That just added to the depression of being alone in a theater where it seemed as though everyone else had come in couples.
5
Sometimes I feel as though there's this hidden country inside me, a landscape that's going to remain forever unexplored because I can't make a normal connection with another human being, with someone who might map it out for me. It's my land, it belongs to me, but I'm denied access to it. The only way I could ever see it is through the eyes of someone outside this body of mine, through the eyes of someone who loves me.
I think we all have these secret landscapes inside us, but I don't think that anybody else ever thinks about them. All I know is that no one visits mine. And when I'm with other people, I don't know how to visit theirs.
6
Wendy wasn't on shift yet when Brenda arrived at Kathryn's Cafe, but Jilly was there. Brenda had first met the two of them when she was a reporter for In the City, covering the Women in the Arts conference with which they'd been involved. Jilly Coppercorn was a successful artist, Wendy St. James a struggling poet. Brenda had enjoyed the panels that both women were on and made a point of talking to them afterwards.
Their lives seemed to be so perfectly in order compared to hers that Brenda invariably had a sense of guilt for intruding the cluttered mess of her existence into theirs. And they were both such small, enviably thin women that, when she was with them, she felt more uncomfortable than usual in her own big fat body.
This constant focusing on being overweight was a misperception on her part, she'd been told by the therapist her mother had made her go see while she was still in high school.
"If anything, you could stand to gain a few pounds," Dr. Coleman had said. "Especially considering your history."
Brenda's eating disorders, the woman had gone on to tell her, stemmed from her feelings of abandonment as a child, but no amount of lost weight was going to bring back her father.
"I know that," Brenda argued. "I know my father's dead and that it's not my fault he died. I'm not stupid."
"Of course you're not," Dr. Coleman had patiently replied with a sad look in her eyes.
Brenda could never figure out why they wouldn't just leave her alone. Yes, she'd had some trouble with her weight, but she'd gotten over it. Just as she knew it was a failing business that had put the gun in her father's mouth, the bitter knowledge that he couldn't provide for his family that had pulled the trigger. She'd dealt with all of that.
It was in the past, over and done with long ago. What wouldn't go away, though, was the extra weight she could never quite seem to take off and keep off. Nobody she knew seemed to understand how it felt, looking in a mirror and always seeing yourself on the wrong side of plump.
She'd asked Jilly once how she stayed so thin.
"Just my metabolism, I guess," Jilly had replied "Personally, I'd like to gain a couple of pounds. I always feel kind of... skin-and-bonesy."
"You look perfect to me," Brenda had told her.
Perfect size, perfect life— which wasn't really true, of course. Neither Jilly nor Wendy was perfect. For one thing, Jilly was one of the messiest people Brenda had ever met. But at least she wasn't in debt. Brenda was tidy to a fault, but she couldn't handle her personal finances to save her life. She'd gone from reporter to the position of In the City's advertising manager since she'd first become friends with Wendy and Jilly. At work, she kept her books and budgeting perfectly in order. So why couldn't she do the same thing in her private life?
There was only one other customer in the restaurant, so after Jilly had served him his dinner, she brought a pot of herbal tea and a pair of mugs over to Brenda's table. She sat down with a contented sigh before pouring them each a steaming mugful. Brenda smiled her thanks and lit a cigarette.
"So whatever happened with that guy you met at the bus stop?" Jilly asked as she settled back in her chair.
"Didn't Wendy tell you?"
Jilly laughed. "You know Wendy. Telling her something personal is like putting it into a Swiss bank vault and you're the only person who's got the account number."
So Brenda filled her in.
"Then when I got home on Friday," she said as she finished up, "there was a message from him on my machine. But I decided to take Wendy's advice and play it cool. Instead of calling him back, I waited for him to call me again."
"Well, good for you."
"I suppose."
"And did he?"
Brenda nodded. "We made a date for Saturday night and he showed up at my door with a huge box of chocolates."
"That was nice of him."
"Right. Real nice. Give the blimp even more of what she doesn't need. You'd think he'd be more considerate than that. I mean, all you have to do is look at me and know that the last thing I need is chocolate."
"Jesus, Brenda. The last thing you are is fat."
"Oh, right."
Jilly just shook her head. "So what did you do?"
"I ate them."
"No, I meant where did you go?"
"Another movie. I can't even remember what we saw now. I spent the whole time trying to figure out how he felt about me."
"You should try to just relax," Jilly told her. "Let what happens, happen."
"I guess." Brenda butted out her cigarette and lit another. Blowing a wreath of blue-grey smoke away from the table, she gave Jilly a considering look, then asked, "Do you believe in wishing wells?"
Wendy took that moment to arrive in a flurry of blonde hair and grocery bags. She dumped the bags on the floor by the table and pulled up a chair.
"Better to ask, what doesn't she believe in," she said. "This woman's mind is a walking supermarket tabloid."
"Ah," Jilly said. "The poet arrives— only fifteen minutes late for her shift."
Wendy grinned and pointed at Jilly's tangle of brown ringlets.
"You've got paint in your hair," she said.
"You've got ink on your fingers," Jilly retorted, then they stuck out their tongues at each other and laughed.
Their easy rapport made Brenda feel left out. Where did a person learn to be so comfortable with other people? she wondered, not for the first time. She supposed it started with feeling good about yourself— like losing a little weight, getting out of debt, putting your love life in order. She sighed. Maybe it started with not always talking about your own problems all the time, but that was a hard thing to do. There were times when Brenda thought her problems were the only things she did have to talk about.
"Earth to Brenda," Jilly said. Under the table, the point of her shoe poked Brenda's calf to get her attention.
"Sorry."
"Why were you asking about wishing wells?" Jilly asked.
"Oh, I don't know. I was just wondering if anybody still believes that wishes can come true."
"I think there are magical things in the world," Wendy said, "but hocus-pocus, wishes coming true—" she shook her head "— I doubt it."
"I do," Jilly said. "It just depends on how badly you want them to."
7
Most wishing wells started out simply as springs or wells that were considered sacred. I found this out a while ago when I was supposed to be researching something else for the paper. I had just meant to look into the origin of wishing wells, but I ended up getting caught up in all the folklore surrounding water and spent most of that afternoon in the library, following one reference which led me to another...
All the way back to primitive times, a lake or well was the place that the sick were taken to be healed. Water images show up in the medicinal rites of peoples at an animistic level, where those being healed are shown washing their hands, breast and head. At the water's edge, reeds grow and shells are found, both symbols of water as salvation— something that Christian symbolism took to itself with a vengeance.