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Shorts
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| through the glass | |
| By ellyb39 | ||||||
| 16 October 2006 | ||||||
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A visit to a monkey sanctuary made me wonder who was looking at whom! ‘Mina , slow down. Be careful!’ I can remember my father shouting to me as I ran into the gloom that very first time. Even now I can feel the softness of that bouncy hair on my shoulders echoing my exuberant delight in the moment. Darkness caught me when I entered and my eyes took a moment to adjust. It had been raining, and outside was a dead world, hushed silent by the pervading mist. My mother was following after us head wrapped in a plastic covering , hands pushed into her raincoat pockets, not at all happy to be there. I tried not to let her mood infect mine as I joyously ran around excited to be out of the normal routine, enjoying a ninth birthday treat. That must have been why Dad and I were the first ones in; we were alone in the dark for just a nano second before we saw them there behind the glass. The monkeys were large, the size of a child, in fact a similar size to me. Most of them were just sitting around picking at each others fur, passing the time before they could run about outside and enjoy the large play area provided for them. Their living area included a system of ropes, sleeping areas, lots of hay for them to make their beds; a large tube ran round the top of the room with doors through to walkways around the play area. The floor was cold concrete, damp and dull in the rain. Some were lying in their beds, legs dangling over the edges like indolent teenagers after a night out. The smell of damp fur mingled with grass and hay. * * * * * My mother is picking her way in now; I can feel my father’s warm hand on my shoulder, droplets fall from his hair onto my head. He shakes himself like a dog, and crouches down. ‘See, Mina that one is looking at you.’ I gaze into dark pools of sadness. The monkey slowly puts her hand against the glass and I can see the leather like palm, the soft dark hairs around her eyes. I put my hand on the glass the other side and we are caught in a connection. The glass seems to shimmer, like a heat haze far away. I fall into her eyes and am lost forever. I am contorted at an angle for a long time trying to see and feel her pain, until my mother breaks the spell. ‘Poor thing, ill-treated by her previous owner, and rescued by the sanctuary here. Her name is Habiba. ‘ I whisper her name hoping she can hear me ‘Habiba Habiba.’ Something happens in the room, a kind of crackle between us. My father is beginning to shuffle from foot to foot, trying to attract her attention. Her intense focus on me is unsettling him. ‘ ‘Come on Mina, lets look at the rest’ I am angry, unreasonably so. Screaming at him, clinging to the bar beneath the window. They drag me away, and as I look back I can see her palms outstretched, screaming at the glass. * * * * And that was the first time. I remember the later visits when the keeper brought her out to us and let me hold her warm hand, she put her arms around my neck, her warmth pure and loving. She clung to me when I had to go. I unpeeled her strong little fingers and handed her to the keeper. I made my parents take me back at every opportunity until they desperately tried to bribe me to go somewhere else. They were sick of monkeys, I could hear them arguing at night. My father sounded fractious and cross: She’s obsessed, it’s unhealthy’ ‘She’s just a child, some like ponies some dogs, its normal’ ‘You must be stupid if you think this is normal. I think you are encouraging her!’ I got out of bed and crept across the carpet to try and hear more, it seemed as if I listened a lot and learnt more that way than any other. I could hear my mother sounding exasperated: ‘You are making too much of this..’ By that point I was back in bed with my fingers in my ears ‘blah blah blah’ I said to myself to blank them out. The staff at the sanctuary were great, and let me adopt her as my own; I got a free season ticket and a special news letter. At school I bored the whole class until everyone knew about monkey behaviour and their loving natures. I was a good student and always studied hard but it seemed as if I was losing some of my friends along the way. My mum encouraged me to play with the other children, attend parties join the brownies and do gymnastics. I was happy to do all those things as long as she let me see Habiba. Now she would come running to the glass and push both palms open so that I could put mine against hers. When there were other visitors we played games making patterns, beating rhythms and generally communicating. There were ooohs and aaahs from the audience but the keeper looked at me grimly sometimes. Then something happened to me. It was about a year ago when I was twelve that I first noticed it. My left leg kept dragging and making me fall. I told mum and dad and of course there followed a great lot of tests, visits to the hospital, CT scans and so on. ‘I’m really sorry Mina that I can’t tell you anything more positive, but you have had all the tests, we are still trying to find out what is causing this, but until we see how you progress we will just have to wait’ My mothers face was drawn and pale,. My father clutched my hand just as he had that first time I met Habiba. I smiled, sunnily at the consultant, suddenly feeling older than both my parents. ‘Don’t worry, I m not!’ My dad came with me to the sanctuary that week. He would not come into the monkey house and stayed outside nervously puffing on his cigarette. Habiba came rushing over straight away and we played eye games. Then I noticed as she walked away, she too was dragging her left leg. I asked the keeper and he said that maybe she had torn a ligament jumping, not to worry he said condescendingly, they would take care of her. I told my dad but he didn’t really seem that interested. Soon we were in another whirlwind of tests, scans and doctors; we had to go to London this time to see some specialist. I pined for Habiba; I could feel myself growing weaker each day. Habiba began to focus in my dreams. Her dark eyes followed me around and I could feel her suffering. I did know some of her story, how she was kept in a dark shed, abused and neglected. She had been bought by a photographer to attract holidaymakers to his stall. I felt so in tune with her, she seemed to know my deepest hopes and fears. I could not speak about it to Mum and Dad, they seemed to have developed an antipathy towards her, and in fact the whole idea of visiting her was difficult for them. I could feel their sadness as I became increasingly disabled. I begged them to take me, and they kept saying next week. I wore them down with tears and tantrums until they gave in. The pine trees scented the air that day, as Dad pushed me through the turnstile, the normally hostile woman behind the counter actually smiled at me; wheelchairs are good for something then! The sanctuary was quiet in spite of the lovely weather, a schoolday of course. We slowly went down the concrete paths, past the aviary and little capuchin monkeys chattering away. I felt my stomach tense with anticipation; my hands were tight and sweaty on the handles of the chair. Down the special ramp and there she was, back to the glass, head down. She seemed to find it hard to turn around but as soon as she saw me, she brightened up and placed her hands against the glass. Her eyes were a little dull and she seemed distracted, I felt distraught, let down, confused. My agitation must have shown, my father smoothed back my hair saying ‘I think its time to go home now Mina, you look a bit tired’ On the way out I started to snivel, I could not help myself. He stroked my hair, said ‘Hang on, I’ll get you an ice-cream’ As he walked away I saw him talking to the keeper who looked after Habiba’ I strained to listen. I could only hear the odd phrase: ‘Break her heart….’ ‘rehabilitate…not too long’ Dad looked troubled as he returned with the ice-cream and said little on the way home. ‘Are you all right Dad? ‘ ‘Yeah. Ok. Just thinking.’ When we arrived home he went straight into the other room with Mum and I could hear their raised voices through the door. ‘That’s crazy…’whisper whisper.. I tried to get nearer the door to hear but the chair was in the way and I was beginning to feel very tired at this point. I did manage to hear Dad shout. ‘It is , It is the Monkey!’ ‘No Jo, you need help’ Then I heard sobs and whimpers. I pulled myself out of my wheelchair and managed to get into my bedroom and lay on the bed. I was feeling very frightened. I had never heard my Dad cry before. The bedroom door suddenly flew open and Dad was there, his face was fixed and he rushed over to the walls and started tearing off all my posters, the ones of monkeys like Habiba, he ripped them and threw them to the ground, muttering and swearing. Mum came over to the bed and put her arm round me. She was crying too,and shouting: ‘No Jo,please don’t!’ Stop please stop!’ But he didn’t, he even smashed the photo frame with the picture of me and Habiba last year. It lay on the floor broken with jagged pieces of glass digging into the carpet. Finally Dad collapsed sobbing on the floor next to the bed with his head in his hands. Mum put her arms around him and gently led him out of the room. I looked around at the devastated room and pulled the covers over my head, hoping the darkness would take it all away. I don’t remember what happened straight away but soon Gran was there, she took me into the spare room while she ‘gave things a bit of a tidy up’ She was matter of fact and kind, but gave me no explanations and I must admit neither did I ask. I reverted back to the little girl I used to be and clung to her wordlessly while I sobbed. Gran stayed for a while, but Dad had gone for a ‘little change of scenery’ according to Gran. He sent me a postcard with a picture of a village somewhere, but nobody seemed to want to talk about him much. Mum was thinner than before but tried to be cheerful with me. I was feeling a lot more tired and spent a lot of time in bed. Gran sat and read me stories and when I felt ok I watched TV and played on the laptop, or my x box. Sometimes a friend from school came and sat looking bored at the end of the bed, I was glad when they went. I knew when it happened. The night was clear, I had asked mum to leave the curtains open and the moonlight trickled through the window. I was not asleep, the air changed and a cool breeze wafted the curtains. I felt Habiba, her soft fur, her eyes so deep and endless looking into mine. I could feel her body warm close to me loving and understanding. Her eyes seemed to bore into mine deep into my soul. And then the sky so full of stars, through the open window. She was full of joy and happiness. I could feel contentment and I fell asleep with a smile on my face, happier than I had felt for a long time. The sanctuary rang in the morning, and Mum was surprised that I was so calm when she told me. The day passed slowly. I asked Mum to take down the big pictures of the monkeys on my walls, I felt as if I needed something different. The sanctuary had told mum that Habiba had been taken to a new home where she was being rehabilitated into the wild, she had been suffering so much. Dad came back the next day; he was quiet and subdued and spent a lot of time in my room. But he was different. He was my old Dad, not the scary one anymore. We never talked about Monkeys or the sanctuary and if they came on the TV we switched the channel. A few weeks later I started feeling better. I sat up more, and was pleased to see my friends from school. Soon I was able to go out in the garden in the summer evening and the Doctor was talking about some home schooling to get me ready for my return to ordinary life. The pain had gone from my leg and joints and I was only really weak. I started physio to get my body moving and laughed again with my friends. Dad has never shouted since. He has some new hobbies, he has started playing golf, he goes to the pub occasionally. My own Dad has come home to us. I never have told mum about the weird stuff, Dad never bothered with that again….and now she has got a lot plumper, and they are holding hands and having the occasional little kiss. Gran has gone home relieved and I, well, somewhere deep down, have a sliver of ice, like a piece of that glass that broke with the picture, lodged inside me. It is Habiba, there in a special place.
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