The psychologist sat in the overstuffed, leather chair, one leg crossed ankle to knee, his notebook balanced on his thigh. I sat in the small sofa across from him. A coffee table separated us.
He idly scratched the side of his head with the back his pen. “Tell me why you are here.”
“I shouldn’t really be here,” I said. “My Mom thinks I’m not adjusting well to the seventh grade, but she’s wrong.”
“How old are you?”
“Twelve.” I couldn’t meet his eyes, they were too intense, like he could see right through me.
He scribbled something in his notebook. “Why does your mother believe you’re having problems adjusting?”
“Ask her yourself, why don’t you.” I focused on breathing calmly. Getting angry wouldn’t help my cause.
Again, he wrote in his notebook and looked at me, waiting.
“You really don’t have to do this,” I said. “I mean the head shrinking thing. We could just sit here until the hour’s up, nobody the wiser.”
His pen went back to the side of his head and he continued watching me.
I sighed. “You’ll still get paid don’t worry.”
He put his pen in his notebook, closed it and sat it on the coffee table. “Okay then.” He uncrossed his leg and leaned forward, clasping his hands together across his knee. “What do you want to talk about?”
He thought he was pretty smart, but I wasn’t falling for any of his tricks. “I don’t care. What do you want to talk about?”
“How about the three bears?”
“That’s bullshit,” I said. Adults don’t expect cute kids like me to say words like bullshit.
He tugged at his ear. It appeared like he was trying to suppress a smiled. “What do you mean?”
“Have you even heard the story?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“Well,” I said, “the story you’ve heard isn’t even true. The bears were people, not animals. And there were two of them, not three.”
“And you think you’re Goldilocks?”
There it was … the big question. I didn’t expect it this quickly. I figured he’d dance around the subject a while and slowly build up to it. But I wasn’t about to back down.
“I don’t think. I know I am Goldilocks.” I stuck out my chin, defiantly.
He remained quiet. Obviously a ploy to make me keep talking. I wasn’t going to fall for it. I could wait the whole hour without talking. Easy.
I won. He spoke first. “Okay. How can you be the Goldilocks from the story since the story existed before you were born?”
Easy, magic. But I wasn’t going to tell him that. I sighed. “You ever play that game called ‘Whisper’ when you were a kid?”
He made a half, I-don’t-know shrug with one shoulder.
“You know. You sit around in a circle and one person whispers a secret to the person next to them. Then they whisper that secret to the one next to them. And so on. It goes around the whole circle and by the time the secret makes to back to the person who started the game, it’s not even close to the original. That’s what happened to my story.”
“So you’re saying the story I’ve heard about Goldilocks isn’t the same as your story?”
“Exactly,” I said.
“Why don’t you tell me your story then.”
I took a deep breath and began my story.
#
One time, when I was eight, my Mom and Dad and baby brother, Skeeter, and I were camping. Our camp was set up beside a small stream in the woods. Mom was in the tent dealing with Skeeter, or maybe taking a nap with him. I don’t remember. Dad had a fishing pole stuck in the mud bank, line in the water. He watched it closely, as if expecting a fish to hit his line at any moment. Pretty funny because he never caught anything on account he doesn’t put a worm on the hook. What he was thinking? Maybe some depressed fish would come along and commit suicide on his hook?
Anyway, hundreds of little yellow buttercups filled the field behind our camp. I asked Dad if I could go pick some of them.
“Sure, but don’t wander too far away,” Dad said.
I skipped across the field, plucking the buttercups until I had two huge handfuls. Yeah, I was skipping. Funny huh? I was sappy sweet when I was a kid, all unicorns and rainbows and crap like that. I thought the yellow flowers would make a beautiful bouquet that Mom would love. So I headed back to camp with my hands full, eager to find something to put the buttercups in.
Halfway back across the field I saw one of those big thistle plants with purple flowers. On the flower was the prettiest butterfly I had ever seen. It was huge. Each of its multicolored wings were as large as one of my hands.
I dropped the buttercups and leaned down closer to the butterfly. Its wings slowly opened and closed. I reached out to touch it—don’t ask me why—I just had an urge to touch it. The butterfly seemed magical, like it was a butterfly princess coming to pay me a visit. Don’t laugh, that’s actually what I thought. I told you I was a sappy kid.
My fingers were inches away from the butterfly when it suddenly flew up into the air, moving in large swoops and arcs across the field.
I became totally convinced it was a butterfly princess. Maybe it was going home. I followed it, hoping it would lead me to its castle.
Mom and Dad used to tell me that I was easily distracted by things. That I had to learn to focus. But they had it exactly backwards. I have no problem focusing. When something interests me, I focus on it to the exclusion of everything else. Such was the case with the butterfly. I followed the butterfly through the woods, building up an elaborate fantasy of what its castle would look like. Or how the butterfly royalty would greet me. I was so caught up in this grand adventure I lost track of time and place, until finally the butterfly flew up high into the sky and out of sight.
For several moments I stared after it, waiting for it to reappear. Tears welled up in my eyes and I sat down cross-legged and put my head in my hands.
Now, before you think of me as some little baby, let me explain something. My imagination was so keen that I truly believed I was on the way to the butterfly’s castle. Maybe this sounds crazy, but when the butterfly flitted away it was painful. How would you feel if such a wondrous opportunity had been pulled out from under you?
Gradually, I became aware of my surroundings. There were trees everywhere. I had followed the butterfly deep into the woods and was lost.
I jumped to my feet and spun around looking in all directions. The woods appeared the same no matter which direction I looked.
“Dad! Mom!”
No response.
“Dad!” I yelled louder.
Nothing.
I started running and screaming for my parents. Dodging trees, leaping over deadfall. I ran full-speed into a low hanging branch and was knocked off my feet. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried running in the woods, but it’s hard. There are rocks and holes and branches and things that scratch and trip you everywhere. Anyway, after I fell I rolled over, I got back on my feet and sprinted into a different direction. I don’t know how long I ran, or how often I fell down, or how many times I yelled for my parents. I continued running, falling, and yelling until I collapsed into a heap on the forest floor, exhausted, throat raw from all the yelling.
Obviously running around and bouncing off trees like a crazy pinball was not helping me find my way back to my parents. I needed to travel in one direction and eventually I’d find a road or a stream.
I saw the sun, barely, through the canopy of tree branches above me. If I walked, keeping the sun in front of me, I’d be moving in one direction. I got to my feet, brushed myself off, and began walking towards the sun. Having a plan made me feel better.
I walked for maybe two hours, almost losing my resolve several times before coming upon a meadow with a small log cabin in the center. The cabin had that grayish color that wood gets when it’s been out in the weather for years. Beside the cabin were several tools—a shovel, an axe, a pick—and a stack of wood with a wheelbarrow leaning against it. A large black pipe came out of the cabin’s roof. Tendrils of white smoke whirled lazily out of the pipe.
I ran towards the cabin, but stopped before I was halfway there. What if I didn’t find help inside the cabin? What if some psycho lived there? After all, who lived in cabins in the woods? Probably somebody crazy, that’s who. I retreated out of the meadow and peered at the cabin from behind a tree.
Now, I must say that was pretty sharp thinking for an eight year old kid, don’t you think? Especially after the day I had been through up to that point.
Anyway, as I hid in the woods trying to figure out what to do next, the door to the cabin opened and out trudged two massive people dressed in denim and flannel. Lumberjacks! The man had a thick, black beard covering most of his face. He picked up the large axe and leaned it back against his shoulder, holding it with one hand, the top of the axe beside his head. He walked towards the woods, away from me. The other person that came out of the cabin was a woman. She appeared to have a beard.
I rubbed my eyes and looked again.
Yes, she also had a beard. Light brown in color and not as thick as the man’s. It covered most of her chin. Even with the beard there was no mistaking that she was a woman—a large woman, but a woman nonetheless. She grabbed the wheelbarrow and followed the man.
I chewed on my lip. Should I try to go into their cabin? These people were huge and scary and didn’t appear all that hygienic. Would they harm me in some way if I got caught?
What finally helped me decide was the urge to go the bathroom. That may seem strange, but I had to go real bad and didn’t have any toilet paper to go in the woods. Plus, what if a spider or other creepy crawly got on my butt—yuck! I crossed the clearing to the cabin while keeping an eye on the area of the woods they disappeared into.
Above the door of the cabin hung a wood plaque with the words “The Baers” burned into. Notice the spelling? B-A-E-R-S. Not B-E-A-R-S. They weren’t bears like grizzly bears or anything. They were just people named Baer. I went to the side of the cabin and looked through the small window.
Inside, the cabin was small, even smaller than it seemed from the outside. It consisted of a single room with a table, two chairs, and a wood stove on one side of the cabin. On the opposite side were a pile of blankets and furs and a couple pillows. No bathroom. Apparently the Baers poop in the woods.
I turned away from the window and noticed a primitive road that had not been visible from my earlier vantage point. I grinned. At least checking the cabin allowed me to discover the road.
A wonderful smell hit my nose. Something peppery. My stomach twinged. I had not eaten since breakfast and didn’t realize how hungry I was. I looked through the window again. There were two bowls on the table. Without thinking I went to the cabin door, opened it, and dashed to the table. All thoughts of being lost or needing to use the bathroom slipped out of my head.
This is the point I should tell you that what I did was wrong. Going into a house uninvited, even if the door is unlocked, is breaking and entering. But at the time my focus was on the bowls of food on the table. Remember what I said about how I have great focus?
Anyway, I sat on one of the chairs and looked in the bowl. It was soup. Steam rose from the bowl. I took a spoonful, carefully blew on it, and slurped it. Bean soup. My favorite. There was none of this too hot or too cold nonsense. No, the soup was just right. I ate the entire bowl and sat back satisfied, leaning in the chair.
The front door opened, startling me and I fell backwards in the chair. And no, the chair didn’t break like the story says.
I think the Baers were as surprised as I was because they stood there with their mouths open. For several moments we all stared at each other.
“Moshie?” the woman asked the man.
The man smiled revealing large teeth the color of coffee grounds. “No, Shashie,” he said.
She nodded her head up and down. “Da, Shashie,” she said.
I stood slowly. I didn’t know what language these people were using and I wasn’t going to wait around and find out. I jumped up to the cabinet and climbed out the window.
I almost made it, but a hand grabbed my foot. There I was hanging upside down, outside the window, suspended by my foot. My shoe twisted off and I fell into a heap on the ground. I sprang to my feet and sprinted towards the road. At the edge of the woods I looked back over my shoulder. The Baers stood outside the cabin watching me flee. The man had his arm around the woman’s shoulder and she held out my shoe to me, like she was offering it to me.
I ran for what seemed like ten miles, although it was probably less than two. The road crossed another road and at the intersection was a sign “Campground – 1 mile.” On the top of this sign was the butterfly that I had chased into the woods. I couldn’t believe it.
I peered closely at the butterfly and, although the face looked all insect-like, I swear the sides of its mouth turned up a little. Like it was trying to smile at me.
But I no longer cared about the butterfly princess, or following her to her castle, or even my reception once I got there. No, I just wanted to get back to my parents. They’d be so happy to see me. They were sure to be half mad , worrying about me.
I think the butterfly knew this somehow. It rested there, perched on the sign, weirdly smiling at me for a few moments and then took to the air again. In moments it was gone.
I made it the final mile and got back to our camp. Only, my parents hadn’t even realized I was gone. Mom and Skeeter were still in the tent and Dad was still watching his pole. I ran up to my Dad and gave him a big hug.
“Woah, Goldi,” Dad said, returning my hug. “What was that for?” He looked at me, noticing the scratches and rips in my clothing. “Oh my. What happened to you?”
I told him about my adventure in the woods.
“Right,” he said. “Good story.”
“It really happened Dad.”
“If you say so.”
Over the next few weeks I told everyone I knew about getting lost and finding the Baer’s cabin. I didn’t realize stories grow and get reshaped until they hardly resemble the original. I was sweet and innocent, but the story changed until it painted me as spoiled and opportunistic. Like some hooligan, breaking people’s furniture, eating their food, and using their beds without asking. I wish I’d never told my story to anyone.
#
I stopped talking and looked at the psychologist. He hadn’t said a word, didn’t interrupt me once.
“Anyway,” I said. “That’s what really happened.”
The psychologist stood, walked to his desk, and pulled something out of the drawer. “I have something for you.” He handed me a mirror.
I took the mirror, looked into it, and threw up a little bit in the back of my throat.
It wasn’t me in the mirror. Couldn’t be. Gone were my golden curls, replaced by thin, fragile-looking white hair. Deep lines etched my face, especially around my eyes and mouth. And my neck looked the worst. My smooth skin had been replaced with so many wrinkles and bulges that the skin looked like the messed up sheets of an unmade bed. The face in the mirror was that of an old, very old, woman.
But the eyes. They were mine. A bit faded and bloodshot maybe, but I could see myself looking back through my eyes. My eyes were in this old woman’s face.
The mirror slipped through my fingers and fell to the floor. “It’s the queen. She did this to me.”
“The queen?” asked the psychologist.
“Yeah, the queen who keeps asking her mirror if she’s the prettiest one in all the land. She found out I was prettier and somehow changed me to this.”
“I see,” he said, walking to his desk. He pressed a button on the phone and said “We’re done.”
The door opened and two large men dressed in white smocks came into the room. “Let’s go, Mrs. Varley,” one of them said. “It’s time for you to rest.”
I did feel tired. I let them pull me to my feet.
“Mom’s going to freak out when she sees me,” I told the psychologist.
He patted me gently on my shoulder. “Mrs. Varley, your mother passed away over forty years ago.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn’t help it. Something was horribly wrong here.
One of the large men firmly grabbed my arm and urged me to move toward the door.
At the doorway I turned back to look at the psychologist. Was he going to do something or just let them drag me out of there?
“It’ll be okay,” he said. “We made some good progress today.”
~ End ~
