Infinity's Daughter

Everything seems so vivid, like I could reach out and touch the memories. But then they fade, drifting away as if I never saw them, hiding things, like the rolling fog on a harbor. The days have begun to mold together, confusing the weeks and the months. It’s like living under a veil. Occasionally it’s lifted, and I get a peek out at what is really happening, a moment of clarity. But, unfortunately, these moments are few and far between anymore. For the most part, I live under the veil, contemplating how I got here in the first place. To be truthful, it haunts me. I thought the pain of the past was something that could only be alleviated by drawing the shades. But I have lived in the dark for too long. I must write my story, before I forget myself entirely. The magnitude of this tale is one that must not be lost to the ravages of time, like so much else.

Like any story, I will start from the beginning. How strange it is that I must go forward, before I go back. So forward we go, to my beginnings.

Regarding the day of my birth, I only have the details recalled from childhood, left behind from my loving family recounting it for me. Perhaps if I had written this when I was younger, I may have had more to divulge. But nevertheless, the day of my birth was one cradled with sadness.

I was born on April 8, 1980, to my mother, Renee Rayne. My father, Connor Rayne, by some unique circumstance of events, was there to witness my entrance into this world. He was absent frequently throughout my childhood. This reality used to fill me with anguish, but later came to both mesmerize and terrify me.

I was born in Lansing, Michigan, at Lansing General Hospital. Lansing, the capital of Michigan, is a very gray town. Complemented by the colorful college campus next door, Lansing itself is a quiet yet engaging place, where all sorts of colors and innovations sprout up—political fire and technological novelty—but are blanketed in a gray haze. The gray is literally the composition of the sky that rests over the city. Overcast most of the year, the day of my birth was no different. As my mother lay in her hospital bed, light droplets of rain trickled down over the city.

My mother was a beautiful woman. She had soft, cream-colored skin, and dark, ebony hair. There are no pictures of the day of my birth, so I can only describe what I have conjured up in my head. I imagine her lying there, in the small, sterile hospital bed. Her hair was styled in a very, ’Farrah Fawcett-esque’ manner, with little wisps billowing out and framing her delicate face. I’m sure the style was limp, weighed down by little beads of sweat, or nonexistent that day. My mother had always taken great care with her appearance, and I can’t believe this day would have been any different.

She always told me that first time seeing my face was the happiest moment of her life. She was exhausted, but she was so overjoyed when she looked into my eyes. My heart hurts when I think about her. I miss her dearly. Even at just the thought of her, in a memory I was too young to have, I can feel my chest tighten.

The only other people in the room that day were the nurse, the physician, and my father. The nurse had presented me to my parents. My mother held me gently, and pressed her cheek against mine. My father stood over her, grabbing my tiny hand and holding my mother’s shoulder. I imagine there were tears in his eyes.

“She’s beautiful. Have you thought of a name?” the nurse asked, sweetly.

My mother always told me the origins of my name with tears in her eyes. I imagine she was crying at the time, as well. She nodded to the nurse, laughed lightly, and then began to cry. “Yes, yes we have.” She looked back at me, running her fingers through my thin strands of hair, her tears navigating little paths around the beads of sweat on her face. My father turned his face away, wiping off tears. “This was always your father’s favorite book,” she laughed awkwardly, then, “I suppose it’s a little ironic.” The nurse stared at them both. “Alice,” my mother said, “Alice Caitlyn Russo.”

“That’s lovely,” the nurse said. Then she nodded, and left the room with the physician, to give my parents some time with me.

My father was silent—I can now only imagine the fears that must have been lingering in his mind, tempting him, despite his pure joy and love for his family.

My mother spoke to me. “Just be careful, don’t fall through the looking glass, darling. Stay on this side with me. The world is full of madness, and even though wonderland can be enchanting, don’t chase after him. Don’t. You’ll be surprised how much time you lose...my darling.”

My father ran his hands through my mother’s hair. “It’s alright, it will be alright. She’s our wonderland,” and he smiled.

There was a knock on the door. A different nurse appeared in the entrance, accompanied by an elderly woman, and a younger, light-haired woman with a bright smile. My great grandmother, and my grandmother.

My parents smiled, overjoyed at the visit. My great grandmother was very elderly, and was seated gingerly in a wheelchair. In her old age, she had trouble remembering things, and her memory seemed to fade in and out like the tide. At least, this is how my mother described it. Now, I know how she must have felt. When the fog drifts in.

The women were escorted into the hospital room, their faces beaming. I know my father cared for his grandmother very much. He went up to embrace her, thanking her for coming. His mother, Sue, stood teary-eyed by the bed next to my mother, caressing my little head and tiny mop of hair. She was so proud of her son and his beautiful wife. It was an exquisite moment.

Then, the sadness swept over everything. My father swept me up, delicately, from my mother, who lay serenely on the stark clinic bed. He held me, looking into my eyes, and kneeled down next to his grandmother.

“Grandma,” he beamed, “This is Alice. Alice Caitlyn Russo.”

And, almost in an instant, my great-grandmother’s eyes went black, her pupils the size of saucers. She clenched her heart, dropping her book to the ground, and gasping faintly for air. Incoherent verbalizations dripped from her lips.

“Mom, Mom!” My grandmother cried out for her, and dropped onto the floor. My father passed me back to my mother, and ran to the entrance of the room, screaming for help.

The nurses came in as fast as they could. They rushed her down the hall, sweeping her up into her own rollaway bed, and intubating on the way down to the emergency room. My father and his mother went with them, torn in half by the disparate rush of emotions. My mother stayed with me in the bed, comforted by a nurse. She lay by herself, holding me and weeping softly.

But it was too late. The moment my great grandmother looked into my eyes, her life had melted away. And thus, I came into the world.

1987

My seventh birthday was a moment that stands out among everything else. The fog never drifted there. I will never forget that day as long as I live. That day, I learned the secrets surrounding my father. Those secrets would alter the entire course of my life, troubling me and lingering in my spirit long after the events had run their sequence.

We lived in a little ranch house in a subdivision of Holt, just south of Lansing, where I was born. It was a quiet place, the kind of place that you see on the movies and in television shows. The houses are quaint, the sidewalks are evenly paved, and very little excitement or happenstance diverts from the pleasant, picturesque image.

As I have already said, my father was gone a lot during my childhood. Whenever I went to my friends’ houses, their fathers and mothers were always there together. Holding hands, cooking us dinner, mowing the lawn—doing other very ‘parently’ things, from the eyes of a seven year old. I was always very glum about my father’s absence, almost ashamed. My friends would ask where he was—my mother told me he was “out on business” but would give no further details. I would regale them with elaborate stories about his adventures—perhaps he was a fireman, rescuing families from the horrors of the flames, but always succeeding with a smile on his face. Or maybe he was an international businessman? Traveling to exotic locations, wearing suits, shaking hands and making deals about things that I could not fathom, but only knew must have involved a lot of money.

But this day was different. My father was coming to my birthday. This was the first birthday he had ever been present for. If I had been older, I expect I would have harbored a lot of resentment, and probably would have been very angry at him for daring to show up. But, I was young and naive, and elated to have him present. It meant everything to me.

My parents were standing in the kitchen in the morning, holding hands and looking relatively secretive. My father leaned into her, kissing her cheek between her curled, feathery hair. My mother was wearing more makeup than she normally did that day; I could tell how excited she was. It meant a lot that the whole family was there together.

Standing there at the kitchen counter, they looked exactly like I had always pictured. The perfect family—just like my friends, just like on the television shows. My mother heard me come down the stairs, and turned towards me. Her cheeks were especially rosy, and when she smiled her eyes lit up the room. “Happy birthday, Alice!” she said sweetly, and walked around the counter to come and hug me.

My father lingered behind the counter for a moment. Waiting for me to acknowledge him. I couldn’t help myself. “Daddy!” I grinned, “You’re here!” I turned from my mother and ran over to embrace him. “I didn’t think you were going to come.”

My father crouched on the floor, now eye level with me. “I can’t tell you how much it hurts me when I’m not here for you, sweetie.” His eyes were dark, and genuine. “I love you so much, and I’m so happy I’m here today. There’s nowhere else I would rather be. I’m so sorry I’ve been gone.” He smiled again, but this time it was constrained, and the wrinkles in his face became more pronounced as his face tightened up and he tried to hold back tears. But he didn’t succeed. One small droplet escaped, painting a wet line softly down his face. My eyes began to well up, and I grabbed him again, holding him tighter. I hoped that if I didn’t let go, he would never leave again.

My mother came over and touched my shoulder. “Honey, do you want to help me make your cake? I’m making chocolate fudge, your favorite, and don’t think I forgot about Rainbow Brite!”

My eyes must have turned into saucers. Rainbow Brite was my favorite My Little Pony. My birthday party theme was centered around it, naturally, and so the cake would be fashioned in the same way. My father went to the closet and pulled out a colorful bag from Woolworths, filled with wonderful party decorations, crepe paper, and balloons with images of Rainbow Brite and her companions gallivanting off into shimmering fields. I joined my mother with the baking, and my father went around the house and the backyard, crafting a My Little Pony paradise.

It was a lovely April afternoon. The weather wasn’t too awfully wet—the humidity especially bothers me now, I can feel my limbs begin swelling in the heat. But in my youth, I loved the spring. It was the perfect day. We had the party in the backyard, on the little lawn-patio. The bright white chairs looked exquisite against the bright pink of the ponies. I was wearing my best party dress, floral print with a little bow round the waist. Around two o’clock, the guests began to arrive. My best friend Becky came, with her family. We scampered around the yard, doing our best pony impressions. The neighbors came too. Mr. and Mrs. Doran, with their boys Philip and James. The rest of the guests were family members. Most of them distant relatives whom I don’t remember very well. Although the thought of them being there for my party is very nice.

Becky was also wearing her best dress. I remember from the photos, it was a lovely little summer dress with blue and white polka dots. We thought we looked so sharp. And we did.

“You can’t forget to open presents!” Becky whispered to me, enthusiastically. I hadn’t forgotten.

“Happy birthday, Alice!” My father and mother emerged gracefully from the patio-screen door, carrying the colorful pony-cake adorned with seven glowing candles. The singing ensued.
Happy Birthday to You
… My mother and father ushered me to the head of the table at the little white patio set, and placed the cake in front of me. That moment was wonderful. Looking into the eyes of all my friends and family, with both of my parents staring down at me. I felt whole, and loved.

With the deepest breath I could manage, I blew out all the candles in a single huff. I had made my birthday wish. I wished that my father would never leave again.

My mother and my aunt began slicing up the cake, and scooped luxurious servings of vanilla ice cream on top. As soon as everyone was served, my father smiled at me and pulled something out from behind his back. “Time for presents!” he cheered. In front of me he placed a carefully wrapped box, with a large red bow. I smiled, my little cheeks burning crimson in the sunlight and my hair wrapping itself around my forehead and neck as the wind fluttered past. I looked down at the box, my fingers itched with anticipation of what could rest inside. Carefully, I untied the silken bow and crinkling wrapping. Lifting up the lid, I was pleasantly elated to discover a pair of shiny, white roller skates adorned with an emblem of Rainbow Brite on the ankle. My face lit up again and I grinned ear to ear. All of the guests clapped and
ooo’d
and
ahhh’d
at the sassy little skates. I was overjoyed.

We all enjoyed the delicious cake and ice cream, and I recall receiving a multitude of other lovely gifts—books, hairbands, a nice box of crayons, and many other things that little girls adore. As the sun fell lower into the sky, the guests began to descend upon me, patting me on the shoulder or giving me a great big hug, telling me how much I had grown, and how beautiful I was getting. They gave their respective thanks to my parents for hosting such a lovely event, and began to make their way towards their cars, or walking back across the street to their own houses.

Becky gave me a hug and a special card she had written herself. “You’re my best friend,” she smiled. I opened the card after she left. Enclosed was an image of Rainbow Brite and Pinky Pie, standing next to each other in a glittering ray of sunshine. Below the image, Becky had gingerly written, “Friends forever, Love Becky.” I wish I still had it.

After everyone had left, and the party had come to a close, my parents and I began cleaning up. My mother looked at me considerately. “Alice, this is your birthday! You don’t have to help today. Today is
your
day.”

I looked timidly at the ground, considering my options. “Could I go try out my roller skates?” I must have still been holding onto the smile from earlier, because my mother immediately smiled back.

“Of course,” she paused. “But only if your father goes with you,” she glanced to him over her shoulder. He was gathering a collection of soiled paper plates in a garbage bag.

He looked up, and guiltily gazed at the partially full garbage bag, “Honey, I can get this first.”

“No,” my mother smiled, and then whispered to him over her shoulder, but not so quiet that I couldn’t hear. “Enjoy the time you have.”

My father smiled back at me, and set the garbage bag in the grass. “Let’s go,” he said.

I jumped up and cheered, and put the plastic forks into the bag along with their companions. As fast as I could, I ran to get my roller skates.

My mother stayed in the backyard, watching from over the fence. She then moved inside and hovered delicately in front of the window. I sat jubilantly on the front steps, fumbling with the laces. My father crouched down next to me on the stairs.

“Here, let me help.” He took one of the skates, and untied the little, pearly white laces. I couldn’t contain my excitement. He pulled the tongue of the skate up, and held it out for me to slip my foot into. I can still remember the smell—the smell of the little preservatives they put on shoes to make them smell fresh. It still lingers in my mind.

I pushed my foot into the skate. It fit perfectly. For a moment, I felt like Cinderella, on my way to the ball. As my father was preparing the second skate, I suddenly understood the fragility of the moment, something I hadn’t seen before, with my father. I knew he was going to leave again soon.

My smile faded. “Dad,” I spoke softly, “Where do you go?”

My dad looked up at me, his eyes were quiet and thoughtful. I could tell he was searching for the right words.

“Alice, you know I have a lot of work projects,” he said, and looked down at the skate again. “And I hope you know that I really wish I didn’t have to leave,” he chuckled softly, there was something very melancholic about this. “I really don’t want to.”

In my naive young age, I stated very matter-of-factly, “You should quit your job.”

Now my father did laugh, quite genuinely at this remark. “Honey, I would if I could.
Believe
me.” His tone made me smile, and I pushed my other foot into the second skate. My father laced them up for me, and I watched while Rainbow Brite danced elegantly on the side.

“Here we go!” He lifted me up with both arms, and I stood uneasily on the ground. He wheeled me on to the driveway, still holding both of my hands. Once I had been placed center-wise on the asphalt, my father started to instruct me. “Okay, it’s really easy. You won’t have to worry about falling, since these have four wheels, it’s pretty easy to balance.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’m going to take a few steps back, and you just pretend like you’re walking towards me. But you want to
glide
, with your feet. Like you’re dragging them across the pavement.” He mimicked roller skating, sliding his feet along the concrete, and making grandiose swoops with his arms. I giggled.

“Alright, you’ve got it. And don’t worry about stopping, I’ll catch you. Braking is the hardest part, but we’ll work on that next.” He was so reassuring, and so thoughtful. I watched him stand confidently, arms outstretched to catch me. But he never did.

I began to move my feet, back and forth slowly, just as he had instructed. I started off slowly, at first, and he smiled back, encouragingly. “You’ve got it, Alice, that’s it!”

I started to get braver. I could see my father waiting cautiously, to run towards me the moment I began to fall. But I was doing rather well. The driveway had the faintest downward slope, and I felt my skates start to catch momentum. I smiled enthusiastically, and reached towards my father. I skated straight through him.

My heart jumped into my throat and I suddenly felt nothing but terror, I tried to turn around suddenly to see what on earth could have happened to my father, but I lost my balance at the foot of the driveway where the slope is steepest, and fell towards the pavement, catching myself with the skin of my knees and the palms of my hands. I didn’t feel the pain. I was too horrified.

I rolled over, and saw my father running towards me. But it wasn’t my father. His image was broken, his form crackling back and forth, fuzzing in and out like the static that passes along a television screen. He was like a ghost. Translucent and pulsing. I screamed.

It was the most chilling thing I have ever seen in my entire life. All of the color drained out of my face, and little streaks of blood ran from my battered knees. My father’s face was streaked with concern, and remorse. He continued to move towards me, and I pulled back, screaming. He stopped in the middle of the driveway, examining his arms momentarily, waiting for the pulsing to stop, and his form to become whole again. He knelt next to me on the asphalt, and spoke to me, slowly. Tears were streaming down his cheeks as he apologized, telling me how much he loved me, and that it would be okay, and asking me if I was hurt. He told me he was still my father, he was not an apparition.

My mother appeared at the front of the driveway, looking gray. My father’s form had solidified, and stopped flashing in and out. He reached for my hand, and I took it, crying. He carried me into the house.

My mother joined me in the living room. She had a cold washcloth with her, and a little package of bandages and antiseptic. My father was in the kitchen, washing his face. He pressed his hands against the counter, pushing hard against the stone. His shoulders shuddered quietly, and I could hear him weeping softly.

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