The Oracle’s Tale -Part 8

 

(Beep. Music fades in)

Despite all of the problems mom and I ended up having over the course of our lives, I’ll give her credit where it’s owed. She isn’t a bad person. For example, after she remarried, she never did see a distinction between her stepdaughters and her daughter. Problems in the family were triaged by necessity and severity not by who had them. And I do think there’s something noble in that. Maybe because Stepdad didn’t practice this at all.  And as the stepchild, I really would have liked him to. Then again, none of is really that normal, is it? But I guess to Mom, family was based less on emotion and more on a certain mutual agreement: that no matter what comes, you as a family unit had to work together to combat it. 

And besides the dreams, I didn’t have any problems or concerns. I mean, Stepdad and I did not actually get along, but avoiding each other was a valid option that worked really well for the both of us. The dreams were something else entirely, something that Mom liked to pretend didn’t exist. In part because we had… other things to be dealing with. 

I did want more of her attention, though. And maybe I was entitled to more of it, but it was not meant to be. And she can apologize a thousand times over, but somehow, it never fits right with the memory.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

In the last leg of my tale, I said something about my stepsister that led to questions. I get it.  I let it slip that there was a problem with her but beyond pointing out that Mom wanted me to not see the chaos that surrounded it, I explained nothing. My stepsister’s condition, whatever it was, is treated as a dirty secret unfit for younger siblings. There’s an accuracy to that

People want to know what the problem was with her. And maybe I should not have kept it vague. But the thing about stories is that they are incredibly dependent on the person who tells them. At the time, I didn’t really understand what Stepsister was facing. It was kept from me, not to spare me but because some things are not worth talking about. Some family matters are just dirty little secrets, and this was one of them.

But I know better now, but forgive me for still carrying the scars.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

My stepsister was an addict. To what? I genuinely don’t know. But does it matter? Because I do know that it was a vice that had a high likelihood of killing her. And that was all I knew. No one had sat me down to explain what was happening. I only picked up the unspoken details underlying the things I could see. Our parents’ frantic energy told me that her life was at stake. There was something physical because they always search for signs of it in the home and in her belongings.

And she was not doing well. They were constantly crying.

Around the time of this tale, when Father Thomas came to the parish, my stepsister was back at home. She was trying to get sober, genuinely trying, but effort doesn’t always guarantee success. And there were times when she fell from the path. Apparently that is very common in recovery. The important thing is how someone reacts. And sometimes she did react properly.

Now maybe you are jumping in to say that at the first glimpse of a relapse, our parents should have thrown her out. Addicts have to want to get better, you might be saying. Or she needed to earn back that trust. Whatever. There’s a thousand things you can say behind that, and I won’t agree with any of it. But I have heard it all before. They were trying to fight with her, and it is a hard battle to win, and sometimes it did look like we were..

And before you jump to the last frontier of a complaint. My other stepsister was much older, out of the house in fact. As for me, I had Uncle. And Uncle knew of places where he could send me if things got bad.. Like one of the deacons had a wife who loved to bake pies. And she would teach me how. They told me she loved teaching children how to cook, and that is why I went over there so much. And when Father Thomas came, I had something else to occupy my time.

And he was very good to me. He doted on me and snuck me candies when no one was looking. I don’t even think Uncle knew about it. I kept many secrets from him. Like those about the dreams.

They kept happening. All of this time. Did you think because I didn’t mention them they had stopped? They never stop. But I knew not to mention them to a Catholic official. 

If it comes up, we are told to avoid such things. Not even just because it’s sinful but because it’s almost demonic. It seldom comes up, though. So it wasn’t like I was lying. Was I lying? Only my mom would have known to ask me about this, and she liked to pretend it didn’t exist. I don’t think she told even my stepdad. There were many things she didn’t tell him, and vice versa. They both had their secrets.

All this time, I kept having that nightmare of entering the church to find that death was hanging over someone pinned to the ground. I didn’t have a choice in seeing it. Back then, I didn’t have a way of stopping or reliably seizing control of the dreams. So it just kept happening. It was on repeat. It... It was…

I think I still see it if I am to be completely honest. No, I... I do still see it. It’s this underlayer in every dream I have, playing just beneath the surface. Maybe it is even there when I am awake, and my mind just knows to filter it out. I can’t know. But it is a thread sewn into the tapestry of who I am. I cannot get away from it.

Father Thomas saw I carried a great sadness in my eyes. It was one of the first things he noticed when we met. He told Uncle who I guess had just assumed it was my dad’s death. But Father Thomas could see that there was more to it than that. He just did not know how to ask me.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

It wasn’t uncommon for me to be locked out of the home. Even on a good day, Stepsister would misplace her keys a lot, and given the circles she used to run in and maybe still did, our parents always replaced the lock. They did not always give me the key. 

Uncle was very angry the first time it happened, and then it kept happening. And what could he do? It happened because they were trying to keep me safe, and there were worse places out there for me. If I left their home would I end up in one of those places? 

That was why he started unlocking the side door to the church. It gave me a place to go, and him plausible deniability if child services came around. 

I snuck in there one day when I was particularly tired and the dream had worn me down. I just needed to close my eyes and get something that vaguely resembled rest. But it’s not that  I didn’t expect that I wouldn’t have the nightmare. I knew it was going to happen while I napped. It always did. It was more like my body was shutting down, and I needed to do something on a base survival level.

And that was where Father Thomas found me. He took a seat in the pew behind me, waiting for me to wake up. And I did so, screaming.

(Music fades out. Beep.)

The Oracle of Dusk is written, acted, and edited by MJ Bailey with music from the Sounds like an Earful music supply. If you like the show, please consider leaving a review, joining the Patreon or buying the oracle a Ko-Fi. Links for all of it in the show notes.