Whispers from the Third Level

Copyright © 2014 by Jacob Matthews.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-4990-5118-6

                eBook           978-1-4990-5117-9

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Rev. date: 09/09/2014

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A memory is created when two or more neurons fuse in the brain, giving us the ability to go back and reflect upon our experiences. This process actually begins before we are born …

I was sitting in my favorite spot on the couch waiting for Dad to come home. It was dark outside as I waited in anticipation. I could smell food cooking, and I couldn’t wait to eat. Dad opened the door and tossed me a toy. It was a kaleidoscope. As I gazed into it, I could hear the familiar sounds coming from the kitchen. Suddenly, there was a loud crash, and I could see a turkey bouncing across the kitchen floor. Dad ran past me with Mom chasing after him. She slashed at him with a shiny knife, and there was red coming out from his arms. As I ran to get him a towel, Mom disappeared into the night. I went back to the couch and waited. Dad was still bleeding and had fallen asleep on the floor. There was that familiar smell about him. I covered him up with my blanket and went back to the couch. This was where it began …

Strange people showed up soon after and looked at every inch of my body. They asked me questions a three-year-old could not possibly answer. I loved my mom and dad; that was all that I knew. What was wrong with lining up cockroaches and playing racing games? Opening up the fridge and sipping from a brown bottle was fine with me. I was a bit afraid of the jar of pickled pigs’ feet though. I didn’t know what the word hunger meant. I ate what I ate, and I was happy. If I felt hungry, I didn’t know the difference; it was how we lived. I remembered taking baths with Mom. Dad would snuggle with me on the couch, nibbling my ear. I remembered that smell, and I welcomed it because I knew Dad was with me. I spent a lot of time on that couch; for some reason I felt safe there.

The strange people took this from me. They came and took me away. They separated my brothers and sisters. I lost my mom and dad. The strange people offered me a chance at a normal life, a life filled with love, compassion, security, and promise. The strange people lied.

Our second home: I was about to turn four and my brother was with me. He was a year and a half older and a big boy who liked to be mischievous. I was very small for my age and a bit shy (I was always the follower). I remembered the long driveway as we approached the house; it seemed like forever before we finally stopped. Two adults were waiting for us. It was kind of funny to think about what went through my mind at that time. Who are these people? Why aren’t they smiling? What do I call them? I have to go to the bathroom! The strange person introduced us by saying, It is all right if you call them Mom and Dad. OK, that is easy. I already have a mom and a dad, but what the heck, I have to go to the bathroom. The stranger left, and my brother and I were led into the house. I ran to the bathroom as my brother sat on a little white rocking chair. The bathroom was spotless, no roaches, and the seat wasn’t broken. I already missed my broken seat and little playmates. The mother figure yelled, Jacob, make sure you wash your hands. To this day, and trust me, I am much, much older; the smell of dial soap in that bathroom would forever fuse the neurons deep inside my brain for the rest of my childhood. I would live in the world of foster care, never to return home again.

As I left the bathroom, I heard sounds coming from another room. I began to feel something strange; a profound sense of fear and uncertainty overwhelmed me. I never felt this before, and I was afraid of what I was going to see. I hugged the wall as I approached the kitchen. Standing over my brother was the woman I had met just moments ago in the driveway, holding a water-soaked dish towel. She repeatedly hit my brother as I stood watching. I had never witnessed anything like this, and I could not move. I stood there silent; it seemed like an eternity. I could not take my eyes off my brother. He was going on five years old and was helpless. When it was over, he was sent to a room. Still I didn’t move. The woman took me by the arm and showed me a broken rocking chair. See what your brother has done! I did not understand the meaning behind it because I was just a little boy in total shock, and I could guarantee you that my brother didn’t either! All I could think about was my brother. What on earth could cause a person to do such a thing? The father figure just watched without uttering a word. This was not Mom and Dad fighting, something that I was used to and did not fear. I did not fear it because we were never the target, we were the silent observers.

I was so young then. As each day passed, I longed to go home. I no longer felt safe except in my bed. My bed and darkness became my sanctuary. When darkness came, I knew it would be time for bed soon. I could dream of my mom singing You Are My Sunshine over and over as she held me close. I could smell farina and syrup and damp wood on a rainy day. I could remember the walks by the railroad tracks with my brother and throwing pocketknives at trees to try and get them to stick. I would wait for Dad on the couch each night anticipating attacks on my ears and his warm breath on my cheeks. These would be the memories that gave me hope. I was happy in this world.

Daylight was the enemy. Daylight meant adhering to new rules and structure. It would bring with it a loss of self-worth, helplessness, and constant fear. A cookie jar is for cookies, and cookies are to be eaten by children, right? Rules apply to the cookie jar. I could hear the water running in the kitchen, and my knees started to shake. She wasn’t coming for me; she was coming for my brother once again. How he could take beatings like that and still stand was beyond me. I hurt just listening to the snapping sounds of the rag. The logic of this one was quite simple: please ask before you take a cookie.

There were rules for washing your face, brushing your teeth, cleaning your plate, making your bed, and cleaning your room, and the list was endless. My brother learned the rules the hard way. I felt the sting every once in a while, but I was taught through my brother. God! He was so strong. I would discover just how strong he was as we grew older.

It was odd, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember what these parent figures looked like. All I could recall was shadowy figures that moved around the house. The stranger would show up on occasion and talk to them in another room so we couldn’t hear what they were saying. I guess it wasn’t good because we didn’t live in this house for very long.

What do I remember about this place? I remember clean sheets, structure, the smell of dial soap, Santa Claus with a wire beard lurking about in the basement, Lincoln logs on the kitchen floor, dunking for apples, a plastic horn, but most of all discipline and the sound of that wet rag.

I know what you are thinking: how can a four-year-old remember this? The answer is simple: a child doesn’t forget his home or his real parents. A child also needs love and security. We didn’t get that.

Bags were packed, a hug from the shadowy figures, and we were on our way. It was a long drive, and I sat quiet wondering if I would be reunited with Mom and Dad. Funny, they never visited us, but I thought that we were going to be a family again. I was now approaching six years old, and the stranger was someone different. She talked to us on our way to the new home about the family we were going to be living with, not Mom or Dad but a wonderful family in the country.

Our third home: as we pulled into the driveway, I saw a woman. She was short in stature and reminded me of the syrup bottle that was shaped like a woman. I know that seems a bit odd, but when you are a little guy, that is what pops into your head. From the moment I stepped out of the car, I could sense a warm feeling. I was not scared or frightened of the surroundings. I was met by a boy with bright red hair who took me by the hand and led me to the backyard. The first thing we did was to climb a tree together. His name was Ricky. Ricky was also a foster child that had been living with the woman shaped like the syrup bottle since he was little. I felt alive for the first time since leaving my real mom and dad. I would soon find out that there wasn’t a father figure and this woman would be taking care of my brother and me all by herself.