Because my dad worked Saturday mornings, my 14 year old self ended up spending quite a bit of time alone with Fern. At first, I liked Fern. I had taken Fern to the Mother-Daughter Tea before I had gone to Western. Fern was a poet. We talked of poetry and the songs I wrote on the guitar. Fern was the first to tell me to always date my work. As time passed, Fern’s attentions felt more like my mother’s. It was the same consuming attention demanding that had driven me from my mother.
One morning, the apartment felt cold to me. Fern and I had cranked up the heat and playfully started wrestling to help warm up. Fern was smaller than me. When I won the game by holding Fern down, Fern called me a bitch and told me she knew a thing or two. She grabbed my crotch and yanked on my pubes to get me to let her go. (Really, she could have asked.)
I was hurt and shocked. I wanted to erase Fern touching me there from my memory, but I couldn’t shake it. It was the last time I ever trusted Fern.
* * * * * * *
Being more of a technician than a psychic wanderer, while Lucifer was scrambling around with name changes, Alfer Centurie was hot on the trail of the planet were the J/Sasifraz drama was taking place. His goal was to isolate the planet’s location and possibly take some direct action.
Technologically speaking, he felt relieved. Using tricks of shadows and gravitational pulls, he felt he was within weeks of having it pinpointed exactly.
* * * * * * *
Dreaming and gliding over the tops of trees, Frobisher thought he saw an eagle. Then, excited, he realized that he was an eagle—soaring freely where ever his wings could take him. He rose and fell on the winds having the time of his life.
Ahead, he saw a clearing in the trees and maneuvered to get a better look at it. Down far below, he saw people. Surprised, he recognized his own family. In fact, both his families were there—his children and his wives.
They started beckoning him to come down. He wanted to keep flying, but he felt pulled as if by an anchor. His attempts to fly became more and more futile. He flapped his wings helplessly as the tops of the trees fell away and the ground came nearer….
Frobisher awoke with a start. Sweat glistened on his body. “Damn those people,” he said to himself. He couldn’t remember the dream—just the feeling. “Damn those people,” he said again before he rolled over and went back to sleep.
* * * * * * *
That week at family therapy at Western, my father wanted to know what was wrong. Why did I cut my arm every Sunday night? What at home was upsetting me?
I took a deep breath. I couldn’t tell him the truth—that I simply didn’t want to be there with him and Fern. So, I said it was Fern. I said Fern reminded me of my mother which was absolutely true. What I also knew was that if it had been Fern asking instead of my father, I would have said it was him. I simply couldn’t confront them with my feelings about how they lived and their behavior.
* * * * * * *
The next week when he came to pick me up, my father told me Fern had moved. Shocked, I asked why—certain I was to blame no matter what the answer. “She just moved,” my father said implying it was Fern’s decision. I felt relieved but doubtful.
* * * * * * *
It was another week before I found the letter Fern had written in my notebook before she left. Reading it, my face flushed. My chest tightened. Tears of guilt and shame fell down my face. The letter read:
Thurs. 29, 1972
Dear Joceile,
Please forgive me for being a failure with both you & your father. I love you both very much & will think of you often. Hope you have a nice 4th and that the future holds nothing but happiness for you both.
I pray that someday I will realy [sic] understand why I was asked to leave when we were so happy here. Hope you can read this okay—I’m so nervous. Bobbie [her son] & I are leaving now, so I guess it’s good-bye. I don’t realy [sic] know since it’s up to you & your Father if I ever come back, and I do want to because I didn’t want to leave. God Bless & be with you always.
Love,
Fern
P.S. If you ever need me please call me at BA8-375—or write me at ….
Finishing it, I knew I was to blame. Although I was glad Fern was gone, I couldn’t stand to inflict pain on someone else. I felt so unable to straighten things out with my father. I couldn’t tell him I didn’t want to be with him. Putting the letter aside, I rationalized that my father must have wanted Fern to go anyway, and I resolved to see her one day.
* * * * * * *
Of course, The Leaving of Fern did nothing to alleviate my distress at spending time with my father. If anything, it was more intense. I continued to cut myself every Sunday night until finally the staff stopped letting me go home on week-ends. (Naturally, as a punishment. I’d call it a major break-through.)
Week-ends at Western had a different feel than being at home. I was more relaxed. But, it turned out to be a mixed blessing. (MAYBE IT HELPED ACCELERATE THINGS. Undoubtedly.)