Ramblings of a Survivor

A tiny little voice crept between the down of my sleeping bag and my trusty teddy bear that my head was laying on. The firm pillow we had bought from the Budapest IKEA when I arrived the week prior was lying next to me. I’d rather smell the remaining campfire smoke that had nestled into the layers of insulation of my trusty North Face bag than cuddle up with the synthetic fibers of cushion it was offering. We’d gone camping the week before I left the US – one last family camping trip.

“You shouldn’t have come; this is going to be BAD.” the voice said.

The room was dark. When we had arrived, this had been the living room. The far wall had floor to ceiling built ins – floor to ceiling cabinets framing a mirror behind shelving meant for displaying odds and ends. Tall cabinets flanked both sides: one of which was assigned as mine. I had only a few hours prior unpacked my 50 lb. cardboard moving box, full of all the things I’d felt I would need for a few months of living overseas. We hadn’t brought suitcases, because we couldn’t fit as much into them, and we had been laden with gifts for the missionaries we were joining. A few hours earlier, the edges of this room had been lined with chairs, each seating members of the group I was joining…and the one special chair for the pastor’s wife who had accompanied us here.

My eyes worked to adjust to the din. I was defiinitely jet lagged: So so so exhausted, but wide awake. I wasn’t sure what had actually happened in the last 24 hours.

I did know a few things: I’d arrived here with two other girls and Sister Abbott. That I knew.

I knew that things were already not what I had expected.

Krissy lay to my left, nestled onto the couch, her parents asleep in their bed, and her brothers somewhere else in the apartment. There had been something off when we had arrived – and I couldn’t quite figure it out yet.

Why can’t I remember? Why do I want to create a story that justifies what happened? Why do I want to say that I was singled out AT the airport? Why does that make me feel more justified in my trauma, in my feeling of being singled out. Is it not enough that I was separated from my friends? Why do I feel I need to make a bigger story so that I feel justified in my feelings of isolation?

Was I actually singled out?

How did I get separated from Jane and Jill? Did the McCullicks and Sister Abbott say, “Jane and Jill, you’re going to stay with the single girls, but you…YOU, Melissa, are evil. We want to break you. YOU are our target. YOU have to suffer at the McCullicks? Why do I want to simplify my story so much??? What DID they say to me when I had to say good bye to the two girls I saw as my allies?

I’ve tried so hard to remember. SO HARD. I’ve talked to Jane and Jill. They don’t remember either. WHY?

I want to write truth, but maybe TRUTH lies in the feeling rather than fact?

Krissy and Phillip and I lugged the cardboard box up the stairs. Phillip put in the bulk of the work, his scrawny frame surprisingly strong. They opened the door, and Alec immediately bounded from the kitchen to the left of the door:

“Did you bring Oreos? Are there Oreos in there? What else did you bring us?” he screeched. Mark toddled his way into the door:

“Who are you?” he asked as he looked at me, clawing at the box.

I looked at Krissy who had entered just before me, and she giggled in an uncomfortable, knowing way.

“Let us in, you guys! Then you’ll get your gifts!”

I didn’t have Oreos or gifts for them — at least, not that I knew of. I had, however, packed a few packages from families who were excited to send care packages to the missionaries following God’s calling…and their kids. I assumed that these two little kiddos would have something in my box that would make them feel connected to their citizenship…just maybe not Oreos.

When did Mary arrive at the apartment? Was Mary actually with us? — no, I know she wasn’t Who had been with the boys while we had been treking from Frenc Liszt Airport (was it airport 1 or airport 2? I don’t remember now). No. Mary was home. I think. I think what I”m telling is right. I want it to be right because what I remember is…

The orange brick shaped tile of the entrance rang of the late 70s era in which the bland concrete Communist typical housing had been erected. A small door with a brass lever handle was to my right – a then unknown-to-me closet was partially blocked by the open front door. Immediately to the left was a kitchen and dining space; cabinets were centered around a stove, the tops of the cabinets covered with faux ivy. THe right side of the kitchen held more counterspace with one of the smallest refrigerators I had ever seen in my 17 years. It seemed like a fairly normal apartment – one I would have seen in the US. I quickly absorbed my new living quarters: the hallway to the right, small and constricting, held a partially open door to an obvious bathroom, and I could see yet another door into what looked a bedroom: dark and looming.

“I need to pee!” I exclaimed. “Been holding it since we got in the taxi!”

“First door to the right!”

It wouldnt’ have been hard to find. As I turned toward the WC, as they called it, I saw a second bedroom, disheveled and messy, but with three obvious beds. Closing the door behind me, I took a deep breath and looked in the mirror. My denim ankle length dress had been such a comfortable choice – not that I had had the option to wear sweats or anything else – but at least it was loose and comfy! My makeup free face showed the wear of travel, slight bags under my young eyes. I splased water over my face.

A thought drifted through my mind: “I wonder what it’s like for Jane and Jill? Why am I here, and they’re there?” I turned to the toilet. “Well this is different! Is it built into the wall?” European toilets were apparently different, but easy to use. I peed, and returned to the mirror. Washing my hands, I looked steadfastly into my own face. “OMG! You’re in Europe!!!! THREE WHOLE MONTHS OF EUROPE!”

I returned to my welcoming committee, the two little boys had already opened my box and were pulling my carefully packed items out.

“Boys! We have to get ready for the team meeting; you have to wait!” I heard a voice command.

I looked up and saw her: my mom’s friend -Mary. Mom’s friend. She was dressed in a light-blue faded floral shirt with a faded denim button down skirt that tussled her boyish ankles. She was incredibly frumpy compared to my mama’s glorious sunshine – Mom could have worn the same exact uniform, and had, but her smile and love always made the rules of dress feel alive. Mary, just….wore it. Our eyes connected:

“MELISSA!!!” She joyously embrassed me. “I’ve missed your mom so much!”

“Um. me too.” I stammered in my exhausted jet-lagged state.

“Ready to jump into mission work?”

“Ummm. Yeah?”

I don’t really remember the details immediately after this: what we ate or IF we ate; how they told me that the sleeping bag that still smelled of Yosemote and years of rock climbing and mom and dad would be my bed for the next 14 months. I don’t remember how they told me that I would spend the next year in fear, seeking my own space when there wasn’t any space to BE. I don’t remember how I first knew that this wasn’t the three month mission trip I’d signed up for. But I I remember knowing. I remember the frantic preparations of those first days; I remember the: “Sister Abbott is going to be here, so we have to have this place SUPER clean and tidy.” I remember the: “BOYS! GET IN HERE NOW OR GET A REAL SPANKING!” I remember the constant pressure of: “There’s no room for failure.” But…..I also remember the excitement of being able to see Jane and Jill again and hear what it was like at the “single sisters” home. I remember hoping being away from the McCullicks was better and more grown-up than what I was feeling. I remember feeling CONFUSED. That’s what I remember: I remember feeling confused at being added as another child in this two bedroom apartment already inhabited by a family of 6; confused that I wasn’t being welcomed as a team member; confused at the absence of love; confused that my mother’s friend didn’t treat and love her family like my mother and father loved us.

Sister Abbott arrived with Rhonda 10 minutes early. Rhonda was the one person in the group who had managed to learn Hungarian to that point: a rather difficult language for English speakers to learn. The mission team at that point was small. There was Rhonda, an older single woman who in the US had been a mobile dog groomer. There was my sister’s best friend Lucy, daughter of John and Mary – fellow Big Sur hippies who had lived along side my parents enjoying the freedom and appreciation of the earth and open hearted existence – values my parents had always told me was their motivation behind us joining this “band of banshees.” Christy was my crazy aunt Susan’s niece who had essentially been abandoned by her drug addicted parents. And then there was April, a year older than I, daughter of one of the lead elders of the church (who eventually became pastor when things went to hell in a handbasket), who had been sorta left to her own devices, and not exactly welcomed not just because of her position in the church, but because of how different she was to the rest of us second-generation members.

Sister Abbott’s appearance mimicked the arrival of royalty. The doorbell rang, accompanied by a slew of commands from Mary and her husband Lynn: “PUT AWAY THE CLEAN DISHES. STRAIGHTEN THE CHAIRS, DOUBLE CHECK THE BATHROOM.” Then came a mad rush for everyone to do their last minute primping and straightening, and an uncomfortable arranging of food and decor and presentation. The chairs had been arranged more than once in the living room which was separated from the entry by a set of double doors with glass in the top. Wall to wall cabinets along the far wall created a feeling of decadence that I knew Lynn and Mary had never been privileged to live with – they’d come here with the church’s finances literally straight from a trailer park. Windows lined the wall directly opposite the living room entrance. It wasn’t much of a view, but you could still see out across the quadrangle of grass that the complex framed.

Jane and Jill had arrived earlier with April, Christy and Lucy and. as they had promptly been put to work prepping for Florence’s arrival, I hadn’t had a chance to even remotely chat with them about what their first night had been like…but I wanted to know. I wanted to know if they knew why I wasn’t with them.

Why was I sent to the McCullicks, and they were there? WHY???

Everyone gave Florence her expected hugs – feigned love, motions riddled with fear. Jane and Jill seemed so oblivious and righteous in their interactions.. But that made sense. I was a Carvey: a member of the outskirts, someone who did the right thing, but somehow it was never quite what the Church wanted. Jane gave Jill a little nudge, whispering something in her ear.

For sure they were talking about me. For sure, they had KNOWN that they’d be the privileged ones; they had known I’d be sent to the McCullicks.

Memories of sitting on haybales at the ranch where we as young girls had spent the majority of our free time came flooding back. I’d loved being with the horses; those animals had given me so much reprieve. My family couldn’t afford to “sponsor” any of the horses owned by the church, so I just had to ride whatever horse came my way. I told myself I didn’t care; I told myself that I was a horsewoman whether the leadership there saw it or not. Beyond that, I recognized that if they didn’t see ME, I wasn’t a threat – and I wanted it to stay that way. I was loud, sure. Emotional? 150%, but I had figured out the “ranch.” I had spent hours mucking stalls, moving the manure pile, feeding horses, grooming and saddling these insanely beautiful horses that were usually behaviorially outcast from other barns, and I had loved every minute of it. II’d learned that if I made up sins to confess, and brought them forward, I could at least manage when the “hammer” was going to come down, and would then see the reward by being given a little more freedom for being “humble” enough to confess. Despite all my “humility” I’d still come under fire, but not as heavily as I would have if I hadn’t figured out the brown nosing. THere were times that the strategy hadn’t worked, of course, and I hadn’t loved Sister Abbott and other leaders chastizing me, but I had suffered through by holding on to my love of these magnificent beasts.

Lynn broke through my daydream with a, “Melissa, I told you to get water for Sister Abbot, and I glanced over at Jill and Jane, now seated in chairs next to each other. They giggled with each other as I left the living room for the kitchen. “I guess it’s that much better at the Sister’s House.” I thought.

The meeting was the usual: the opening prayer, some worship songs, Mary spoke about welcoming us three to the team…I doodled in the notebook I had brought – something I’d done since I was old enough to hold a pencil.

“Write these down. These are the rules on how to survive in Eastern Europe.”

Lynn started reading off a single piece of paper and four year old Mark handed each of us a print out with a numbered list – dot matrix printed.

1. Obey street signs – don’t walk across train tracks
2. Check destinations: know where the tram is going
3. Hold your bags in front of you with your hands on it at all times
4. Don’t speak English on the train
5. Dress modestly
6. Skinheads will kill you without a thought, don’t talk to them
7. Women, keep your eyes to the ground at all times – just like at home
8. Do NOT go out alone – EVER – always travel with someone

The list was going on and on…I couldn’t focus.

“Seven more points” I told myself…at least I knew how long it would be. Sermons at home were way longer.

Lynn droned on and on. Mary interjecting at points, and Sister Abbott silent in her chair.

After about 30 minutes, Lynn said, “Now Sister Abbott is going to speak.”

My head shot up. I looked over at Jane: dead pan. No emotion; existing. That look couldn’t be discontent; she wanted to be here — no? No?

Selena was squirming in her seat, adjusting her crinkle skirt – something that we were told were perfect for traveling. She was obviously happy to be here.

“Turn to Isaiah 60:3….”

Flipping through my pink leather bound Bible given to me as a graduating gift from the Abbotts, inscripteded by our Poppa Abbott: “To Melissa, and your gift of the tongue. Use it for God’s glory.” I turned to read:

“And the Gentiles shall come to thy light; and kings to the brightness of your glory.”

What was I doing here?