What Goes Around

An op-ed by Sarah Beth Corwin for the New Bedford Bugle

In the midst of our collective trauma — whether those be from natural disasters, mass shootings, pandemics or terrorism – it's easy to forget about people struggling on an individual level. Why would one person's pain be more valid when we're all hurting? But survival isn't a game of who comes in first. We should all be given an equal chance at life.

Yet that isn't always the case.

Some people are lucky enough to have loving families, whether they're born into them or found by chance. A support system made up of blood relatives, adopted kin, or ride-or-die friends who'll never let you down is invaluable even if you claim to be an introvert who can get by on your own.

That isn't true, you know. No man is an island.

Even a relatively obscure 17th century English philosopher named John Donne realized that. And if anyone should have known about a hard-knock life, it was Donne. Born into a Roman Catholic family when that particular religion was illegal in his homeland, he finished Cambridge by the age of seventeen, but couldn't receive a degree due to his Catholicism. Married against the wishes of his new bride's family, his diplomatic career was ruined upon the discovery of their nuptials. With the birth of twelve children (many of whom didn't survive), Donne slowly fell into poverty and depression. He eventually returned to politics and was finally ordained as a priest. For almost a decade, Donne served in various parishes before contracting typhoid. During his recovery after nearly dying, he wrote a series of meditations, including one that contains the now famous, "No man is an island."

It's quite absurd how a deeply pious man who was often persecuted for his beliefs and who wrote poems and satires criticizing Elizabethan society would be best remembered for a quote that was brought into the mainstream (while falsely attributed to rocker Jon Bon Jovi) in the 2002 Hugh Grant film About a Boy.

Donne would likely be appalled by the invocation, but we can't control our legacy, now can we? It's always the victors who write the history books, and those with power and money who build grand memorials.

Those of us left behind shouldn't be fooled by fancy words or marble pedestals. Instead, we need to question the motivation and purpose behind how a narrative is shaped, not only to get the past right, but also to make the correct decisions about the future. Otherwise we'd be just as guilty in covering up the ugly truths as those who originally perpetrated them.

Our town is no exception.

New Bedford may seem like an idyllic hamlet tucked away from the big city bustle, a perfect place for raising a family with 2.3 kids behind that quintessential white picket fence. With its cutesy traditions and collegial neighbors, you'd think it was a town that has nothing to hide.

But you'd be wrong.

There once was a girl who came to New Bedford. She wanted a fresh start. She desperately needed a fresh start.

She had trouble making friends. She didn't know who to trust. Only a few people were allowed to get close to her, but even that turned out to be a mistake. The girl was hurt, more than once, but at first she didn't even recognize it.

How could those who were supposed to love her the most cause her so much pain? Why did everyone else turn a blind eye to her suffering?

She thought it was her fault. Did she do something wrong? She tried her best to fit in, and when that didn't work, just to disappear into the background. But it still wasn't enough. She wasn't enough. She'd never be enough.

When she was gone, no one truly noticed. Life went on for everyone, but her. It was as though she hadn't even been there at all.

Who'd be the next girl to step foot in New Bedford only to leave it even more broken than when she'd arrived? Oh, you don't think there'd be a next girl? How wrong you are. There is always another. And another. And another!

Your silence, your denial, your utter disregard guarantees that there will always be another girl who's overlooked, ignored, and then forgotten. Forgotten by people. Forgotten by time. Forgotten by life.

* * *

A printed draft of her article lay on Sarah's bedside table, ready for one, final pass-through in the morning. She'd sat down the night before intending to lay out as much of Mabel's story as she'd uncovered, but the words didn't cooperate. Instead of coming from the archives, they flowed from her heart. And although it hadn't been her intention, in the end the narrative could apply almost as much to Sarah's own predicament as it could to the woman entombed behind the fireplace.

Sarah repositioned herself in the bed, but she couldn't get comfortable. The mattress was lumpy and her duvet was too hot, but when she tossed it aside, she almost immediately started to shiver.

Stupid old house in a stupid northern state with its stupid, winter weather.

Rolling onto her side, Sarah picked up her phone and checked the time. 3:13 a.m.

A noise from above made her flinch and the device slipped out of her fingers, landing on the nightstand with a thud.

"Fuuu—" she began, but quickly went silent when the random noise turned into the steady sound of footsteps.

Sarah froze. The first—and until now, last—time she heard these sounds was on her second night in this house. It was the day she met Caleb. So many new things had been thrust at her that it was no surprise that her mind would overreact. Just like now . . ..

Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

For a moment, Sarah willed herself to believe that it was her aunt Jane walking around in the kitchen, getting herself a late night snack or glass of water. But that wasn't like Jane and the noises were definitely coming from above and not below.

Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

Sarah buried her head in her pillow, pulling the sides up to cover her ears. This wasn't real. It was all in her head. And even if it were, it was just a squirrel like before. Nothing more.

Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

"Aaargh," Sarah screamed into her pillow before bolting upright.

She couldn't take it. She had to know.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she gently placed her bare feet on the cold hardwood floor. The planks made a slight creak as she stood before she tiptoed out of her room.

The hallway was bright as the moonlight bounced off the snow in the yard and reflected into the window on the far wall. The door to the attic had been secured with a deadbolt as if to keep whatever was on the other side out. With her fingers on the knob, Sarah hesitated.

She could still go back to bed and leave her curiosity be. Schrödinger's cat would stay both alive and dead, and she'd be none the wiser if the outcome wasn't what she had hoped.

Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

But the return of the footsteps was the push she needed and Sarah turned the knob to unlock the door. She had to investigate now or she'd forever wonder what she had left unquestioned.

A draft of cold, musty air hit her body like one of those ghosts flying around in Disney's Haunted Mansion ride as soon as she pulled the door open. The wooden risers behind it went straight up into the darkness. Flipping the switch on the wall turned on a bulb somewhere, bathing the attic in just enough light for Sarah to climb the stairs.

Her nose twitched from the stirred-up dust and the hair on her arms stood up from the horror-movie vibes, but Sarah made it all the way to the top. The lone lightbulb flickered ominously and if the footsteps came back again, she knew she'd have a heart attack right then and there.

But they didn't. All was quiet, except Sarah's own ragged breathing.

"So what now, genius?" she whispered to herself, looking around at the piled up cardboard boxes and forgotten pieces of broken furniture cluttering the space.

The stair behind her squeaked. Spinning around, Sarah was ready to see a whole lot of nothing, but instead, she found a dark figure backlit from below.

"Aaargh," she screamed, stepping backward and tripping over a box. There wasn't time to cushion her fall, and Sarah landed on a heap of old magazines and a raggedy Christmas tree. A fake branch poked into her side and her vision was clouded by the dust and darkness, but Sarah pushed herself up on her elbows just in time to see Caleb step up the last riser.

"What . . . what the hell are you doing here?" she asked, her fright turning into anger. It was the middle of the night, he was obviously trespassing, and the last time they were alone had been disastrous, to say the least.

"What's the matter, California? Are you chickening out again?" he asked, slowly getting closer in the same red hoodie he'd once lent her.

Sarah scooted back, crab-style. "What are you talking about?"

Caleb leaned his head right and then left, cracking his neck. "Don't think I don't know what you were up to at the parade," he said, his tone becoming more ominous.

Sarah gasped. How could he know that? She didn't even think he'd seen her and there was no one she'd told of her plans. Before she could ask, Caleb's face contorted, then it became blurry. Finally, with a poof, he turned into a whole other person.

"I always know what you're up to, even before you know yourself," said the stranger, continuing to walk closer.

"Get away from me," Sarah yelled as she backed away from the man in the khaki uniform. "You're not real. This isn't real!"

The man laughed. "Who's to say what's real, baby doll? And if I'm not real . . . well, then are you even real?"

"STOP!" Sarah screamed, covering her ears with her hands and squeezing her eyes shut.

The response was muffled, but the floor reverberated from footsteps and Sarah opened her eyes again. But this time, a more familiar face stared back at her.

"Dad?"

"Wow. You sure are grown up. I hardly recognized you," he said, holding out his hand. Wearing a plaid shirt and dirty jeans, he looked just like the last time she had seen him.

But Sarah shook her head. "No. Stay back," she muttered, her anxiety increasing with each second. "Leave. Please."

"That's no way to talk to your old man," he said before glitching out like a bad stream buffering. When he cleared up again, it was once again in the form of the high school quarterback. "But if you'd rather talk to me instead, I'm game."

"No. No. NO!" screamed Sarah, turning onto all fours to better be able to flee over a discarded easel.

"What is going on up here?"

Jane's voice made Sarah stop. Turning around, the sight of her aunt's head as she climbed the stairs allowed her to breathe normally again.

"Oh, thank god," Sarah exhaled, getting to her feet. In her haste, she bumped into a stack of storage containers. Before she could catch it, the top bin fell to the ground. "Wow, I'm sorry, I—"

"Forget the box, Sarah," Jane said as she arrived in the attic in her slouchy socks, flannel pajama pants and oversized Taylor Swift Red Tour t-shirt. "Are you okay? I heard you yelling and it scared the bejeezus out of me."

Definitely not ready to tell the truth, Sarah waved her off. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine," she said, bending down to pick up a book that had fallen out of the storage box. "I thought I heard footsteps up here and . . .."

Her explanation trailed off as she saw that what she thought was a book was actually an old photo album. And it had landed with a page open to a black-and-white picture of a woman with elegantly coiffed brown hair in a polka dotted dress standing next to a bicycle. The quality wasn't super great, but she looked just like the woman Sarah had seen in the park pavilion and who she talked to that night in the hospital.

"What is it? What's the matter?" Jane asked, walking next to her.

Sarah anxiously tapped the photo. "This woman. Who is she?"

Craning her neck to get a better look, Jane thought for a moment. "Uhm, I'm not sure. There are so many of our ancestors hidden away in these albums that I can't really keep them straight. I guess I should have paid better attention when Mama gave these photos to me."

Sarah's head spun. They were related?  "So you have no idea what could have happened to her?"

Jane shrugged. "Sorry," she said. "But she does look fun, doesn't she? It's a shame we never got to know her."

Staring at the picture, Sarah nodded even though what her aunt was saying wasn't true. She did know that woman. She knew her better than anyone else because they were eerily alike. Even if no one would ever believe her.