to press him for more information, but I fear doing anything to break his calm exterior. Instead, we study the necklace in silence.
Dad clears his throat. "Birds are highly-revered in many cultures."
"Really?" I ask, intrigued.
"They have always been associated with the wind and sky, and the spirit world. Along with that, come other qualities."
"What kind of qualities?"
"Well, think about it." Dad is silent for a moment, studying the pendant. "What do you think of when you see a large bird? Sharp vision? Graceful flight?"
I nod.
"Well, I think of that and more. Throughout history birds have been a mystical symbol or freedom, spirit and strength. Many indigenous people believe that birds are the purest link between heaven and earth. There are stories about healing. Rising above the material world. Connecting with the divine. The American Indians' had the Thunderbird. The Russian's had the Firebird, and the ancient Egyptians had the Phoenix. You know, the bird that burned itself alive and rose from the ashes? It reminds us to transcend our own limitations and rise above."
My jaw hangs open in wonder. Dad may be making it all up, for all I know, but the symbolism of the necklace mesmerizes me. I run my finger along the smooth surface of the bird and across the jagged wings. Sadness tugs at my heart as I realize Grandma Jo will never wear it again.
"Can I put it on?" I ask cautiously.
"Of course." Dad plucks the silver chain out of my hand and places it over my head. "It will protect you."
Our eyes met, the same irony in our thoughts. Grandma Jo was not wearing her necklace the day she passed away. Ever since the moment Dad placed it around me, I vowed to wear it all the time. The thought of having her close to me brought me so much comfort in the first few months after her death. Now that her necklace was gone, I am disconnected from her.
Lost.
I have to get it back, but first, I will close my eyes. They are heavy and so is my heart.
The events of the day flash behind my eyelids as distant and grainy as images on a vintage filmstrip. Coach Roberts intense stare, the redhead's narrow green eyes, the techno beat bouncing off the gym walls, four perfect ponytails bobbing in sync from inside a red jeep. Before me, a mansion rises in the woods where a statue-come-to-life stares down at me from an upstairs window, motioning for me to come inside. As I step through the doorway and into the darkness, the floorboards creak under my weight. I reached out for something to grasp, anything to guide me on my path. Cold metal brushes against my fingertips as the statue's hand grasps mine.
I spring back in fear, stepping onto the edge of a cavernous hole which threatens to swallow me whole. Balancing on my tiptoes, I flap my arms, hoping to take flight, but a magnetic force tugs me toward the darkness.
"Help!" I cry.
But, the statue simply lets go, sending me tumbling into the abyss below.