room, from which we go forth to more careful and guarded intercourse, leaving behind…cast-off and everyday clothing.
—HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
“Paisley,” Nick said, “you weren’t so much branded as you were brainwashed by professionals.” The somber statement, and its repercussions, rattled me as much as they did Paisley.
She bit her lip and frowned. “Probably happened somewhere between the shack and here. Because I remember being there. But I only remember finding myself here.”
Nick made a note of that.
“That’s quite the handy bit of perception,” I said. “How old were you when you found yourself here?”
“About twelve,” she said.
“Yep,” Nick muttered. “Brainwashed.”
“That sounds awful,” I said.
Paisley snorted inelegantly. “Try living it.”
“It’s not much different from PAS,” Nick said. “Parental alienation syndrome,” like in a nasty divorce where they use the kids as pawns, but in this case, Paisley ended up believing that her past never happened.”
“How?” we asked, Paisley and I.
“If and when she referred to her past, she would have been distracted, or told she was mistaken, maybe punished for mentioning it, belittled, anything to get her to stop thinking about it. She would have been taught over and over again that she would be safe only here. Brainwashing goes on all the time in the real world, especially to children in dysfunctional families.”
“Are there any functional families, really?” I asked. “Or are they part of the same myth that created Santa Claus?”
Nick chuckled as he opened a wood bin, a bread box, and rummaged through the cupboard beneath the sink.
“Seriously, though, brainwashing is awful,” I said.
“Yes, it is,” he said. “And it scars the child.”
Paisley frowned. “How scarred am I, do you think?”
Nick bit the inside of his lip, but I noted his eye twinkle as he turned away so Paisley wouldn’t be insulted by his amusement.
I huffed, miffed at Nick. “Your lack of memories, Paisley, for one thing, right, Nick?”
He nodded as he checked cupboards and kitchen drawers, but he didn’t look back at us.
“I gotta get my memories back,” Paisley said to herself. “This place is old-fashioned, isn’t it? Way different from the Carriage House Bed-and-Breakfast, where I’ve been staying. I like it better there.”
“Get a load of the old linoleum in here,” I said, “gray with yellow and red confetti. It matches that creepy clown cookie jar with the red and yellow trim.”
“I hate it,” Paisley said. “Those royal blue eyes follow you around the room.”
I didn’t want to know that, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings again. “Ugh! Melmac dishes. Orange, gray, lime, and dark green in the same set. I thought they were hideous in my grandmother’s cupboard; I think they’re hideous now. And for me, things usually get more beautiful with age; I mean I get to appreciate the history in their raison d’être , but this particular set of Melmac? Double barf.”
Paisley shrugged and went to the room off the kitchen, in the back left corner of the downstairs, probably once a borning room. Living in Connecticut most of my life I was familiar with these rooms common in old houses and once used for births, illnesses, and deaths. “This was my playroom. See my toys.”
“Who made them?” I asked.
Her face flamed. “ I made them when I was small.”
I tried to apologize, but she shrugged me off and left the room.
“Don’t belittle her childhood,” Nick warned.
“I thought Mam should have made her a nicer doll with a nicer dress, that’s all, but I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. I get it; she may not like her past, but nobody else had better say how awful it was.”
I’d been there. When I was ten, people couldn’t hide the pity in their eyes when they called me “little mother” as I herded and coddled my three motherless siblings. I hated it.
“This was Pap’s room,”
—HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
“Paisley,” Nick said, “you weren’t so much branded as you were brainwashed by professionals.” The somber statement, and its repercussions, rattled me as much as they did Paisley.
She bit her lip and frowned. “Probably happened somewhere between the shack and here. Because I remember being there. But I only remember finding myself here.”
Nick made a note of that.
“That’s quite the handy bit of perception,” I said. “How old were you when you found yourself here?”
“About twelve,” she said.
“Yep,” Nick muttered. “Brainwashed.”
“That sounds awful,” I said.
Paisley snorted inelegantly. “Try living it.”
“It’s not much different from PAS,” Nick said. “Parental alienation syndrome,” like in a nasty divorce where they use the kids as pawns, but in this case, Paisley ended up believing that her past never happened.”
“How?” we asked, Paisley and I.
“If and when she referred to her past, she would have been distracted, or told she was mistaken, maybe punished for mentioning it, belittled, anything to get her to stop thinking about it. She would have been taught over and over again that she would be safe only here. Brainwashing goes on all the time in the real world, especially to children in dysfunctional families.”
“Are there any functional families, really?” I asked. “Or are they part of the same myth that created Santa Claus?”
Nick chuckled as he opened a wood bin, a bread box, and rummaged through the cupboard beneath the sink.
“Seriously, though, brainwashing is awful,” I said.
“Yes, it is,” he said. “And it scars the child.”
Paisley frowned. “How scarred am I, do you think?”
Nick bit the inside of his lip, but I noted his eye twinkle as he turned away so Paisley wouldn’t be insulted by his amusement.
I huffed, miffed at Nick. “Your lack of memories, Paisley, for one thing, right, Nick?”
He nodded as he checked cupboards and kitchen drawers, but he didn’t look back at us.
“I gotta get my memories back,” Paisley said to herself. “This place is old-fashioned, isn’t it? Way different from the Carriage House Bed-and-Breakfast, where I’ve been staying. I like it better there.”
“Get a load of the old linoleum in here,” I said, “gray with yellow and red confetti. It matches that creepy clown cookie jar with the red and yellow trim.”
“I hate it,” Paisley said. “Those royal blue eyes follow you around the room.”
I didn’t want to know that, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings again. “Ugh! Melmac dishes. Orange, gray, lime, and dark green in the same set. I thought they were hideous in my grandmother’s cupboard; I think they’re hideous now. And for me, things usually get more beautiful with age; I mean I get to appreciate the history in their raison d’être , but this particular set of Melmac? Double barf.”
Paisley shrugged and went to the room off the kitchen, in the back left corner of the downstairs, probably once a borning room. Living in Connecticut most of my life I was familiar with these rooms common in old houses and once used for births, illnesses, and deaths. “This was my playroom. See my toys.”
“Who made them?” I asked.
Her face flamed. “ I made them when I was small.”
I tried to apologize, but she shrugged me off and left the room.
“Don’t belittle her childhood,” Nick warned.
“I thought Mam should have made her a nicer doll with a nicer dress, that’s all, but I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. I get it; she may not like her past, but nobody else had better say how awful it was.”
I’d been there. When I was ten, people couldn’t hide the pity in their eyes when they called me “little mother” as I herded and coddled my three motherless siblings. I hated it.
“This was Pap’s room,”
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