The Blue Country

I sit beside sorrow heading crosstown, eyes straining to catch the address through iridescent drops pelting the windshield. I step off the tram and climb the steps of a brownstone. A woman answers the door. She wears a black, avian-print dress that conforms to her svelte figure. Where have I seen her before? Perhaps she is the doctor I seek, extending her arms in cordial expectation. Her pale skin is warm and soft, her scent pleasant like delicate incense. Her wedding band is simple but elegant, similar to the one I chose for my beloved. Without uttering a word, her presence reassures me.

Then, a dreadful notion. What if she is a hallucination? Can I trust her—can I trust myself? We take our seats in her oak office, and I observe her inputting data into a laptop. Keystrokes flutter like the startled flock of birds taking flight from her dress.

There is a village not found on any map, Doctor. Its streets intersect like human limbs writhen in aberrant shapes, nearly impossible to traverse in the constant melancholy of inclement weather. Raindrops beat loud, frantic rhythms like unborn hearts, cascading onto sunken gardens. Ivy chokes stone walls. Beyond the windows, vapors dance wildly, perhaps lost spirits or the smoke of an oven in search of a chimney. Those who dwell there seem forged in mist and vanish at the first sign of desire.

Stefan, you say this place does not exist, yet describe it as if you have been there many times.

It is not found on any map, is what I said. I’ve never lived there nor recall visiting in reality. Yet, again and again, without warning, I find myself standing at the entryway of an old, dreary house.

Perhaps it is a dreamscape, designed to instill fear or remorse. Dreams present us with enigmatic settings at the expense of everything else. A stranger or someone dear to us might enter the story to guide us along its mysterious path.

Yes, that’s what happens.

Such reveries impress yet seldom provide resolution, she says. When did these episodes begin?

Forty years ago.

The doctor nods and sighs, showing no surprise as if she, too, experienced my years of suffering. Another flock of birds scatters off her dress.

Continue, she says.

I arrive in the village around twilight. Every sensation, nuance, each word is a facsimile of the previous encounter. Beads of sweat cover me as if I were plunged into a vat of otherworldly tears. Beneath the arching canopy of a chestnut tree, a voice whispers: Come along. We enter the gabled house illuminated by frosted moonlight. My legs tremble as the wooden stairs bend under my weight. The only support is the cold hand of a little girl holding my wrist.

Don’t be afraid, she says. Only monsters are.

The child seems pleased yet suspicious of my arrival. Her flaxen hair hangs in ringlets, her face sallow with almond eyes innocent of nature’s indifference toward ruin. Her arms and legs are marred with lacerations—ribbons of flesh healed into jagged scars. She is dressed in the shades of her wounds, from her turquoise barrettes and gentian flowered jumper to her navy buttoned shoes of a different era.

Come into the nursery, she says. I will introduce you to my friends.

We enter a room. Rusty hinges barely hold the door to its frame. The wooden floor sways against walls that sob in uneven breaths.

Ah, my lovely mirror, says the little girl. You are broken, but that’s okay. And you, unpredictable table. You have only three legs, but I love you all the same.

I pity the child and offer to replace her flawed possessions, removing my wallet and placing several bills on the unsteady table.

With this money, she says, I’ll buy food to last the winter. Don’t be sad while I’m away. My diary is on the table if you care to read it. Goodbye for now.

Before I can stop her, she is gone, and with her, part of myself. I open the diary but every page is blank. I am alone with nothing but the descant of raindrops striking a window pane.

The creaking stairway announces her return. Her arms surround a box of pastries and a small sack hangs from her shoulder.

I don’t like the look on your face, she says. You think me foolish.

She sets the box down and empties the sack of chestnuts onto a platter, then arranges them in rows like toy blocks and places the lot on a grid in an open oven.

I know what you are thinking, she says. There are enough of them to keep me out of trouble. With a slight tilt of her head, she peeks into the box of pastries then reaches in and pulls out a praline, closes her eyes and wraps her lips around it.

Little monsters, she calls the chestnuts as they dance upon the heat. You depend on me for everything. She removes the pan and bites the stubborn ones whose skin refuses to burst. Now be happy and make no complaints, she chides. With little regard for my company, she skips to the far side of the room and climbs upon a stool. In the dim light, she holds an embroidery frame and begins stitching.

My work is worth something, don’t you think? Mother would agree.

Where is your mother?

Somewhere, I suppose.

Who takes care of you?

Don’t be silly. I do.

The child is too young to bear such a responsibility. In consternation, I tap on the broken table, my fingers entraining the sound of raindrops striking the roof. She grips her chest, distressed by my restless movement. I stop.

One heart cannot beat as two, she says. I’m all right now.

My eyes fix on her thin legs.

You’re staring at my scars!

No child deserves them.

Can I tell you a secret?

Certainly, you can trust me.

Once, I wandered into The Blue Country. I say blue because it is the color of all things that die. I fell asleep and woke to find these cuts on my limbs.

Color can’t harm you—certainly not blue. It sits at the center of a rainbow.

I’ve never seen a rainbow. There is no sky in The Blue Country.

Rainbows need sunlight to reveal their beauty. You won’t find them here, either.

Disheartened, the child lowers her head.

Do you have other friends besides the mirror and table?

Oh, yes. There is a little boy. Come out, come out, you troublemaker. Don’t be afraid, she alerts me. He can be a monster.

How can a child be such a thing? I say.

I saw him crying beneath a tree in The Blue Country. He, too, wandered into that land. We found our way back to this village, but all who visit there must return. It won’t be long until I must go.

I’ll be very sad if you do, I say. Come away with me.

Does the child show any desire to leave with you? asks the doctor.

Please, let me continue.

A misshapen runt appears at the door. The boy is frail and hunched over, lacking distinct features, somehow incomplete. Shyly he approaches, peeling fruit and tossing the rinds carelessly about.

Pick them up, she shouts. How dare you dirty my place?

She unbuttons a shoe and throws it at him. The boy sticks out his tongue, giggles and scampers away.

He likes you even though you treat him harshly, I say.

It’s all pretend. He’s not real.

But, I saw him.

Her odd behavior and puzzling words confuse me, yet my fondness for the child grows. I ask if we might meet again.

You monster, she says, staring at my reflection in her broken mirror. You must come back before it is too late.

Tears run down my cheeks. The doctor reaches for a tissue but wipes her eyes, then asks if I am strong enough to go on.

My time is not up. Let me finish.

In the ensuing days, I glean nothing more of the girl’s life. I urge her to leave the house and come away with me. No, no, she insists. Too late for that.

The winter nears its end yet dark clouds hover and the rain turns colder. I try a new tactic, a plan to snatch her from the village. I enter the house but she is missing. I sit despondently at her wobbly table which suddenly collapses, sending her diary tumbling onto my lap. Each page is empty except for the last.

Dear Papa. You are not a monster. Goodbye. I’ve gone to The Blue Country.

That is everything, Doctor—down to the last detail. Help me find her before it is too late.

The doctor stands. It is too late, she bluntly states. These episodes pose an unresolvable conflict between obsession and closure. Your addiction to life’s greatest sorrow has gone untreated far too long and transformed you into a prisoner of grief. But you know this. You should have come to me long ago.

I sink into the chair under the oppressive weight of regret.

The doctor stares at her laptop and the last bevy of birds flies from her dress.

The child is lost, she says. Resurrection is not an option. I cannot offer relief when none exists, other than the warmth of my body and the touch of my lips.

What kind of doctor are you?

One who knows suffering equal to yours.

Though I am not a violent person, I lunge and shake her. Help me!

Stop this instant. Neither of us is immune to such sorrow. Accept hopelessness.

The doctor is frustrated. The moonlight in her eyes waxes and wanes. She closes the laptop and taps on it. With each stroke of her finger, I come to understand my situation. I have lived in the village for forty years and so has the doctor. Though I seek her help, I must no longer discharge my burden on her.

The pendulum on the clock stops. Your time is up, it says.

The doctor tilts her head, not unlike the little girl.

Concerning the dire nature of your plight.

Yes, Doctor?

The child cannot return, but what prevents you from accompanying her? The doctor directs my eyes toward a nearby desk. There, Stefan, in the top drawer is a one-way ticket to The Blue Country. Many times, I considered using it myself.

Oh, Doctor. I thought you didn’t care.

Nonsense. I care as much as you.

I approach the desk, open the drawer, take out the ticket and place it against my temple. Suddenly, the good doctor rushes toward me and pulls my arm down. She seals her lips to mine, igniting a happiness known only before the years of heartbreak.

I can’t let you go, she says.

It’s the only way into The Blue Country.

She removes the ticket from my hand.

We suffer the same affliction. Let her go, Stefan. Our child is at peace. She demanded your devotion yet departed alone. I cannot bear to lose you, too.

The birds return and circle above, then perch again on the good doctor’s dress. Their fluttering lifts the edges of travail and releases a calm that, for the moment, shrouds persistent sorrow.

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