Many times since her death, at junctures when conditions appeared darkest, I have felt Grammie Mills’s caress on my cheek. One night, about six months after her death, I was sick with the flu. I awoke to see her standing at the side of my bed, I began to cry and she reached down and touched my cheek. Her fingers were warm. When I closed my eyes and opened them again, she had vanished, but her touch lingered. I have felt her presence five times since then, episodes that have sealed my faith in the afterlife.
OUT OF CONTROL
After Grammie Mills’s death, I felt angry most of the time. I despised who I was and hated everyone around me. Even my writing provided little distraction or release. I turned my back on trying to be the good girl simply to win the approval of others. I’d had enough of home and wanted to leave. The old-fashioned Christian laws that ruled my house allowed me absolutely no leeway. I felt as if I were being suffocated, especially now that it was summer and I was around my parents more than usual. If I was even a few minutes late coming home, I was accused of plotting an escapade with a boy. It was time to run my own life. I had it in my mind that I wasn’t going back to school. I’d had enough of school, enough of everything from my past life.
To hide my true intentions, I told my folks I was going to visit Judy, my cousin in Fredericton. My parents didn’t like the idea, but they couldn’t do anything about it. I had made up my mind. I guess they reasoned I would be away only for a short while. They had no way of knowing I had shut my mind to them and was never coming back.
I showed up on my cousin Judy’s doorstep and asked if I could stay with her for a few days while I searched for a job. She wasn’t surprised to see me. I often popped in unexpectedly. Two days later I was working at a lunch counter in the Queen Street Zellers in Fredericton.
I met a new, exciting crowd—most of them at least four or five years older than I was—and began to experiment with hashish and uppers. The first time I smoked hash I felt sleepy and hungry, nothing more sensational. I never liked it. But I did like the uppers. After living with the chaos of my mom’s and grandfather’s drinking, I’d promised myself I’d never let alcohol touch my lips.
Three weeks into my stay in Fredericton I was smoking hash with a few hippie friends in a run-down rooming house on Regent Street when one of the guys, an educational student at the University of New Brunswick, suggested we all go to a dance at the KP Hall a few blocks away. I’d never attended any functions there, but I’d heard it was a pretty rough place. Everyone seemed eager to go except me, but I would never have admitted I was afraid. The stone from the hash made the venture seem even more severe. I didn’t want to go anywhere near anything dangerous. I just wanted to sit still and be mellow, let my eyes melt and worm my way into some soul-smoothing music. But the others kept insisting, so I came up with a legitimate excuse. “I’m only sixteen,” I quietly offered.
“That’s no problem,” Steve said. He was twenty, slim, handsome, and of Italian descent. I appreciated the fact that he was an older man and I knew he’d had his eye on me. He’d told Judy that he’d like to take me out. “I can get you in.”
“You sure?” I asked, my wavering fear slowly overcome by the heady anticipation of being with a guy as good-looking as Steve. I licked my lips and watched his eyes, trying to figure out his intentions. Was he really interested in me or not?
“I’m sure. C’mon,” Steve said, signalling for everyone to get ready. We were all sitting on the floor, listening to the Rolling Stones.
Outside, the air was sweet. I felt my feet moving, but I was totally stoned, shifting at the wrong speed. Everyone was chattering about strange things and laughing at the slightest hint of humour. Before we knew it, even though it seemed like forever, the six of us arrived at the dance hall. There was something happening in the parking lot. Violent noises and movement. A scuffle. Two men in their thirties were punching each other, while a young woman stood nearby screaming at both of them. It seemed by what she was shouting and by her position in the confrontation that they were fighting over her. Onlookers stood leaning against the dance hall, watching with mild interest or uneasy concern.
“I don’t think…” I started to protest, but Steve hooked his arm in mine, his bare skin brushing me. I almost melted with the pleasure, with the seemingly illicit nature of that simple touch.
“I’ll take care of you.” Steve grinned, then winked, leading me around the brawl as one of the men went down and hit the pavement hard. What new world is this? I thought. What screwed-up world? My heart was beating faster. But I let Steve lead me while the others followed, casting glances back at the brawl.
When we reached the entrance, Steve whispered something to the burly, muscle-bound guy ushering people into the dance. The guy looked me up and down and I tried not to be nervous, but my eyes kept darting here and there. When he was done inspecting me, the bouncer smiled and made a sweeping gesture with his hand, graciously allowing me entry.
The hall was filled with people. The smells of stale cigarette smoke and sweet liquor provoked memories. I imagined those parties in my parents’ kitchen, but this was my party now. This was my turn. I could break free and have fun on my own. I felt at home in the dimness with the loud music cutting off thought. Music, that was what I wanted. Steve took my hand and led me to the packed, smoky dance floor. Soon, I was dancing to the beat of “Memphis,” a Johnny Rivers tune.
When I was through, Steve shouted over the music, “What d’ya want to drink?”
“I’ll try a beer!” I yelled back. I’d never actually drunk beer before, but it seemed to be the beverage everyone was having. I’d tasted wine from the bottles in my room as a child and some other malty liquid my father had made once, but this was a new experience for me. After only one gulp, I was comfortable with the taste. I started to experience the same warm, safe feeling I’d felt when drinking wine as a child.
As the evening wore on, I consumed several more beers, revelling in the boozy lull that loosened me up and made me feel as if I truly fit in, that the night was there for me to take full advantage of. We danced for hours and I became a new person, healed, not needing to think about anything, a creature reincarnated exclusively for pleasure. When Steve decided we should go to a party, I agreed.
The party was at someone’s house about ten minutes away The quieter atmosphere was a big change from the hall, but I was feeling bubbly, so it didn’t matter that much. I was interested in checking out the interior. The house was a suburban bungalow, bigger than anything I’d ever lived in. It was all new to me.
“You sure can hold your liquor,” Steve said as we settled in the living room, which was clean and full of nice furniture.
I smiled with genuine pride.
I thought there might be more people in the house, but there were only two other couples. The man who owned the house was short and dark and not very attractive. In fact, he was almost ugly and seemed to have few friends. He’d have anyone around. That was why we were there. He told me he drove a milk truck. When he asked me what I would like from his liquor cabinet, I had no idea what to say. I’d never been in the presence of sophisticated drinkers. A tall bottle with dark green liquid caught my eye, so I pointed to it.
“How do you want it?” the man asked, unscrewing the bottle and holding the tip over a glass.
I sat in silence.
“On the rocks?” he asked.
Not knowing exactly what “on the rocks” might mean and feeling the eyes of everyone on me, I said, “I’ll just drink it like it is.” And so I did. I drank until I was liberated