Forever Mouse
Forever Mouse… Why Not?
Mouse acquired her name as a newborn. Her bassinette, in her parents’ cramped little apartment in the city, not far from the hospital where they both interned, was lined with plastic and, as the story was later related to her, she would scratch the plastic-lined bassinet with her tiny fingers. For days her parents searched the place for what they had thought was a mouse, then accidentally discovered that it was their daughter, and not a rodent, that was making the noise. Thus it was that she became “the Mouse.”
Mouse lives in the woods now; that would always have been her choice… the woods, because once upon a time, what seemed like lifetimes ago by the time she was in her 70’s, her only solace, her only escape from a hideous situation in which she had sometimes found herself as a child, was to ‘escape’ her body, ‘swim’ through the earth, locate the root system of the strongest, oldest tree that she could find, request permission from that tree to enter it via that root system, and then do so. Once having gained entry, she’d ‘swim’ up the tree as far as she could fit comfortably and slide out onto an overhanging branch from which she could observe the ongoing horror below as her little body was assaulted over and over again by her grandfather’s “friends,” who more than likely had paid well for the privilege.
She never fully understood, though she’d lived to a ripe old age, how it was that she could have imagined that such a thing as ‘leaving her body’ was possible, let alone that it was something that she could have done but it had happened — spontaneously — and there was no denying that it had, so, ultimately, she mentally surrendered to the fact that it had, in fact, happened… and, interestingly, well into her 70’s, long after she had finally stopped questioning and doubting and wondering, it came to her: “Maybe this is just what I do. Maybe I never leave the planet. Maybe, at some level of my being, I am some sort of body-hopper. I’ll take over some body when the spirit inhabiting it can’t take it anymore because I seem to be able to stand up to — if not actually learn from — a bit of challenge.”
That set the wheels turning.
She’d never been known for her intellect which was mostly because information-for-the-sake-of-information had never much interested her. But she was curious… very curious. She’d learned to read early — her mother had insisted on it — and she had worked her way through the Encyclopedia Brittanica before she was in kindergarten. (Perhaps needless to say, school bored the life out of her and she spent a great deal of time banished to the coat closet which, thankfully, was quite large and had a window.) At home, upstairs, in her bedroom, she had The Books of Knowledge. She never tried to memorize any of it; the information just interested her. She was, by nature it would seem, curious, and would insist, to her dying day, that there was never any need to memorize anything if you could just look it up. And, while this approach to knowledge had worked well for her prior to having to “go to school,” it did not hold up well as a practical approach to test-taking. She was fortunate, though, in that she generally remembered just enough to not fail tests although her mother — a woman so smart that she’d made it into Ripley’s Believe It or Not as the youngest woman ever to enter medical school — was less than pleased with her daughter’s mediocre B+ performance. Her mother had been sure that her firstborn — who so resembled her — had also been blessed with her brain and her ambition. That hadn’t happened.
Mouse — that was what her parents called her — had certainly been blessed… but not with anything that would have been useful to becoming a straight-A student. She didn’t care about school or grades. School impinged on time she could have better spent reading at home. She loved information; she adored reading and would read literally anything that she could get her hands on but she didn’t care if she remembered it or not precisely because she loved reading and she would happily read particularly interesting passages over and over again, recalling just enough of whatever information she’d absorbed to draw her back again.
If she remembered, she remembered. If she didn’t… she didn’t care… she’d just go back and read whatever-it-was again and be thrilled all over again.
Mouse’s genius mother, who could play darn near any musical instrument she picked up, had also hoped that perhaps her look-alike daughter might at least have some skill in the musical area. She didn’t. Thus it was that Mouse was enrolled in Saturday art classes at a local museum with the hope that perhaps her daughter’s gifts — and her mother was sure that she must have some gift… one, anyway — lay in other areas.
Art, as I am sure you know, is a very ‘forgiving’ area. It runs the gamut from absolute realism to WTF-is- that? Ultimately, though, as with so many things, it’s also very much a “who-you-know” business and classes at the museum, as her mother saw it, could lay that foundation. Thus it was that Saturday classes led to becoming an art major in high school to align with her mother’s goal of her daughter being accepted to the well-respected Philadelphia Museum College of Art.
Meanwhile, on the sly, Mouse had been writing essays and poetry and eventually landed a two-page spread of her poetry in a then popular magazine for teens called Ingenue. Mouse was thrilled… but she had to keep it to herself. She dared not let her mother know; she’d have been grounded forever and heaven only knows what else. (Plus, in retrospect, “Mommy” most likely didn’t want Mouse writing things like she’s now writing.) Mouse figured to graduate high school with her usual B+ average and was hoping to attend the nearby University where she could major in journalism. But her mother was so invested in her daughter attending an art college that she refused to support her daughter’s wish and went so far as to accompany her daughter to the final interview at the College of the Arts to which she had been forced to apply.
Because Mouse did, in fact, enjoy drawing… particularly drawing patterns… she chose to make the best of an unwanted situation and major in “Fabric Design” because the term — “fabric design” — sounded as if that would be a place where at least she’d be able to do something she enjoyed: creating patterns. To her ultimate disappointment, the major focused heavily on the techniques of weaving and silk-screening rather than on design. Mouse managed to maintain her lifetime B+ average and graduated unable to find work in any related field.
She ended up as a shop girl and married a man who was, ironically, a high-school art teacher. She’d expected pretty much nothing spectacular when he’d brought her back to his apartment after their first date but she was literally left speechless by his work. It was astounding… and he was a little astounding himself, demonstrating his skill with a cross-bow inside the confines of the apartment. They married not long after and she eventually bore him two perfect children.
His parents, thrilled by grandchildren, built their son a house on ground owned by his grandmother who lived in the house on the corner of the same street. Then they built themselves a house right between the two and, slowly but surely, managed to siphon off whatever joy Mouse had briefly known. It was the beginning of the end of that marriage. Mouse eventually sought a divorce and lost custody of the children, blackmailed by their father who had threatened to expose all her many sexual transgressions — and, to be fair, there had been quite a few — to their children.
Those children are grown now. Her daughter, somewhat distant geographically, remains close in heart and they see each other from time to time. Her son, for reasons unknown to her, has chosen to distance himself from her both geographically and emotionally. That distressed her for a few years but she decided, ultimately, that, for reasons she might never know, this was just how things would be… and if there was one thing life had taught her, it was acceptance. Considering her conduct in her 30’s, when she had been working as a Playboy Bunny, and had briefly deserted her family, she was fortunate to have lived this long as she had repeatedly put herself in downright dangerous situations. She’d later survive two “fatal, incurable” diseases as well as being abducted and raped — at knifepoint — three times in her adult life. She began to feel some strange version of lucky. Sort of.
Y’just never know. Life can be a real bitch but sometimes She shows up with presents… and She has shown up for Mouse… quite a few times, the most recent time being the appearance, when Mouse was in her late 60’s, of a kind, gentle, loving man who treats her like a treasure.
As time has passed and her life has settled into a comfortable routine Mouse has been entertaining a suspicion that she’s always here… always on earth… always grappling with something. It’s certainly a beautiful place and it’s never dull… so why not?
