Читать книгу The Retreat - By Sam Marie and Daniel B - Страница 3

My life just went all to hell in a hand basket. What happened to me? How did I get here? I sit here all alone and feeling like I lost everything. I am left here wondering why I am even alive.

I will write in this journal to keep my memories, if I live through it all, I will remember that I got through it. If I don’t make it, someone will know what was in my heart. If you are reading now, thank you. I am lying on a bed in a boarding school in the middle of Mexico. The summer seems so long, and I have been reflecting on my life while the warm sun melts down in the horizon at the end of each day. I wonder where I will be in 3 years, what will become of me? Will I still be here?

Hello, my name is Katie; I was named after my mother, Katherine. Unfortunately she is long gone, she left me while I was still trying to grow up and figure out who I am. Yes I get it, it was not planned, and she didn’t leave on purpose; she was ripped out of my life forever a few years ago.

I should start at the beginning. I grew up in San Diego, and had a happy childhood. I had a mom who loved me dearly, and my nanny, who took care of me while mom was working so she could give us the best life possible. I was going to school in Imperial Beach and had a few good friends. Mom took me to visit my family in Guadalajara each summer. I had many aunts, uncles, and cousins; it was wonderful to see them all each year.

My mom didn’t believe in acquiring money or possessions. She believed in saving for my future, so I could go to college one day, and become whatever I set up myself to be in the future. She left me something much more valuable than money when she left; she left me some basic building blocks in life. She said I could be whatever I wanted to be, and I should never limit myself. She also taught me not to compare myself to others, I am me, not an imitation of anyone else, and I am unique. There will always be someone better than me and someone worse than me and comparing myself or others doesn’t produce anything positive. I am just me, and I shall love myself as I am, and try to be the best me I can be.

I had everything I would need while growing up and was exposed to learning experiences as she saw fit. We traveled to places she thought I should see while I had a chance. We visited beautiful places, pyramids in the middle of a jungle, a mine deep within a mountain, and beaches of pure white powdery sand. I saw beauty in the world and in people. She showed me how other people lived, ones in beautiful rich neighborhoods and ones that had nothing and lived in a shack. I have been in incredibly beautiful homes, and spent nights in homes that seemed to be dropped at the edge of the earth. I saw so many things and learned so much.

She passed away from a sudden heart attack when I was 12; it happened while she was at work. But I don’t want to remember the sad times; I want to remember her as she was before that. I want to remember the good times, the love, and the time we spent together. We used to spend the weekends together, listening to the music she loved while doing laundry. We always went to church on Sundays, and sometimes I was allowed to pick a different one, just for a change of pace. I want to remember those days filled with golden sunlight that poured in through my window like warm honey. I want to remember the honeysuckle’s scent invading our home in the summer, and the Magnolias set nicely on top of the piano when in the tree was in bloom.

Those were the wonderful times that flashed by, bright like a fireball streaking through the sky and gone too soon, leaving behind only memories. I have always been afraid that memories are like footprints in the sand; and that they will fade away with time and I will lose them all.

When my mom died, I was picked up from school by her best friend and her husband. They talked to me but didn’t go much into detail. I was taken to my house to pick up my puppy, little Sugar, (a miniature poodle that looked like a little playful marshmallow). All I could think is that she can’t stay home alone. I was still in shock and confused about what was going on. I was taken to my mom’s best friend’s home to stay as I was told “for the night”. I stayed awake that night, smelling the blankets that were not mine. I had to sleep alone, since my puppy had to sleep outside. I stared into the darkness wondering what happened, and what would happen next. I was taught to not question God’s will, so I didn’t. I tried to justify what happened, thinking God was teaching me a lesson, or that he needed another angel. I was just still in denial, I kept thinking I’d wake up and it would all be a bad dream. Maybe the next day we can go to my house and find my mom there as if nothing had changed; it had to be a big mistake.

The next day, I was whisked away by my mom’s family. My aunt Martha and my uncle Felix (my mom’s brother and sister) came to pick me up. Aunt Lila took me back to the house. I was told I could not take anything with me, not my toys, not my puppy, nothing. My aunt Martha helped me pack some changes of clothes. She said we were flying to Guadalajara, and I would be allowed only 2 suitcases on the plane. I cried and cried because I just wanted to stay home, to wait my mom and my nanny. It hurt to leave Sugar; she was all I had left. I couldn’t even bear hug her goodbye; I was assured they would find her a loving home. We left for the airport soon after. My aunt took me to Guadalajara, and my uncle stayed behind to take care of “things”.

I stayed at my Aunt Martha’s house for a few months, it was summer, and my cousins were home. I still felt so alone, so devastated. What now? I begged to go back home, I felt so helpless. My cousins went about their lives as usual, going with their dad in the mornings to help him at work, and I stayed at home. I was told a lady helps with the chores at home, and they were doing “boy’s work”. So I tried to help my aunt with the chores and even tried my hand at cooking. Cooking helped me feel like the world was pausing and all I had to think about was that recipe. I could focus on it, and not on my problems. My reward was to watch people enjoy it. It was one of those things that saved some of my sanity.

After the summer was over, I was sent to Guadalajara. I was to stay at my cousin’s house, with her and her husband. My cousin Sofia was a tall redhead, with bright blue eyes, and curly red hair. She was beautiful, and had always been good to me. I was happy to have been sent there, I had no idea how wrong I was. She and her husband Hector welcomed me, and set me up in their spare room. It was to stay almost as bare for the whole year I spend there. The room contained a single bed with an orange bed spread, a plain desk to one side, and a chair. I had a few clothes in the closet and that was it. It was as bare as a hotel room would have been, but I was grateful to be there. I was warned that my only other option was an orphanage. That frightened me, because all I could think of was that movie, Oliver Twist. I dreaded brushing toilets and scrubbing floors, Sofia made sure she painted a grim picture. She said I need to be a good girl, or I’d end up in the orphanage scrubbing toilets with my bare hands.

Sofia immediately set the rules for me. I was to wake up and log everything I did in a notebook she gave me. “At 7 am wake up, at 7:03 I went to the bathroom, at 7:05 I came out of the bathroom”, my whole day had to be logged in that precise manner. I was allowed 3 minutes to use the bathroom, 5 minutes for a shower. I was wondering how long I’d have to do this for; I thought it was a test of some sort. I figured if I do it right she would relax the rules later on.

I was enrolled in a high school. I was surprised to see how different this place was. So proper, and all the kids were so serious and well behaved; it was intimidating. The nuns were alright, seemed kind, but also very proper and serious. They rushed around quietly in black habits and soft soled shoes that allowed them to pop up anywhere without notice. Children walked quietly down the halls to the classrooms in their blue plaid uniforms. They all looked the same, they wore impeccable uniforms that looked so perfectly starched, and their white shirts so bright and ironed to perfection. This was an all girls school, no boys; boys seemed to have been labeled “dangerous”, and not allowed in the high school. “They are trouble” I was told by a nun when I came in to be enrolled at the beginning.

I was so excited to start school in a “grown up” school. When I just came to live with my cousin and her husband, Sofia used to take me out to the park in the evenings sometimes, to sit and talk and have ice cream with her. I thought we were off on a good foot; that is until school started. I struggled with the language; the text books had a language form that was too high register for me, and I fell behind fast. The school had no way of getting me help to catch up, or even tell me what was expected. I had no way of knowing what to do, and things went from bad to worse. My grades were dropping fast and I felt so lost.

I was soon to find out Sofia was not as nice as she seemed. Her temper showed itself the first time I failed to finish washing the dishes after dinner on time. I was moping the floor, just finishing up, when I looked up and saw her at the kitchen door. She said I was late, I had half hour to clean up the kitchen and it was 35 minutes now. She told me to take the mop and put it outside, then come back. I did immediately, seeing how she seemed so angry, I was getting worried. I came back in and she grabbed me by the arm, half dragged me upstairs to her room, grabbed a belt that was folded in half, sitting on her bed, and she started swinging it. She was hitting me wherever it landed. I tried to get away, but made things worse. I had never been hit with anything before; my mom didn’t have a reason to hit me; she never got angry at me like this. The worse that I had happen with my mom was that she would be disappointed because I kept failing at math. Disappointing her was painful to me, but this was a whole different thing that was happening now. I was a bit freaked out by it, and had no idea this could even happen. Do people do this? Is it normal?

I made a big mistake trying to talk to one of the nuns at school, asking for help. I explained what happened, and hoped she would help me. I expected to see shock in her face, instead she seemed calm. She told me I need to bring my grades up and be a better child. She said that at my age, it was my duty to go to school and get good grades; was that too much to ask? Then I realized when I got home, that she had talked to Sofia, so I got more beatings that night; I learned to keep things to myself from then on.

I quickly learned to stay under the radar, and try to stay safe from the dreaded belt. I was not allowed to have friends or go anywhere like the other students. I was to go to school every day and come directly home; I had chores and then dinner. After dinner I had more chores, wash dishes, do my laundry out in the patio. I had to iron and fold clothes a few times a week. Sofia would go out every evening, at 4 pm. I was to do all these things and then go to my room and do my homework.

I had a terrible time concentrating on my homework, I don’t know if it had to do with the language, or I was just a little slow. My grades kept falling, and I was labeled a dumb-ass and told I didn’t deserve to be like the other kids; so no TV for me, no outings, no friends. I had a radio in my room, I was allowed to use that, and music became my refuge.

At school, the other girls were kind to me; they said I had a good heart. They shared their lunch with me, since I was not given any. They included me in their conversations and I was even elected to be a cheer leader for the volleyball team. Later on my friends helped me obtain permission to go “practice” at the school in the evening once a week, on Thursdays. I was to be at the school from 5 to 6 pm. They made up this special practice session to get me out of the house, which now felt like a prison. I will never forget their kindness; they could have just as easily made fun of me, or bullied me for being different.