janmorrill.com

Little did I know, as I sat in history class faking interest in Mr. Phillips’ discussion, my life was about to change.  The white-shirted, bow-tied teacher lectured about the Boston-Tea-Party-that-was-hardly-a-party, when the school secretary walked in, carrying a yellow slip of paper.  Mr. Phillips stopped his monologue and accepted the note.  After a quick review, he shuffled between the rows of desks, stepping over scattered backpacks.

We watched with anticipation.  Some probably hoped the note would offer relief from the very dull tea party.  Though my daydreams had drifted to more exciting topics, I dreaded the focused curiosity getting the note would bring.

Unfortunately, my averted eyes failed to protect me.  Mr. Phillips stopped at my desk and held the departure permission slip above my head, a hound dog flushing his prey.

I walked through halls filled with the aroma of cafeteria food.  Guess I’d miss pizza day.  When I reluctantly left the warmth of the building, the heavy door slammed behind me.  Cold, blowing rain slapped my face.

My mother waited in the car for me.  I approached and slowed when I noticed the frown frozen on her face.  Ripples of anxious nausea tickled my stomach.

The icy handle bit my hand when I opened the car door.  The silence was as cold as the wintry day.  I preferred staying in the sanctuary of my ignorance, but was obliged to ask, “What’s wrong?”

She stared straight ahead, lips pursed.  Her hands clenched the steering wheel so tightly her long nails dug into her palms.

In the silence, my uneasiness grew.

At last, she turned to look at me.  Eyes accusing.  Then she said it. 

“I read your diary.”

Only four words.  Six syllables.  But they held more power than any I’d ever heard before.

Betrayal, anger and fear throbbed with each beat of my panicked heart, and a primal instinct to flee wrapped around me.  Pulled me into a dark hole to escape her probing eyes.

Trying to process a whirlwind of thoughts, I struggled to untangle feelings so scrambled in my mind’s chaos I couldn’t free them.

Like a storm, the entries swirled in my panicked mind. 

In the front seat of the car, the short distance between my mother and me might as well have been a million miles.  We were alien to each other.  And that was fine with me.

How did she find it?  The question churned in my mind.  When she spoke again, it seemed she’d read my mind.

“I found it under your mattress when I changed the sheets on your bed,” she said, slow and gritting.

Her lie unleashed anger to escape the jumbled mess inside me, viciously pushing my other emotions aside.  I erupted like a pressure cooker. 

“What do you mean when you changed my sheets?”   A nightmare.  I wanted to scream but couldn’t.  My voice strained at its seams, guttural.  “You never make my bed.  You were looking for it!  How could you read it?  They were my private thoughts.”

My recollection was interrupted by my mother’s unexpected reply to my outrage. 

“You can’t see him anymore.”

Another blow I couldn’t duck.  My blossoming first love had been squashed by my mother’s parental thumb.

I glared at her in disbelief, betrayal and loss stumbling over each other in their rush to escape the brew of feelings bubbling inside me.

Desperation freed me at last, and I burst with my plea.  “But Mom!  I love him.  And he loves me!”

She shook her head, a snicker on her face.  “You’re only sixteen, Kate.  You can’t know what love is.”

I turned to look out the windshield.  Hatred flooded me, and my body and soul moved as far away from her as the confinement of the car would allow.

I hunkered into an emotional cocoon, seeking shelter and comfort from this intruder. 

Each remembrance added another stone to the impenetrable barrier between my mother and me. 

We drove home in silence. 

The wintry day blurred to a misty patch of gray as my tears welled with memories and the diary entries that recorded them.

November 10, 2006              

Dear Diary,

Tonight we went to the Sadie Hawkins dance and got married!  Not really of course, but they had a fake wedding chapel, and he asked me to marry him.  It was the coolest thing when he placed a little silver plastic band on my finger.  I’ll never take it off.

“What about a honeymoon?” he asked with a sparkle in his eye.  Then, a long, wet kiss, sending that now familiar, warm, tickle through me again. 

Each memory was doused by my mother’s words.  You can’t see him anymore.

We pulled into the driveway and I ran inside to escape her.  My diary lay bare on the dining room table.  Though way past too late, I grabbed it and ran to my bedroom to pour through the entries.  How did my words sound to her?
 

The exposure drew me tighter into my cocoon.

November 23, 2006

Dear Diary,

He touched me tonight, and  a warm, tickly feeling rushed to my heart. 

Now, I have a lot to figure out.  It scared me, but thrilled me.  All at once I felt good and bad.  I wanted more, but wanted him to stop.
 

My heart had been trespassed, and I’d never again leave my thoughts for prying eyes.

I carried my dear diary to the fireplace and ripped each page from its binding.  Savoring each entry, I tried to imprint it on my mind before tossing it into the fire.  The flames flickered brighter with each page, until the blaze danced as my heart had danced – before its invasion.  Before the invader spoke four little words.

Too soon the fire dance faded to an ember, and only ash remained.