What I feel doesn’t really matter. How can I explain? Words fail me and my thoughts become less and less sensible. At times, the room spins. I should feel grounded because my life is fruitful.
It does not matter what room I am in. Whether it’s the master bedroom or her nursery, traces of betrayal are threaded into the carpeting. The kitchen wall is coated with curses trapped within the paint. The living room has small Bose speakers strategically installed in each corner, spying and recording.
Resonating sounds of strained laughter, ha, ha, mimic footsteps sinking into the plush carpeted floor.
Fragments of the curse are morphed into a carousel. Instead of horses, there are human figures dressed as clowns. They laugh at me and mock my every move with menacing stares. I never liked clowns. Now I hate them.
In the master bedroom is Dana’s bassinet. A few times already, Dana almost fell out of my hands. Sleepwalking? Am I walking? Dead? The mirror on the dresser shows my image, but my face is clouded. Where is my head? My thoughts? Far away. It is almost time to feed her again, I think?
The floor is barricaded with pillow-size bodies. They look like all of my failures. The nursery has a walk-in closet, all Dana’s little dresses hung neatly in a row. An array of shoes, sandals, and boots. She has books, soft squeezable books in shapes of animals and clouds. So many stories to ferry her to dreamland. Fairy tales.
I find myself in the garage, which I had converted into a gym and movie room. It’s perfect and relaxing, but I feel panic slowly rising. I find barbells, pictures, the small toolbox, movie discs, and throw them on the floor, smash them against the walls. I wonder, can anyone hear me? See me?
I want to scream but I can’t. Won’t. This is crazy! Or am I.
These walls should be thin and easy to break through. Instead they are an impenetrable vault. No one hears my cries or the objects that have been smashed on the wall. Family members are on the other side of this room while I bellow out loud for the voices to go away.
My mother-in-law visits Dana in my bedroom. She just happens to be in the neighborhood… again. I want her to leave but politeness silences my voice. Smiles and false manners hurt my brain. It is useless to plead with my husband. He no longer understands me.
As for the clowns, they are still present. They never leave, tiptoeing here and there. Conveniently appearing when I am alone with Dana.
Why do their eyes reflect mine? Do they recognize me as one of their own?
Each clown is distinct. One has an extremely huge and tall frame. The costume fits perfectly except for the shoes. The color is crimson, not just chalk-red. It seems wet and not glossy. Although clowns never leave their footprints behind, this one has left blood trails. Its face looks caked in powder. Lines trace its forehead. It bends colorful balloons into figures to lure its prey. I notice its gaze is fixated on my baby.
The carousel turns and there is this lingering scent in the air, a hint of Old Spice cologne. It faintly permeates the air as though my father, Alphonse, has brushed by me.
My father never had anything negative to say about my marriage to Octavio. Nor did he comment on the relationship with my in-laws. Father’s eyes conveyed a knowing message. Did he mean for me to hold on a bit longer? The spinning will eventually subside.
Another turn of this carousel and I am captivated by a new familiar figure. Noble and beautiful, she stands out like a queen. Her presence commands my attention. My mother, Arisna, is dressed in a couture-made clown’s custom. One of a kind, solid black gown with a simple white collar.
Her perfume is an exquisite blend of spicy cinnamon with a hint of jasmine. Her eyes glare at me. As usual she tries to warn me of imminent danger. Her eyebrows knitted tight together in contrast to her mouth which laughs aloud. Her perfect set of teeth, strong as ivory. A pronounced gap in between that made her smile more appealing to the eyes. The sound of her laughter roars faster than the strongest river. The words flood out of someone. Is it me?
My brother, Kiki, appears on the next spin. He is dressed as a hobo clown with a patchwork suit. Each spot represents colors of the Haitian flag. Red for the countless bloodshed he witnessed as a child. Blue for the eventual victory of liberty for all, including the commoners. Unfulfilled dreams spill through each hole in his shoes. Contentment never reaches his eyes. The expression plastered on his face seems genuine. It’s hard to discern the signal or message he is conveying. He blinks so rapidly that tears flow out of the right eye. How sad! His deeds are pointless. The eldest, a prince, and my mother’s only surviving son
The aura of the priest that anointed our house lingers in my daughter’s chamber.
Stars swarm around in my head and each sparkle is pronounced in different shapes and brightness. I stop moving or walking to regain balance. Better yet, closing my eyes will help readjust my focus. The distraction can betray my steps. I can’t hold her now. Thoughts of her falling out of my grasp are alarming.
I talk to myself silently to control the moment. Breathe in and out. Holding my breath would induce anxiety, as if it was welcomed. Arisna, my mother, stares at me in a knowing manner. She knows my secret. Our secret, motherhood. I trust her to take care of Dana while I sleep.
