She lay quiet and close trying to capture the warmth she felt just days before this dreadful day – but that was a long, long time ago. Her mind is drifting again as it so often does in the quiet of the night…
"Lydia! Oh Lydia! Where are you sweetie?"
The voice of Auntie Delores rings as clear on this stormy night, as it did when she was hiding that day. Back then, Auntie Delores was a strong and opinionated woman. Her tall and sleek stature, milky skin, and jet-black hair had everyone secretly calling her Lilly Munster – Ms. Lilly was her nickname.
"Lydia!" Ms. Lilly's voice is getting louder, Lydia thought to herself.
"Please don't let her find me." "I don't want to leave this place."
Ms. Lilly thought to look there once, but figured that was impossible. Who would hide in such a place? She says under her breath as the search for the wildly curly-haired, seven-year-old little girl continued.
"Oh sweet Lydia, please come to Auntie, it's time to go, the guests will be waiting."
She searched every inch of the chapel – opened every door, looked under every pew. She even climbed the stairs to look behind the pulpit – no Lydia. Hearing a sniffle, she turned around – and then she saw her, tucked in tightly next to her mama – inside the coffin.
~~~~~
Lost in a 40-year-old memory, Lydia didn't notice the tears that flowed heavily down her face – dripping a time or two in her cold, untouched cup of coffee. The distant ring continued, suddenly annoying her and bringing her back to the now. She wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone, so it's just as well it went to voice mail. Her legs betrayed her when she tried to stand up – the tingly feeling sent a shiver through her body. She chuckled as she squeezed her legs and toes to get the blood flowing again. Sitting Indian style isn't as easy as it was when you're a kid, she thought.
The loft is too quiet, save the pitter-patter of the rain. Normally she welcomed this after a long day of counseling at Hope House, the drug and alcohol rehabilitation center, where she spent 10 hours of her day – six days a week. This evening, however, turned out to be an unwelcomed haunting so she chose to watch Cinderella. One of these days, she whispers, one of these days I hope my prince charming will find me.
Tomorrow will be the toughest day yet – Amy Cantrell is her 7:00 am appointment. She counseled many times with her on again, off again Pastor Dave prior to going back to school to get her license – all she wanted to do was help others and give them hope. She wanted them to know that it is possible to escape the cycle of abuse and addictions. No advice and warnings sank in until she began to discuss her past with strangers who walked through the doors each day.
She awoke to the credits rolling – with squinted eyes, she strained to see the clock – 1:00 am. She jumped up, quickly brushed her teeth, and put on her favorite nightshirt, which was three sizes too big and warn so thin, you could see the layers of thread weaving through the material. She kept it all these years as a reminder – a reminder of better times.
"Sleep, I gotta get some sleep", she says aloud. "Tomorrow will be tough – will you help me God – if you are listening – if you care." Trying hard to drift off to sleep, she was wondering how she would talk about the days she was molested by her father, and how she would convince Amy there is hope and forgiveness – especially since she herself, was not as sure as she was when she started at the center six months ago. She hadn't weighed the true cost of counseling and how it would challenge her old memories and personal healing, how could she?
She had to stop thinking about it. She needed sleep. "Let tomorrow worry about tomorrow", she often heard when she would slip into the back pew.
Tomorrow. Amy. Challenge. Fragmented thoughts….Sleep.
© Teresa Ortiz 2009 All rights reserved
(First draft – Prologue – Lydia's Song - Feedback appreciated)
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