Shadow Dreams

Daniella

The first time I saw a dead body, I was five. The body was my mother's. But maybe I should back up some before I get too far ahead of myself.

I had a pretty normal childhood with two awesome parents. My dad was an artist and my mom was a botanist. They were hippies to an extent. Not the creepy, dirty, pot-smoking kind; but they were huge tree-huggers. My parents believed in letting children be spiritually free. They encouraged creativity, which was great, because I picked up a brush and started painting on the walls when I was three.

I was considered a "gifted" child. Not only did I follow in my father's footsteps, but I started tapping my own songs out on our old piano -- even before I knew notes and chords -- when I was four-and-a-half. Halves have always been important to me.

By the time I was five, I was weird. Really and truly, literally, weird. I'd jump at shadows, claim people were watching me, and spend hours in my room, reading or making jewelry.

The jewelry was something else entirely. I'm not quite sure where I picked up this little quirk. Possibly my grandparents, or aunt Kathie. Who knows, it could have been some random thing I just started doing. I'd make everything from fun, simple designs, to things so complex it would sometimes take me weeks to finish it.

The day everything changed was a day I'll never forget. Starting from that morning, everything was strange. Mom woke up late, and she was usually up long before the sun. Dad was still gone on a business trip, but the weird thing was, he hadn't called mom in a week, when he usually called every day. Mom started to worry, but my grandmother, who came to live with us when daddy was away on a business trip, told her not to think on it too hard.

Sure enough, two days later, mom got a call. It wasn't the news she wanted to hear. I was too young to understand then, but I understand now. Dad said he'd met someone else. They'd been together since he got there and that's why he didn't call. He proceeded to tell her that he wanted a divorce. They'd sign the papers as soon as he got back to America.

I think that's what made my mom lose it. She went into this sort of crazed, self-destruction. Grandma tried to shelter me, but it didn't work. "Dani," she'd say. "Go on back to your room. Mommy will be fine soon." Or, if she caught me peeking around a door during one of my mother's "episodes", it was "Daniella Maria Sanchez! You get your hind-end away from that door and back downstairs."

I was the one that found her. One day, after grandma had picked me up from my swimming lessons, she left me to roam the house while she baked some cookies. I had been playing in my room like a good little girl; making my dolls talk was my favorite game. When I first heard the sobbing, I tried to ignore it. My mom cried a lot. It was normal. But these were heart-breaking, gut-wrenching sobs. At last, I pushed to my feet, still dressed in my St. Cecelia's Primary School uniform, and made my way to the Big Door.

I'd started referring to mom's bedroom door as the "Big Door" because grandma said not to go in there. Not understanding, I'd walked up to my grandmother one day, as bravely as I could. I had a very serious face, or at least, that's what I'm told.

"What's wrong, Dani-girl?" I remember hearing her say.

"Grammie, why can't I see mommy? Why can't I open the Big Door an' give mommy a hug? Is she sick?"

She took a long time to answer. I watched as she dried her wet hands on the dishtowel, she'd been cleaning the kitchen, and then as she neatly folded it. "Yes, mommy is sick. But not like when you have a fever," she must have realized I didn't understand, because she tried again. "Mommy is sick up here," she touched her fingers to her head, and then dropped them down and placed them over her heart, "and here."

"Oh," I never asked that again.

Standing in front of the Big Door, I considered what she'd said, and noticed the sobbing had stopped. It was an odd sort of silence, like something was wrong. I remember that when my fingers wrapped around the shiny gold doorknob, it sent a cold slice of fear down my spine. I pushed the door open and saw nothing, at first. "Mommy?" My voice sounded so small in that big room. I stepped in further, and heard a strange creak.

Honey colored eyes flew upward, seeing something large hanging from a rope. It snapped suddenly, and the thing tumbled down with a soft thud. The thing was my mother. She lay on her side, bulging blue eyes gazing at me sightlessly. Grandma walked in. "Dani! You know you're not-" she started sharply, but cut off when she saw me staring.

A raw scream tore from her lips. It took my small brain a long time to allow the words she was screaming to sink in.

"Lorraine! My baby Lorraine!" she rounded on me. "Get out! Get out of here! Now!" she screamed.

I understood now that she didn't want me to witness this at five years old. At that moment, I thought she hated me. When she started screaming the second time, I bolted.