Author's Note: Well, this is the end. This piece was hard for me to write because it is such a loaded subject. I sincerely hope and pray I did it justice right to end. If I didn't, I'm sorry. Thank you to all of those who read and reviewed, you gave me the inspiration to turn this from a one-shot story into something more. Enjoy.
Four days ago, the nightmares started. You hoped they won't, that you would be an exception to the clichéd old rule, but you had no such luck. Before you became the God talker you are today, you never really had nightmares in the traditional sense. While other kids would wake screaming about axe-welding clowns and boogeymen, kola bears were your worst nighttime menace. You were lucky.
These nightmares are not the nightmares of Judith, eerie in their realism. Rather, they are the nightmares of Mental Acres, of desolation and bewilderment. Sometimes, the visions are short and shocking, little more than transient, blurred faces or almost undecipherable bits of sound. Other times, it feels as though a single dream devours the entire night in its wandering, senseless prose. These are the dreams that made you awaken screaming and sobbing from your slumber, proving your insanity once more. These are crazy dreams, insane dreams. These-not diving boards nor kola bears-are true nightmares. And they're hell.
…..
You stand at the window and breathe in the cool, crisp air. Outside, the sky is dark, rich velvet, almost starless, and incredibly deep. You haven't done this since September, but you did it a lot at crazy camp. Before the counselors ushered you in for a night of sleep behind sealed plastic windows and heavy, locked doors, you would steal away for a few minutes and just stare into nothingness. Eventually, a counselor would come and usher you back to the cabins, and you would glance back for one fleeting moment and try to catch a glimpse of God. You needed Him then, and you need Him now, too, to console you, to wake you up.
The soft jingle of your cell phone distracts you from your contemplations, and you head over to your bedside table to pick it up. You've received a text message. Reading it, you smile slightly and then obey. Not because you have to, but because you want to and because, well…
IAMALWAYS: Joan, you don't have to look for me. I'm always here. Sleep well.
….
Your grades are erratic. You've gotten 30's in Physics and perfect scores in Lit, A's on French vocabulary quizzes and D's on the next day's test. Some days you throw yourself into work, reading your Lit book cover to cover just to avoid thinking about it. Other times you feel so browbeaten and worn down that you just can't make yourself care about past perfect tenses or torque formulas. Your Trig teacher even went as far to pull you aside the other day and ask if you're okay. You smiled, said yes, and walked out the door, knowing all the while that lying's a sin.
You've made it through every day but the first one so far. You push through them with a blunt, unthinking determination, throwing grades, friends, and everything else by the wayside in the process. Your sole goal is to make the minutes tick by and the hours pass. So far, you've succeeded.
The people around you form a silent fortress, always there but never touching, willing to let you be. Luke, Grace, and Adam walk you to every class now, even when their own are halfway across the building and on a different floor. Part of you thinks it's over the top, but it's too sweet of a sacrifice to ignore, so you let them continue and make a note to serve a few detentions on their behalf. Every now and then, you pass Mom in the hallways and never meet her eyes, afraid that if you do, one of you might burst into tears. You hope she understands.
She's tried to talk you at home a bit, but you've ignored that too. You can see the pain etched in her face, how this isn't just about you but about her, too. Sometimes you wish you just said "no" to God and never found those paintings, so that you could wrap yourself in blissful ignorance and feel only the pain in you. If that was the case, maybe you could have talked. But as it is, you can't open your mouth without hurting both of you, so you just resolve to shut up.
You've seen God in the hallways in all His different forms, the Goth checking out books at the library and lady in lunch line, but you haven't talked. He'll wave or smile and one time he one time he handed you a book to reshelf (Howards Endmust be a favorite of His.), but He never forces you to talk. There's been plenty of opportunities for you to slip away and have a little chat, plenty of times when you could tell your posse that you had to go the bathroom and use your gift (curse?) to speak to Him, but you never take them. You are terrified of Him, of what He'll say and what He won't, so you chose not to speak.
On Friday, He passes you a card in the hallway that bears the embossed name Fran Richards on one side and a penciled in note reading "3:00 PM" on the back. Slightly confused, you shove the card in your bag and walk on, wondering why He won't just give you salve and bandages and bind up your wounds instead.
…..
That night Dad calls you into the living room after dinner. He and Mom are sitting there, backlit by the glow of the fire in the fireplace. It's strangely reminiscent of that time, just under a week ago, when they stopped you and found out what was wrong. This doesn't look good, but then again that goes for just about everything now.
"Joan, I need to talk to you about the case."
His voice is matter-of-fact, calm from years of practice, millions of times uttering that same line. You are "Joan," not "honey" or "sweetie." You are the victim that cannot be, that must not be, his daughter. The Joan who has a case file at the station is not the same Joan he fathered and not the same Joan he loves. Because if she is, it just might destroy him.
He doesn't say what you're expecting; he doesn't announce a lineup or tell you triumphantly that they caught the bastard. Rather, he starts talking about a program through the department where victims of "this type of crime" (his words exactly) meet with a psychologist who will work with them-and for them-if there is a trial. He's made you an appointment, he says, for tomorrow at three, if you'll go.
It takes you a minute to fully understand what he just said and dissect the meaning of the words. If there is a trial… not "when" but "if," and you know your father well enough to know he would say "when." It's his carefully veiled way of telling you the trail has run cold, that they'll never find the guy who makes your nights sleepless and your boyfriend poison. This "program" is an attempt to try and give you something when his far and away first choice is out of reach. And as much as you hate the idea of subjecting yourself to another psychologist/psychiatrist, you can't bring yourself to say no.
"Okay, Daddy," you say quietly, watching as the line he drew between the two Joans blurs.
…..
You stand in front of the office door and briefly evaluate your last chance to bail. The only thing keeping you here is the card He gave you because surely a God-supported psychologist couldn't be as useless and soul destroying as Dr. Dan (not that's saying all too much).
Sighing, you push open the door and see perhaps the thing you're least prepared for. Sitting in a leather chair is none other than Judith's mom.
"Joan?"
….
"I'm… sorry I have to see you like this," she says, attempting to regain her composure as she ushers you over to the vacant seat.
So am I.
"Your name is, um, different."
"I kept my maiden name. It's fairly common in this profession, and Bill insisted upon it. He was always more of the researcher type, but my passion has always been helping victims of…"
You will not let her say that word, so you instead you cut in and ask the question you've been wanting to ask for a long time.
"Tell me about Judith."
…..
For the next hour, the conversation shifts between you and Judith, between Friday Night and Saturday night. When it's about you, Fran is strong and assured, well practiced in her art and well accustomed to the horror she is hearing. She knows when to push and when to let go. She gets around the games you play and tricks you use to slide out of speaking. When the conversation turns to Judith, however, she very nearly crumbles. The pain in her voice is raw, and the air of practice is swept away. She is still standing at the edge of her diving board without God to nudge her on and tell her to jump.
When you leave her office, you are completely exhausted by the game of emotional volleyball you just played. Talking about Judith opened your old scars and dug into her still fresh ones. It brought up your old grief, grief you thought you had moved past, and mixed it in with the new. To top it off, you are left with that same icky, embarrassed feeling talking about it always leaves you with. You wonder if you might qualify as the world's worst patient if you managed to lead both of you into an emotional massacre.
Down the hall, you see God. You want to yell at Him, to ask why He would want you to do that, and just maybe get in answer. You want to talk to somebody with all the knowledge and all the answers (even those that He won't share) when you have none. Everyone wants you to talk to man, but you need to talk to God.
"Why don't You just stop it? Why can't we just forget?
"Grief is never really over, Joan. You just have to learn to live above and beyond it. It's not so much about going toward the light as knowing it's there to begin with,"
"So you're saying I shouldn't go to the light?"
He chuckles slightly, "It's not time for that Joan. Think about now."
And then He walks away, leaving you with more questions then answers. That's okay, though, because it's normal. Well, at least for you.
……
That night, you're too afraid to sleep. The prospect of Judith melding with your current nightmares is to too terrifying to face, so you've elected to forgo sleep in favor of meticulous room-organizing coupled with lots of caffeine and headphones with music on full-blast.
You're digging around your closet floor when something catches your eye. Curious, you reach back and grasp four round objects. It takes a moment for your sleep-deprived brain to recognize them as the juggling balls Adam gave you the night Judith died. You hold them in your hands and stare at them for a second, the brilliant blue glow illuminating your face and casting shadows on your hands. Slowly, you begin to toss them up, relearning the rhythm of juggling as you go. And as you juggle in the blackness of the night, new thoughts begin to form in your head, and part of you begins to wonder if this is really just for you.
…..
These were meant for Judith, but she couldn't take them, so I did instead. But I guess you should them instead; it's better that way… Judith, she cared about you… She wasn't always the best at showing it, but if you knew her you could tell… Maybe she wasn't the best friend or the best daughter, but I loved her, and I miss her, and I know you still do, too. Good luck.
Take care,
Joan
(JoJo)
You place the box carefully in front of the door and walk away. You know they won't bring Judith back or make it stop hurting. They won't bind up her heart or cure her soul or make the nightmares disappear. No, you're no longer naïve enough to believe that. But maybe they will help just a little, to help the dreams grow shorter and make the pain just a little less sharp. And maybe they'll make just enough light by which to see God.
You know nothing will make your grief go away, either. Nothing will make this less disgusting or less traumatizing. It will be there within in you, a part you, until the day you die. No, it will never vanish, never disappear, but maybe you can live with it. Because it may be there forever, but He will be there longer.
No matter what you have lost, He will always find you. You know that for no reason that you can explain, no reason you can say or write down. You know it simply because you have faith, faith in light and in faith Him, He who has always been there and always will, if only you just believe.
And you do.