Stranger to Myself

By Jennifer Svendsen

Stranger to Myself is a supernatural tale, inspired by a true story, about a woman who is thrust out of body to escape chronic pain. The last thing Rebekah Lark remembers is lying on an outdoor swing on a clear autumn day in Niwot, Colorado. But now, she awakens in an unfamiliar brownstone in New York City with heavily falling snow. A man named Leo enters the room and calls her "Caroline," assuming she is his wife. When, at last, she looks into a mirror, and sees she is someone else, she presumes the current transmigration is temporary. She plays along, while making attempts to contact her true family, even stealing away to visit them in Colorado, under the pretense that she is Rebekah's childhood friend. When Leo locates her, Rebekah's effort to explain her situation to him falls on deaf ears. The medical community's sway is powerful, but she is the puzzle doctors will never piece.

Who are we without our identity? Is Rebekah who she thinks she is? If she is, will she maintain her memories or will Caroline's brain reclaim control? What power do we give to the medical community to make our decisions? Does Rebekah/Caroline decide to stay in New York or return to Colorado? Read to find out!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Svendsen
• Release date: Jan 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310196126

Jennifer Svendsen

Jennifer Svendsen (Delaney) has published her poetry, nonfiction and fiction in literary journals, newspapers, magazines, ezines and blogs. Her thesis at University of Colorado won the Jovanovich Imaginative Writing Award. A chapter from her narrative nonfiction work, Coyote Heart, appeared in Sojourn Journal. A trauma therapist practicing Brainspotting, she maintains a weekly blog helping adult daughters with childhood trauma to plumb their shadow and reclaim their wonder. A nature lover and former professional dancer, Jen continues to take company classes and to explore the mountains near Boulder, Colorado.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

When asked to conduct an interview for a local monthly with renowned Western sculptor, Ivan Schlutz, little did I know that his story would inspire a novel.  I am grateful to Mr. Schlutz for his candid revelations about pain and out-of-body experience.  This is not his story, but his presence, imagination and courage were my inspiration.

I would like to acknowledge my University of Colorado English Department mentor, Professor Jeffrey DeShell, for his dedicated supervision, keen insight, and understanding, without which I would not have won the Jovanovich Creative Writing Award for best graduate thesis.  I appreciate Professor Elisabeth Sheffield’s guidance and input. I thank Susan Griffin, Jill Nagel Brice and Anne Workman for their critical feedback, editorial advice and loving friendship. I value author Laura Pritchett’s brilliance, and I am thankful for her encouragement. I also value the support and input from my writers’ group that included: Margaret Cann, Amy Allyn Hoyle Harker and Bonnie Katzive.  I thank my beloved, soul friend, Elisa Marusak, for holding up the light so that I can see and for seeing me so completely. I honor and thank my ex-husband, Brian Delaney, who gave me the time and financial means to write. I am indebted to my pioneering aunt, Helena Valenzuela, and my mentor and Uncle Steven Kellogg. I would not be who I am without my mother, Alma Hill, and stepfather Phil Hill. The influence of their wisdom, encouragement and support is immeasurable; I am eternally grateful. I also thank my father, Jerry Svendsen, for his kindness and belief in me, and Lynda Svendsen for her friendship.

I appreciate the fascinating interviews with people who have experienced the damaging and life altering effects of brain injury.  I admire their persistence to forge ahead in a positive and life-affirming manner. While I began this novel in 2003, well before I became a Licensed Professional Counselor in 2013, I believe it was instrumental in guiding me to my next career, working with victims of Complex PTSD (C-PTSD). I am grateful to Dr. David Grand, creator of Brainspotting. He is a humble and inspiring man with profound insights. Huge gratitude to Dr. Pie Frey who introduced me to the open-hearted Brainspotting world; she has been a mentor ever since. I am deeply indebted to my spiritual teacher, Helen Lordsmith, for patiently guiding me to the ultimate truth of love. I am grateful to influential guides Linda McCallum, Lori Ohlson, Terry Ray, Deborah-Marie Diamond and, especially, Elizabeth Burt Lukather.

My cherished daughters, Isabella Delaney Hatfield and Elizabeth Alma Luke Delaney, are souls much older than I, and – each in their way – inspired and nudged me to grow. The circle of love and the bond that we share is invincible, and we will be back together again. I thank my son-in-law, Taylor Hatfield for modeling vulnerability and a willingness to transcend adversity. Daisy, my granddaughter, was born well after this was written; however, she was in my heart long before arriving. She returns me to the realms of imagination and wonder. I thank my partner, J.R. Shumaker, for supporting me in every aspect of my life. I am fortunate to create such a gratifying, aware life with him, rich in love and steeped in the natural world.

Finally, I am so grateful for each of my soulful and talented siblings and their simply amazing partners: Cameron Svendsen & Mai Ling Chan, Vanessa & Davis Rogers, Ryan & Courtney Svendsen and Derek & Courtney Hill. And, who could endure and thrive without dear friends? I thank Lynn Israel, Katie Elliott, Nancy Cranbourne, Susan Jansen, Kaia Balsz, Wendy Gronsky, Sharla Macy, Lisa Volk, Lyra Mayfield, Susan Newkumet, Jeffry Baird, Seth Perler, and last, but certainly not least, Carolyn Young, for their moral support, consistent care and love.

Chapter One

The water of the physical brain is turned into the wine of consciousness, but we draw a total blank on the nature of this conversion.

~ Colin McGinn, philosopher

––––––––

I have no idea where I am.  I close my eyes again.  The sheets are crisp and clean. They smell good – just a hint of softener.  I run my tongue back and forth along a tender ridge inside my cheek where I must have bitten down in my sleep.  I open my eyes and push to sit; it’s not easy.  Why am I sore?  The curtains are parted. Tufted snowflakes spiral haphazardly between brownstones.  I don’t see a clock, which might provide at least one reference point. The heavy snowfall and thick, dark cloud cover gives the impression of night, but I smell bacon cooking. The queen-sized bed almost fills the narrow room cluttered with books and pictures of people I do not know.  Ornate white buttresses join the walls at the ceiling. Eggshell chips of paint sprinkle the hardwood floor beneath the ancient radiator pipes, painted over many times.

A Fauves print by André Derain hangs across the room above the dresser: thick, sweeping brush strokes of vivid colors depict three dancers: the mischievous nude in the middle clutches the woman to her right by the wrist.  The third dancer’s body is contorted: her torso is turned completely away from the other two, while her head and neck face them; she gazes at the place where the nude’s fingers wrap around the other dancer’s wrist.  All three have duck feet.

I lie back again and drape my right hand across my eyes and try to remember if there is something I am forgetting – some piece of information that might give me a clue as to where I am.  The last thing I remember is falling asleep on the outdoor swing in Colorado, lying across the puffy, green and white striped cushions, hanging a foot over the edge to rock myself.  I have a vivid memory of that moment, frozen in time.  Hollyhocks and blue daze sprouted under the aspen trees that bobbed in the balmy breeze, and above, drifting clouds arched like a row of whale ribs.

The heater creaks and clanks into operation. The music of Puccini wends its way upstairs with the smell of coffee and bacon. Who would be playing opera?  Not my husband, Connor, who winces and raises hand to ear.  Maybe we are visiting family in the City, but why won’t it come to me?  I see that Connor has been sleeping next to me – the sheets are thrown back on the other side of the bed.  An interminable ringing in my ears is annoying me beyond reason. My cheeks are swollen, which reminds me of how I felt as a kid when I had the mumps.  Not to mention that when I open my mouth, my jaw cracks.  I cry a little, taking deep breaths to calm myself.  I am too weak to get up and seek anyone out.

A few novels are stacked on the nightstand. I tug gently at a child’s drawing to free it from the ceramic jewelry box that holds it in place.  In the picture, a woman sleeps, suspended inside of a huge red heart, hovering on the page, connected to a string held by a little boy who prevents it from drifting away.  Mommy is printed above the woman and the boy is identified as Joel.  As I am tracing the letters with my finger, I see that my hand is different – bloated and tanned.

A man wearing Levi’s and a flannel shirt – a stranger – enters the room and startles me.  The child’s picture slips from my hand and wafts to the floor, and I wipe the tears from my eyes. He stands at the end of the bed with his hands on his hips.  Darlin! You’re awake!  Damn, you must have slept twelve hours last night! 

He has a full face with several days of rustic growth and a head of dark curls.  A distinct vertical indentation – accentuated by the frown – divides his forehead.  I pull the covers up to my chin.  This guy is beautiful.  I must look like a mess. We were hoping you hadn’t gone back into a coma.

I was in a coma?

Well, a few days ago.  You’ve been home for a couple of days now. He circles around the bed, moving closer. What’s the matter?

I scoot as far away from him as possible.  Please! Where is Connor?  I want to talk to Connor.  I cough to clear my throat and pat my chest. My voice sounds peculiar.

He laughs heartily and reminds me of George Clooney, but softer in the face – like Andre Bocelli or Jimmy Fallon.  Popeye’s Brutus in touch with his feminine side.  My eyes fly open wide when he leaps onto the bed that groans under the weight. He begins to sing a Steven Sills song: Really Only Waiting for You. This is no untrained voice belting over the opera music in the background; it moves through me familiar as a face I know whose name I have forgotten.

Where is my husband? I repeat, louder this time.

The man hesitates, but then continues.  Anything whatever that you want to last forever... I attempt to stand, but my legs buckle. I slump to the ground, turning to sit with my back against the wall, hugging my knees.  I feel cornered. 

He kneels on the bed.  Oh sweetheart!  What is it? The music is rapturous.  Massenet follows Puccini. 

Would you be so kind as to tell me what’s going on here? My voice cracks.

Crestfallen, he slouches, hands on his knees. The doctor warned me that this might happen.

What?

Disorientation.  Memory loss.

Somehow I have lived a whole portion of my life that I cannot recall.  If I stay calm, I will have a better chance of remembering.  Where am I?

Brooklyn.  New York.

I know where Brooklyn is.  I sigh.  "But, you don’t know my husband, Connor?

He pushes from the bed and limps into the bathroom and returns with two orange oblong pills and a cup of water. Here, take your meds.

Are you okay? I ask.

Yeah.  It’s just a cold.  He sniffs for emphasis.  I’ll be fine. Perhaps he has limped his whole life.

I lift my chin to indicate the music. What is this?

You’re joking, right?  My look tells him otherwise.  It’s your favorite: duets and arias sung by Roberto Alagna and Angela Gheorghiu.

Never heard of them.

He holds out the pills. Here.

Thanks anyway.

He tucks his chin and frowns.  Come on, sweetheart, be a sport.  He inches his palm closer towards me.

I take the glass of water from him and he feeds me the pills like communion. My hand is shaking; water spills down my front, but I swallow the pills.  What are they for?

Encephalitis.  He has deep, dark circles underneath his large hazel/brown eyes.  You had the chicken pox when you were little, but apparently it wasn’t strong enough and you got it again, but this time a lot worse, which is what triggered the coma.

I don’t know what you are talking about.  I had a wicked case of the chicken pox.

Not according to your mother.

My mother?  You knew my mother?  My mother is dead.

He looks worried. Woo.  You’ve evidently been having some wild dreams. 

Now I’m scared.  He doesn’t even know my mother is dead.  Who is this man?  I struggle to my feet.  My legs feel like Jello-O.  He sets down the glass and comes to help me but I throw my hands out to stop him. 

Don’t touch me.  Please!  I don’t know which is affecting me more directly – the lack of muscle tone or my anxiety.  I need you to call my husband – now!

He raises his brows and looks down his nose at me.  Okay. Okay.  At least he is finally being reasonable. Just settle down.

I lean against the wall and become conscious of my breath – exhaling in small bursts.

Where are you planning on going? he asks.

I have to pee.  I make my way to the bathroom and he follows me too close for comfort. Alone.  I flick on the light and lock the door behind me.

When I look into the large mirror that spans across the top of the toilet and sink, my heart flies into my throat.  There is another woman standing in front of me with large, dark brown eyes who looks as shocked as I.  Her hair is a reddish-brown schlock.  My hair is short and black. But when I raise my arm, she follows suit.  It is, in fact, a mirror.  I raise the other arm and she raises hers – an arm that is definitely not my own.  She is me.  Or I am she.  Shit.  No! I am in she.  Oh God.  Who is she?  I must be going crazy.  I feel the profusion of hair on my arms rising with goose bumps, and I slide the sleeve up to rub the goose bumps vigorously.

I look away to avoid a closer study.  I really have to pee.  I feel the same horror I felt as a child playing Mary Worth.  My friends and I would go into a dark bathroom – only slightly backlit – and stare into the mirror repeatedly chanting: I believe in Mary Worth until one of us would see a slight shift in her visage, a trick of the eye, an uncanny glimpse. Once one of us screamed, we would all run screaming out of the bathroom.

I pull down my pajama pants and sit more quickly than I intend, slapping the seat.  I am conscious of my labored breathing as I stare at enormous, olive thighs.  Any minute now I will exit this body, leaving this woman to fall off of the toilet. I close my eyes, feeling like a child who thinks she’s invisible because her eyes are shut.  The ringing in my ears continues.

The man knocks.  You okay in there?

Just fine, I call and then whisper, If you’re into trans-fucking-location.  I suck in my stomach and do a pelvic tilt to study tight curls of copious pubic hair.  Mine have a tendency to straighten and look like a cowboy’s cowlick.  I laugh, but I want to cry.  I wad up the toilet paper and lean to the side to wipe. The toilet seat slips so that my cheek is touching the cold rim of the bowl.  Shit!

Sorry.  I’ll tighten that up today, the man calls.  Does he have his ear pressed to the door?

Please, go awayyyy.  I drag out the word like my teenage daughter would. I pull up my pants, and face myself in the mirror, leaning with both hands flat against the counter.  I cry quietly at first, but then I cannot prevent the wrenching sobs that escape my throat.  The woman looking back at me is hideous when she cries.  Her twisted face makes me cry even harder and a filament of spittle drips from the corner of her mouth before I realize that I am drooling.

The man tries the handle and when he finds that it is locked, he shakes the door.  Caroline.  What is it?  Open up.

Give me a minute, would you?  Jesus!  I am perspiring.  I feel claustrophobic.  I cannot look at her face another second.  My legs are weak.  I slide down the wall to sit on the frigid, tile floor.  I stroke her arm, whispering reassurances to myself:  It’s going to be all right.  You’re okay.  Look at it this way: at least you’re still alive.  I laugh at the concept and wipe tears from my cheek onto the cuff of the flannel pajamas. 

I straighten the right leg on a diagonal and sweep it back and forth across the tiles. I lift the leg and let it fall.  Ow!

Caroline?

Bring me the phone, would you?

Please come out. 

Bring me the phone.

I get onto my knees and unlock the door.  The man opens it and peers in.

Please. 

He returns momentarily with the cordless telephone. I take it and close the door again.

If you’re calling your sister, she’s on a business trip.  She’ll be gone another week. You might want to try her cell.  You might catch her since it’s Sunday.

I can’t remember Alex’s cell number. Damn. We still have a land line. My hand is quaking as I dial the number.  At least I still remember that. It rings once, twice, three times.  After four rings, the message machine picks up.  Hello.  You have reached the Waters’ residence.  No one can take your call right now, so please leave a message, and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can!  Have a great day.  Bye!

It’s my daughter’s voice.  She sounds so perky.  I wonder when she recorded this.  How long have I been gone?  God.  I realize that I am breathing into the phone like some madman. Mad person.  I disconnect.  I wad the rug at the base of the toilet and use it as a pillow.  Curled up in the fetal position, I dial the number again and listen to Alex’s voice, but this time, I hang up before the beep.

There is a soft knock at the door.  Caroline?

I startle. Go away.  I dial and listen to the message again.

He talks to me through the door.  Sweetheart.  They warned me about this.  When I do not reply, he continues.  Dr. Burton said you might experience some delirium or transient amnesia.  You should be fine in a couple of hours.  It isn’t that uncommon.

Mommy? Are you okay?

Great.  Now I’m someone else’s mother!

Mommy, can I come in? I hear his heavy breaths under the door, as though he is trying to see me through the crack. He scratches the door lightly.

I lean over and pull on the door handle to release the lock.  A young boy opens the door slowly. He has large eyes and dark curls and a cherubic face like the man. When he sees me, he presses himself against me in a hug. I feel like a stuffed animal. I want to push him away.

The man admonishes him.  Joel, easy!

Why are you sitting on the ground, Mommy?  Where is his real mother?

The man frowns at me.  Caroline?  He points to the boy.

I play along.  It’s not the child’s fault his mother is missing. I don’t know.  I guess I’m just tired.

Can we cozy now in bed, Mama?

Cozy?

Come on, he pulls on my arm.  The man extends his hand to me, and they assist me to the bed.  When I lie back, Joel sits on my belly with his palms bearing down into my ribs. I cover my face with my hands.

Joel!  What did I say?  Be gentle!

It’s all right, I whisper through my fingers. The man smiles at me.

Are you going to eat with uth?  The boy asks, staring into my eyes.  I imagine a thick, juicy steak.

We’ll bring her some breakfast in bed afterwards, the man explains. 

The boy slaps the comforter and juts his chin in defiance.  I want to eat with Mommy – here, in the bed.

The man sighs and grins lovingly at us.  His hands are on his hips.  I’ll go talk to Moma and see what we can do. He pronounced it with the long o as in Nona, what Italian grannies are called.   

I lift the covers over us and Joel lies on my breasts.  I place a hand gently on his back. His hair smells like raspberries and chalk. 

It has been a long time since I cuddled like this with my daughter who resists contact with me as though it will cut her.  She is 14 after all. But, there was a moment last summer when we lay shoulder to shoulder on a picnic blanket, next to a lazy section of the Big Thompson River in Estes Park.  I wipe away tears.

Are you thad, Mommy? I shrug. Happy tears? he asks. 

I nod.  He pats my breasts gently.  My pillows! 

I hold his wrists.  Watch this. I balloon the blanket over our heads and wedge it up into a tent with my foot.  "My house has flowers on the roof, I sing – a husky alto instead of a hollow soprano.  I can’t sing, but now I can sing.  I like the quality of her voice. My house has leaves and flowers on the roof.  My house has red and green and blue.  My house has yellow on it too!  Come on sing it with me."

He smiles.  There is a slight gap between his two upper front teeth.  Did you make that up?

Uh huh.  You sing with me now. We sing it several times together before lying quietly. 

I notice a picture across the room on the dresser that must be of the three of them.  Will you hop down and bring me that picture to me please.

Joel throws back the covers and sits up.  He is wearing a dark blue sweater and khaki pants that make him look like a little man ready for work.  He studies me.  Are you going to die, Mommy?

I don’t know.

Are you going to thleep again?

Not now.

He rubs the lobe of his left ear.  It looks comforting, and I rub mine too.  Will you stay awake until my birthday?

When is that?

He protrudes his lower lip. You don’t remember?

Well, to be honest, the facts are a bit fuzzy.  What month is it now?

He looks up at the ceiling.  Um.  January.

January!? Evidently, I’ve been in hibernation since September.  And when is your birthday?

In Feb-uary.  He makes the peace sign on one hand and holds up only his index finger on the other.  February 21.

I’m not making any promises, but I’ll do my best, okay?

Joel slides over the side of the bed and picks up the drawing on the floor and hands it to me.  Did you thee this? Dad has a limp.  The boy has a lisp.

I did.  It’s very good.

Did you thee the mommy floating in the air?

Yes.  You are a very perceptive boy.

He nods.  I run a hand through my hair, enjoying the novelty of its thickness.  It is a coarse texture.  I bunch a handful.  It bounces back into shape when I release.

Joel runs to the dresser and picks up a photo to show me.  This was at my birthday last year.  He holds it out.  I take it and wipe the dusty frame with the cuff of the cloud print flannel pajamas. 

What’s Daddy’s whole name?

Joel grunts as he pulls himself back up onto the bed.  You don’t remember?

I’m just testing you – to see if you know.

It’s Michael Lui-th Rith-uto! He springs up and lands on the bed with each syllable. 

Michael Rizzuto?

Uh-huh.

And, yours is Caroline Ann Molina, and mine is Joel Jonah Molina Rith-uto!

All right already, I laugh.  It’s a throaty, smoker’s laugh that reminds me of a neighbor down the street in Colorado who looks like Lauren Bacall, but I am relieved that I do not – or this woman who I am does not – crave a cigarette.

The photo is set outdoors.  Michael is holding Joel, and Caroline leans on the man’s shoulder with her arms wrapped around him and the boy.  She has a serene, grateful expression and I experience a stab of guilt, as though I have purposely shoved her out of place.  Caroline’s naturally wavy, thick, auburn hair is shoulder length.  A red hue is revealed in a glint of sunlight.  There is a mole to the right of her nose, just above her full lips, and instinctively, I feel for the velvet growth and find it.  Caroline’s brown – almost black – squinting, almond eyes seem to say something that I cannot decipher.  I search for clues to the reason that I might have been temporarily transferred to this body, but any meaning is beyond reach.

Joel bounces gently.  I acknowledge his presence.  I probably look a bit more disheveled than this, huh? 

He twists up his face. You seem different.

I do? How?

He is busily poking at the hills of feather clusters in the down blanket. He shrugs. I don’t know. 

Well, you seem different too.

Me?

Yeah.  You grew up while I was gone. 

Joel scrunches his nose.  I’m going to be six.

See? I thought you were at least 11! 

The boy smiles and shakes his head. Noooo.

How long was I in a coma?

He holds up both hands, spreading his fingers to demonstrate, as though each digit has new meaning, pondered as an eternity. This many.

10 days?

He shrugs.  I don’t know. A lot.

A self-possessed matriarch bustles into the room.  This must be the Moma Michael mentioned. She wipes her hands on an apron that covers an Anne Klein suit.  Her dark hair is swept into a chignon, and she has mukluks on her feet.

Look who’s awake!

The charade continues.  I wonder if she is the man’s mother or my own. 

Moma sets an air pot of coffee, two cups and three sets of silverware rolled in napkins on the nightstand, grasps my face in strong hands, kissing me on each cheek.  How’s my girl?

Okay.  Fine – really.  I attempt to nod, but Moma’s cement grip holds my head firmly in place, until she releases it to make the sign of the cross.

That’s good.  My son has been worried sick.  And, I was worried too.  You should eat.  Moma kisses me again.

Great!  I’m famished.

Moma squints at me with her lips pursed to one side.  "Famished?  Okay, famished.  That’s a good sign."  She straightens