Grandma Sara

Grandma Sara

In my grandmother’s defense, The Exorcist was a classic. And we saw it at matinee prices. Was it an appropriate choice for a six-year old child? If memory serves correct, that’s a very clear “No.” But she did pay her money and we were going to get our money’s worth—no matter how much I begged to leave. For many months, I could not sleep and remember waking from terrible nightmares—old, decrepit houses filled with naked, possessed, growling devil girls with pale, scarred skin, hairy vaginas, and yellowish, glowing eyes.
* * *
My dear brother, when we were younger, used to pretend to be possessed by the devil to terrorize and manipulate me when my parents were away. After going on for several minutes in a faux devil voice, claiming “I’m possessed,” he’d crumple to the ground and pretend to wake from his demonic encounter wholly unaware, asking “what happened? I just blacked out.” Of course, I knew he wasn’t really possessed, but it still poked at those old fears and scared the shit out of me.
* * *
In retrospect, what I cannot understand is how she could handle it? Why would she insist on suffering through this movie? Was she not disturbed by it herself, if not concerned for her grandson? Was it really just her cheapness that kept us there? Cruelty? Antagonizing my mother? Was she paralyzed by her own numb, lonely hell (my grandfather had died the year before)? Was she fascinated by it? Did she relate to it? As a holocaust survivor, had she seen so much fucked up shit in her life that her perception of fucked up shit was that grossly skewed? Was she trying to educate me about the world?
How did she respond when my mother, who took one look at me—this shivering, flipped out wreck—and lost it, yelled at her for taking me to such a movie? Did she feel guilty? Did she apologize? Did she hear it?
* * *
I have a vague memory of the looks we got from people waiting in line with us. I recall a dark-haired man with sunken, acne-speckled cheeks elbowing his friend and gesturing towards us, then the two of them laughing. I wonder if the ticket lady said anything to my grandmother. She didn’t technically have to—I was accompanied by an adult.
* * *
I also remember waking from the last Exorcist nightmare I ever had.
I parachuted out of a plane filled with exorcist girls, fleeing to a cabin on a hillside, but as I floated to the ground I saw that it too was teeming with exorcist girls, walking around naked with their pale, scarred skin and tufts of pubic hair. Instead of me waking up terrified, the dream for the first time continued on uninterrupted and played itself out. Eventually, I landed and was just walking among groups of pale devil girls who seemed not to notice me or particularly care; they could not or did not do anything to me. They were just wayward demon girls wandering around the verdant hillside of my mind.
After I awoke, they never came into my dreams again.
* * *
I have gone back to that theatre in my mind’s eye and held that little boy who was so scared. Mostly, I hug him close to my chest and try to soothe him. I have told him that he is safe, but I can also sense how difficult it is for him to believe it, especially in that moment. I have told him that it’s okay to be scared, that wounds can heal, and I think he knows I’m telling the truth. I have told him that it’s sometime difficult to tell the difference between dream and reality, that I still struggle with knowing.