Imagining The Darkness

Imagining The Darkness

© 2023 Jessica Pearson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN 978-1-66789-199-6

eBook ISBN 978-1-66789-200-9

For anyone who felt like you did not have a voice. I hear you.

For those who suffered at the hands of someone

who was supposed to protect you. I see you.

For all of us who choose to be more than our pain…I love you.

To everyone that loves us even when we are unlovable. Never stop.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Papa

Chapter 2: Nonni

Chapter 3: Choices

Chapter 4: Consequences and Advice

Chapter 5: Fantasy vs. Reality

Chapter 6: Little Girls

Chapter 7: Sticks and Stones

Chapter 8: Nicholas

Chapter 9: Abnormal

Chapter 10: Too Hot to Touch

Chapter 11: Sometimes People Get What They Deserve.

Chapter 12: First Love

Chapter 13: Easter Sunday

Chapter 14: Uncle James

Chapter 15: Eighteen

Chapter 16: Butterflies

Chapter 17: The End of an Era

Chapter 18: Building a Mystery

Chapter 19: Michael

Chapter 20: The Past is Dark and Full of Terrors

Chapter 21: Leap

Chapter 22: Almost

Chapter 23: Pause

Chapter 24: Cold Truth

Chapter 25: Mama

Chapter 26: Life After

Chapter 27: Gloomy Thoughts

Chapter 28: Love Note To My Children

Chapter 29: Wild

Chapter 1:

Papa

Some people have what I would call a ‘normal’ childhood. The kind of childhood where you had parents and grandparents who had no skeletons in the closet. The one where your parents worked nine-to-five jobs, kept the house clean, seemed to like each other, cooked meals and ate together, and made you as the child feel heard and safe. Some of us are not so lucky.

As children, what we think is ‘real life rarely is. My parents divorced when I was five. My dad worked out of state, and so did his affair. I consider myself to be two things simultaneously–judgmental and forgiving. Forgiveness does not happen overnight or even when you so badly want it to happen. I can tell you without a doubt that it took me most of my life to find the room for, and wrap my head around, the logistics of forgiveness. Feelings show up at unexpected times and present themselves subtly.

There were moments when you would never guess that anyone was hurt. I was forced to ride the wave of my mother’s hatred for what my father did and navigate my own grief year after year. As I got older, I burned with bitter disdain for my father. I couldn’t help but recognize the weakness that must exist in someone who could walk away from his own family. Being abandoned by someone who is supposed to love you above all others is a special layer of hell. I have learned that there are many layers of abandonment. My father physically abandoned me and chose something else for himself, and my mother couldn’t get past her anger toward my father, which tainted her ability to have a full relationship with me. What she suffered made her afraid to love others for fear of getting hurt. Sometimes I felt that maybe she was not sure who exactly she was on her own, so the persona of a scorned woman was all she had to hold on to.

Before age five, my memories are not my strong suit. I do remember that my dad was not around when my youngest sister was born. He was away working, as my mom would say. I don’t remember the time surrounding the birth of my sisters. My mom was alone, with the exception of my grandparents. The reality of raising three girls as a single mom did not seem to rattle her. If it did, I never witnessed it. She got up every day and did what she could. She went to work, and when she got home, she laughed and danced with us and enjoyed all the little things. We would sing at the top of our lungs while she got ready for work to Don’t Stop Believin by Journey or Jump by Van Halen. In those early days, we were wild and free. I remember the way her beautiful dark hair fell to her waist. Her perfect widow’s peak was like an exotic tiara. Her signature move was her lipsticked duck lips over the little gap in her two front teeth as she boogied to the beat. She was the most beautiful person I had ever seen with my own eyes. I do remember feeling very angry and confused after my dad left. We didn’t discuss his absence, so I was left with my own thoughts on the matter. We just moved on; every day was just a day. I eventually came to believe you cannot miss something you never really had.

Once my parents divorced, we moved in with my grandparents. I very quickly replaced my dad with my Papa. William was his given name, but most people called him Bill. I had so many names for him, but mostly he was my everything. We would joke, play, learn, discover, read, garden, and grow together daily. He was my dad in all the ways that mattered. He taught me how to ride a bike by encouraging me to fall and get back up until I had it down. Scraped knees were a badge of honor. He taught me how to question absolutely everything. My religious and political views, as well as my love of reading, came from him. My papa was liberal for a man born in the 30s. He was sweet, and so unlike the dads you would see in movies or on television. He was a feminist who knew that I would live a better life if he never took a task from me that I could learn to do myself. He inspired me to be a strong, independent woman. Seeing me become independent was all he wanted. He encouraged education, travel, and me living my life for me. He also loved making me laugh. He would pop out his false teeth with a shocked look in the most inappropriate moments. His only dance move was the twist, but that never stopped him from making Nonni exclaim, Bill! with a giggle as he shimmied toward her.

William, Bill, George, or Papa, depending on the day, was a hard-working man. He put hard work into all that he did. His hands told a story of his life and dedication to that hard work. Those hands were tanned by the sun and covered in scars from all the little accidents of his life. He once almost lost several fingers to a table saw. If I named his hands, they would be Rough and Calloused, like supporting actors in a film. He was constantly improving his home. Papa would work in his garden, growing the most beautiful roses. Big English roses in yellows, pinks, and the deepest of reds. Their smell was intoxicating, sweet, and rich. He grew the biggest tomatoes and the spiciest peppers. I loved to have my hands in the dirt with him. Watching our efforts turn into something real and meaningful was rewarding. Papa was also an avid reader. He loved writers like James Patterson and Dan Brown. His love of reading fueled my own. Papa had a big brown woven basket by his recliner, full of books he wanted to read and some he had already read. Books saved for later reference in a conversation or ready for a recommendation. He should have had his own library of endless shelves.

We would have debates often enough that I became skilled at it. Thanks to all the practice, I was voted ‘class president’ after a week of debating world topics. Pop and I would watch the news and discuss what was happening in the world. I naturally became quite competitive. I was probably ten and wanted to become an archeologist or a paleontologist for a while. The only ‘fight’ we ever got in was whether or not a mastodon was considered a dinosaur. That was definitely a battle of wills. I was competitive even when I was wrong. Only twice did he ever say my full name, and that was one of them. His nickname for his grandchildren was peanut or peanut kid, but he also called me Jessie.

His mom emigrated from Germany, and everyone called her Big Grandma. I never had the pleasure of meeting her, but apparently, she was quite a woman. She and her sister had a bed and breakfast in their home, and they offered special privileges for some patrons, at a cost, of course. My mom would tell me, We do not come from delicate flowers, anytime she talked about my great-grandmother. They lived on a man-made lake in New York until they lost their home to back taxes. I have a feeling that Papa’s unique traits came from being raised by a creative woman and left to his own devices as a child.

Papa was a master dumpster diver, and we were always rescuing treasures from our trips to the dump. It was crazy the things people would throw away before Goodwill was an option– perfectly good things that could be loved by someone else. I would imagine it’s thanks to dumpster diving that Bill had quite the collection of Playboy magazines–the rare editions, he would say. I knew they were on the back porch from a young age, but I did not actually see them until I was an adult. He possessed many decades of different pubic hair grooming preferences. His cheekiness was one of his best qualities. Papa smoked cigarettes from the time he was a six-year-old boy and was skilled in many trades. He worked in construction, electrical, and plumbing, and his jobs took him up and down the East Coast until he finally landed in Georgia. There wasn’t much he couldn’t do or fix. I’ve thought about it and have yet to come up with a single thing. He taught me the value of hard work and how good it felt not to have to rely on others. He thought ice cream for breakfast was a formidable cure for all that ails you. That man was single-handedly responsible for why I put peanut butter on my waffles and have a serious sweet tooth. We defiantly ate all sorts of treats before Nonni woke up. Their bedroom was right off the kitchen, and I think she knew what we were up to, but she never wanted to take away our fun. Papa gave me my first cigarette at a Christmas party when I was fourteen or so. Feeling bold, I asked for one, and he handed it to me. He even offered me a light with his gold Zippo lighter. I got dizzy off the first puff and left him with the rest. Papa also taught me how to drive in his powder blue Buick Century, and my inability to break gracefully drove him crazy. He waited with me while I took my drivers tests, he took my picture when I got dressed up for school functions, and he sat with me while I was pissy about getting chicken pox when I was in first grade and missing out on Clown Day and Dunking my Principal Day at school. His love was so big. I will never find another like it, but I am so thankful every single day I had it.

Chapter 2:

Nonni

Before age seven, life was pretty sweet. I saw what marriage should look like from my grandparents. I saw teamwork and gentleness. I saw love in its purest form. We were a big Italian family because my grandmother was Italian and a bona fide New Yorker. We would often have family dinners and fill her tiny kitchen with my aunt, uncles, and cousins. A bunch of Yanks enjoying Italian food in the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was so normal, then. Now it just makes me laugh.

My grandparents moved from the Northeast to Florida, where my parents met. I was born there. Work brought them to the Blue Ridge Mountains, and that is where we stayed. My grandparents bought an adorable little house with a little bit of land nestled inside Germany Mountain. That home is burned into my being–the flowers outside and the doilies inside. I can see them when I close my eyes. I can smell them. Cigarettes and hot tea with the occasional whiff of mothballs. I loved that house. I still love that house even though it no longer exists. I can close my eyes and smell it, and I can picture it as if I were standing in it now. The wood burning stove as you walked in the front door, the huge television set on the floor in the living room with Nonni’s high back chair, the hutch that held all of Nonni’s fine china and crystal. The kitchen window ledge held all sorts of knickknacks and overlooked the woods that would explode with beauty every season. The daffodils and violets would pop up first in the spring, sometimes through the frost still on the ground. The dogwoods would be next, and their blooms and scent would take over the forest like snow. Later the lush green of summer would make it impossible to see very far into the woods. Peak hide-and-seek time. When fall arrived, it would start high up in the mountains with a rush of color. The change would happen both so fast and so painfully slow. The leaves blowing off the trees and filling the streets will always be one of my favorite things. I would walk around crunching them beneath my feet and marvel at their size. Giant leaves of every color billowed around like fairy dancers in the wind. Our town was so small, 1,600 people or so. One fall, one of our pumpkins was on the front page of the local newspaper because of a random snowfall that left inches of it on the pumpkin. The stars were so clear in the mountains and so close you could almost touch them. There was a little creek running across the property that was the curly ribbon on the beautiful gift that was my grandparents’ home. My uncle would bring a cooler when he would visit so that he could catch crawdads. Once I found a tiny turtle near there and promptly put him in a coffee can to keep and watch as it did turtle things.

The house sat to the right of the creek, and to the left, the woods were wild except for what we called The hill. An old shack stood up on the hill. My uncle and his friend had lived there when they’d come to visit years before. It was barely a shed and not safe to step inside as the floor had holes in places. The shack was