Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose. There are things that we don’t want to happen but have to accept, things we don’t want to know but have to learn, and people we can’t live without but have to let go.
“Here you go, little missy.”
“Oh, thank you so much Mrs. Morris! And don’t call me little missy anymore, I’m afraid I’m already bigger than you are!” I laughed teasingly at the old lady standing in front of me. Despite my terrible sense of humor, she still managed to crack a laugh, baring her yellowish teeth which have gotten less with the increasing of her age.
Mrs. Morris has been laboring in this house her entire life, taking care of almost everything. It’s not the family’s tradition to have servants, other than those workers, tending to the occupants of the house. Being the sole child in the family, I did not grow up alone. As a matter of fact, I grew up in a place where the society wanted to distance itself from people it considered insane. Yes, my father was the founder of the Churchill Asylum in Louisiana in 1869, not long before I was brought to this world.
The asylum first started receiving patients in 1869. It was just a medium-sized wooden house by then, decorated and kept warm and cozy to let the occupants feel at home. The center was then expanded from that single house to a small village, and known as Churchill Psychiatric Center, few years later.
It was not easy being raised up in an environment surrounded by mentally ill people. Most of the time I just sat at the receptionist desk, doing my coloring and drawing like any other kids would do, while bewildered from time to time by the action of the patients. I still remember there was this lady who’s always seen dressed up as a nun. Mrs. Morris told me that before she was admitted, she was a nun and once lived in a Catholic mission, but the people lent no credence to her religious background and her quest for dispensation. She’s always noisy and delusional, with a bit of Schizophrenia, retreating into her alternate identities every now and then. There was once when she acted like a nine-year-old girl and tried making friends with me.
And there was this man, Mr. Lawrence, who would only be seen in the house during meals. I heard from the Kate Greenway, the nurse at the receptionist desk, whom I spent most of my time with, that Mr. Lawrence took the job as the house’s unpaid gravedigger because it seemed that he found peace at the cemetery, which was situated behind the house. Back in the house, Mr. Lawrence was a volatile and difficult man, often raging at small matters. And so, father decided to build a shack on the cemetery ground for Mr. Lawrence to stay in. Despite his unstable temper, Mr. Lawrence was nonetheless a good man. I sometimes went to the cemetery and watched him from far. Most of the time he was just digging away and sometimes he will sit on the old armchair in front of his shack with a suitcase opened on his lap. He seemed to be always looking at something which he took out from the suitcase. There was once when I saw him looking at me that I tried to run away and got my ankle sprained. To my surprise, Mr. Lawrence put me on his back and took me back to the house where he left me on the porch.
I never told anyone about this though, because I didn’t want father to get worried. Father always does his best to keep me a distance from his patients, in fear they might harm me. But for me, I’ve always felt like they were not all like what they appeared to be. They’re somehow different, from what the society thought they were.
The sound of rustling wind blowing through the cracked window startled me, awakening me from my thoughts. I looked at the worn suitcase in front of me. The old, yellowish label on it says “Rutherford Hayes”. My heart skipped a beat at the sight of this name. Snippets of memories kept flashing through the back of my mind, but I tried to wave them away. I wanted to know. I wanted so much to know what was inside the suitcase, inside the heart of this man, the man who has changed my life since then. I was thirteen when I first met him.
He was twenty two then. He did not have much with him when he first entered. Only a worn, brown suitcase he was carrying. He did not look filthy or rugged like most of the patients looked like when they’re brought here, nor did he dressed up like how most of the men in the 1860’s would. Three-piece suit s which consists of a high-buttoned sack coat with matching waistcoat and trousers were very popular, and father, too, was often dressed up like that. But instead of wearing a bow tie like most of father’s friends I knew, father wore the Ascot tie, a tie with wide wings and a narrow neckband, usually fastened with a stickpin. Top hats remained a requirement for upper class formal wear in that era, while bowlers and soft felt hats in variety of shapes were worn for casual occasions. Rutherford was only wearing a rounded color, beige colored T-shirt, with a few buttons lining up to the neck from the middle of his muscled chest, paired with brown khakis which ended at the seam of his ankles, and a pair of short ankle-length boots with laces. His shirt was not tucked in, but nevertheless, he looked charming and attractive. His hair was boyishly short and of the color dark brown, a bit messed up and he had the deepest gray eyes I’ve ever seen.
With my hands shaking like a leaf, I unzipped the suitcase. My heart was thumping hard and I was as eager as a child unwrapping gifts under the Christmas tree. Slowly I lifted the cover of the suitcase.
“Do you still want this, little missy?”
I jumped up, startled by the voice behind me.
“Oh my! Mrs. Morris! You gave me a fright!”
I then noticed she was holding out a stack of old papers, which I immediately recognized that those were my collection of paintings. I had a passion for painting since the early age. Father said I inherited the talent from mother, which has left us a couple of years after I was born. I never really remembered her, nor any memories with her; I just knew that she was a very beautiful lady from the many family pictures framed on the wall in a line beneath the staircase of the house. Mrs. Morris shoved the paintings at me impatiently and ran downstairs hurriedly right after I took it from her hand. She was always a busy lady, well at times where she tried making herself busy, she was happiest when always having something to do.
Few days after Rutherford came to the house, I got to know from Kate that Rutherford was being sent here because he had some hallucinations and believed that he was supposed to marry the President’s daughter, Margaret Truman that he attempted to visit her at the White House. It was said that he was a fine man just like everyone else, but his life crumbled after the incident where his wife passed away during a miscarriage. I heard father talking among the doctors and nurses that Rutherford’s case was rare. He had the symptoms of those patients suffering from Schizophrenia to only some extend, while most of the time, he was just barely quiet, retreated and isolated himself from people.
Unlike all other patients here, Rutherford was being placed in a corner room on the second floor, quite a spacious room I shall say, with well lavished furniture. Most of the time, when the sickness did not take over him, he will just shut himself in his room. But once or twice in a day I will see him walking towards the house’s entrance, dressed up nicely, with a hat over his neatly combed hair, as if he were going to an important meeting. Only when the nurses held him back that I realized he was actually trying to go to the White House to see Margaret Truman.
One day I was doing my coloring with the new paints father bought me when Kate and the other nurses ran hurriedly upstairs. After a while, I heard some loud noises from upstairs, as if someone was throwing things around. Not being able to beat my curiosity, I went to see what happened. When I reached second floor, I saw the door of the corner room opened wide. It was Rutherford’s room. Noises got louder as I walked closer, and I hid behind the nurses to see Rutherford shrieking and throwing things around. By the window, I saw an unfinished drawing placed on a wooden stand. After trying to figure out some muffled words in between his shrieking and also whispers between the nurses, I ran down to the receptionist desk and grabbed my paints and hurried back upstairs. Shaking like a leaf, I slowly walked into the room, clutching tightly onto the paints to my chest, while those bewildered nurses make way for me to go through. I didn’t know why I did it; I just know I wanted to. Standing in front of the tired out Rutherford who was kneeling on the floor with his fingers buried into his dark brown locks, I held out those paints to him.
Rutherford’s condition did not get any better and he was being given electroshock treatment everyday for almost a fort night. The first time he went for the treatment, I followed and peeped through the small opening of the door of the operating room. An IV of succinylcholine is put in the arm in order to relax the muscles to prevent broken bones, a rubber block is inserted in the mouth to prevent biting on the tongue, a mask is placed over the mouth so the brain is not deprived of oxygen and conducting jelly is rubbed on the temples and electrodes connected. Father has once told me about this when I asked. But watching this being done on Rutherford was like piercing my heart. The doctor then pressed a button and electric current shot through Rutherford’s brain, causing a grand-mal seizure for 20 seconds. After the 30 minutes ordeal, they sent Rutherford back to his room. Having a heavy feeling in my chest, I went to his room and saw him sitting by the window, looking ever so pale. Since then, I went to his room every time after his treatment to take care of him. At first he seemed to be annoyed by my presence, but my persistence did pay off. He started getting used to having me around after a few weeks, even though we did not say a word. Sometimes during his treatment, I caught him looking at me with his grayish eyes penetrating into mine, as if begging me to take him away, which took every breath out of my soul because I felt the pain he felt.
Sneaking up to his room when father wasn’t around has been like a routine for me for the next few months. I did not know why I was so drawn to this stranger but one thing for sure, I felt comfortable being with him and I was sure he felt the same, for at times, he did things that I never thought he would do.
Life in school wasn’t easy for me, being the one who grew up in a psychiatric center; I was always being teased and bullied by other kids. But I’ve never told father about this, for one, I did not want him worrying about me and another reason; I was actually afraid he would put the blame to himself at the reason that I was being isolated. And so, the only place that I would cry my heart out was in Rutherford’s room. That was the time when he will sit close to me, lending me his shoulder to cry on. And when tears ran out and I fell asleep on his bed like an undisturbed child, he will pull the blanket over me. He seemed so perfectly normal then. But as the saying goes, the moon is not always full. There were times when the illness strikes, that he will be throwing things around all of a sudden, or that he will be dressing up to visit Margaret Truman again, or that he will start mumbling to himself while pacing back and forth in his room.
After the electroshock treatment proving to no avail, Rutherford began to attend occupational therapy sessions, and it became more apparent that he had a passion and talent for expressing himself through painting. At normal times of the day, he will be seen immersed in his paintings, in which the number of it has grown so much that you can see paintings practically almost all over the room; all scattered on the couch, the floor and even the bed, while some were being given away to the nurses who liked his paintings.
Some days in the spring of 1886, when I was sixteen, I took up lessons on ways to deal with and heal a Schizophrenia patient. Though those methods were proven scientifically but the results might take a long period of time to be seen; alongside with proper medications. I learnt to understand the difficulties and problems associated with the illness, while at the same time guiding him in regaining his social skills and other abilities. I proposed to father in letting me create a group therapy for the Schizophrenia patients in the house, and after many times of reasoning and assuring, he finally approved. I accompanied him to every group therapy, where real-life plans, problems, and relationships; on social and work roles and interaction were often being brought up and discussed. On weekends, I would bring him on a walk around the village, giving him the chance to be in touch with the nature and also with the people around. It was when he started recovering that father got upset of our relationship, though I wasn’t really aware of the reason why. Every time father and I had an argument over this, I would question his behavior but each time I got a stern look from him as an answer, and indicating that I wasn’t allowed to question any more.
Gotten heart ache over this, I then seldom go to the house, spending most of my free time in my room back at my own house, with the thought of Rutherford passing my mind every now and then. It was until one particular day in the brutal coldness of the winter in 1889, when something I’ve never thought of, happened. Father was out of town on some business mission. I was sitting on the comfy armchair in my room, knitting a red sweater for Rutherford that I heard a knock on my door. I answered the door and saw Mrs. Morris standing in front of me, looking hesitantly, and clasping her hands every few seconds.
“Little missy, I’m afraid that Mr. Rutherford has gone missing.”
Nurses were busy whispering to each other while doctors were discussing, each wearing a worried expression on their faces.
“Someone please inform Dr. Martens!”
Voices of people talking and whispering, footsteps of people running and hustling by, all seemed a blur to me. I stood there looking at the empty room for quite some time, unable to perceive the fact that he left without a word. I did not know how long I stayed in that room, but long enough for the crowds to lessen, and for the daylight to be disappearing far down the East. It was when I was about to leave that I noticed a strange white cloth hanging over one side of the walls, covering it from up right to the bottom. Curiously, I pulled the cloth away and gasped.
There on the wall, was a giant portrait of me.
In November 1890, when I was 20, I bid farewell to father and everyone in the house, and also to Mrs. Morris; carrying my luggage, I left for a boarding college in another state to the north of my home. I never heard from Rutherford since then. I’ve led quite a good life, excelling in my studies and having lots of friends, but he was never far from my thoughts, even after all those years. Father’s health had been deteriorating and in March 1893, I was being sent a telegram, urging me to go back home.
I placed the stack of paintings aside and opened the suitcase. On the top layer scattered some paintings which I still remembered, and beneath were his clothes. There were also few bottles of paints, the paints that I gave him when I was thirteen. I dug deeper into the suitcase, trying to feel beneath the pile of clothes when my fingers brushed something hard. I removed the clothes and there it was. At the bottom of the suitcase, was a small box in red, with a letter beside it. I gently opened the box, and right to my guessing, in the middle of the box stood a diamond ring. With warm tears running down my cheek, I slid the ring into my finger, feeling the presence of him ever so strongly. I then took the letter.
It was an old, brownish envelope addressing to Rutherford Hayes. The envelope was not stamped. I pulled out the letter which was written in a writing that was most familiar to me. It says:
“Dear Rutherford,
I am writing this to you because I knew that you overheard my conversation with Mrs. Morris the other night.
Yes, you are my son. I knew your mother when I was on a business trip and somehow we fell in love. Your mother was well aware that I was already married, and my wife, yes, Charlotte’s mother, was not good in health. She then left me without a word and I’ve then lost contact with both you and your mother. I believed she told you that your father has passed away.
It was only when you were admitted to the house that I browsed through your profile and realized you are my son. I know that you’ve been living in poverty and your mother passed away years back, and that you were being forced into slave labor at a very young age. I am feeling very sorry for what you’ve gone through and also for your loss.
I am trying my best to compensate what I’ve owed you by providing you the best I can. But little did I know that fate has brought my daughter to be attracted to you. I can’t let this happen. I know that you’ve already recovered from your sickness and are well aware that Charlotte is your sister. So, do take what you deserve to get from me, but I do hope you will keep a distance from Charlotte, or she will end up getting hurt.
You are pleased to still stay here in the house but I do hope you will not tell Charlotte a word about this. Some things are better left unknown to her.
Signing off,
Howard Martens “
I looked up from the letter and saw him standing in front of me. A familiar feeling which reached the depth of my heart, of which I would jumped up right away and savor the feelings of being in his arms after all this time. But, letter clutched in my hand, I stood there looking at his dark brown hair and deep gray eyes. My stomach twisted in a notch and I felt as if the world was closing in on me.
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