Beyond the Rainbows
Sitting in half darkness, I suddenly hear a strain of stirring, almost otherworldly music. With it comes the overpowering smell of fresh strawberries, drowning out the sticky heat of the summer evening. Just past the blur of color in the twilight, I catch a glimpse of a landscape that is mythical in its beauty. At first, I thought this was another one of my daydreams, but the fireflies are still fluttering over the tall grass and the trees swaying in the gentle breeze and those snowcapped mountains and golden streets are peeking out behind the flashes of garish neon color. Despite all my desperate hopes I never seriously thought I would see this vision again and, in my excitement, I almost jumped into the field of color, forgetting how it came to be in the first place.
My sister has no idea. She waves the glow sticks, dancing around with them completely unaware of the unworldly power she wields. To her this summer night is only a summer night, part of a long string of grey fields and vague memories that will blur and become indistinguishable in her mind. She has a pale purple glow stick fastened around her neck, like a jewel necklace in the half light. Another brilliant orange one is around her left wrist, and she has blue and red on her right wrist, in her right hand she grasps two more, yellow and green. If she ever learned them, she has by now forgotten the names of these colors and she only knows that the glowing flashes of neon make her happy.
This is not the first time Jenny’s stylistic color blindness has revealed the hidden, rainbow- tinted world, although the first time was so many years ago that I had almost given up hope of it happening again. She was sitting at our grey formica countertop, dropping crayons with a clatter and spilling them down onto the dull beige carpet, much to the disappointment of the black and white border collie who was hoping for more appetizing offerings. She was doing her version of schoolwork, which despite being several years my senior consisted of taking a coloring book and trying to choose the right colors from the collection, all done with our mother’s guidance. Today it was a collection of fairy tale creatures, and she was working on the rainbow striped mane of a unicorn. Although she chose the correct seven colors, she couldn’t seem to use them in the right order and managed to make even rainbow look bad, so strangely did she scramble the colors. It wasn’t that she couldn’t see the colors well, or that she didn’t know what a rainbow looked like, but her disadvantaged mind just couldn’t figure out what she needed to do to produce what she wanted to create.
I stood behind her for several minutes, torn between the urge to turn away and not have to witness her struggle, or to bend over and do the coloring for her. I watched her clumsily hold the crayon in her fist and scribble across the paper, wishing I could just reach down and guide her hand, but my mother caught my eye and shook her head slowly—Jenny ought to learn to do something without my help. I turned away, grabbing my backpack and keys from the countertop on the way to school, mentally checking my list to be sure I had everything I needed for my dress rehearsal of Mary Poppins—which would take me all afternoon and much of the evening after school.
I glanced back at Jenny’s artwork, and for a moment I saw my first glimpse of that strange world that is completely separate from, but just as fantastical and enchanting as any imagined universe. It was as if a stage set had come to life, and the wind that rustled the people’s hair and blew over the green fields had a fantastic power to it. As I looked closer, I felt a faint breeze rustle my own dull black hair, bringing with it the smell of freshly plucked strawberries and the sound of glorious, stirring music. I hate strawberries—they’re often almost tasteless, covered in dirt, and they have that weird seed-fuzz all over the outside—but these smelled so delicious that I forgot all of that and couldn’t help but wish for a taste. I shook my head, and looked again, wondering how Mother and Jenny hadn’t noticed it, but before I spoke Jenny had told me I was going to be late, and she didn’t want me to help her with her homework today. So I went to school, dismissing the fictitious vision as the product of a sleep deprived mind and an overactive imagination. It’s not as if I haven’t seen plenty of fantastic landscapes painted on sets and curtains, perhaps my current role of Mary Poppins has tricked my imagination into thinking that everything is magical and perfect. I soon forgot all about my vision and the only thing that stayed with me was a love of strawberries, always searching for some that tasted as sweet and wonderful as they had smelled.
A year after this first glimpse, I studied ancient literature and mythology with the same apathy of any weary high school student, until I recognized something in the description of Valhalla that reminded me of what I had seen through the rainbow on Jenny’s coloring page, just peeking out from under her plump hand. In just a moment’s glimpse I had gathered a picture of a complete scene, burned so vividly on my memory that it came back with perfect clarity. There had been glorious green meadows bounded by low stone walls, and streams of people flooding past them into a strange looking city—the architecture was practically medieval in style, but it was either incredibly well preserved, or truly brand new. The whole city had glimmered with gold that flashed in the rainbow-colored light that suffused the scene. I had forgotten my vision up until now, but it all seemed as real as our overgrown backyard when I read about Viking lore. Or perhaps I was simply projecting my own visions of what the Vikings had believed on a memory that was warped by time.
After a brief period of obsessive study where I learned everything I could about Viking mythology and particularly their beliefs about who is worthy to enter Valhalla, I forgot my vision almost completely. My life was filled with far more immediate matters—I was looking for my first contract or even a role as an extra in a theater company, and no one there was interested in my knowledge of Asgard and the Valkyrie. Unhesitatingly, I forgot that I had ever cared about the Vikings, forgot even that my mental image of them came from more than just years of study and reading, forgot why I drew such pleasure from ripe, sweet strawberries, forgot that my vision had been part of my dreams for the future. I had connected that dream with my theater roles, but now theater alone was what I wanted. There I could be anyone I wanted, thousands of people would look at me in awe and wonder at my abilities and my skills, and no one ever had to know that the most difficult role I would ever play was when I came home every night.
Just after I graduated with a degree in acting and theater production, I was waiting in line along with about twenty other brightly clad hopeful actresses that stood out like birds of paradise. We stood in the dingy grey hallway to audition for Shakespeare in Love’s Viola, and it was almost my turn. I had driven four hours to get to Broadway to do this and hadn’t told any of my family—it’s always better to present these things as a successful surprise, and not make them share the disappointment of inevitable rejection. Just as the girl in front of me was called in my phone rang. Those behind me looked over disgustedly, as if I had intentionally disturbed their pre-audition rituals by receiving a phone call.
It was my mother, her voice as rushed and confused as a bird that has flown into a clear glass window. She told me that my father had had a stroke, was on his way to the hospital now, and she needed me there, to say goodbye and to help manage Jenny. Before I had time to respond to her, even to understand what she had said, a stern woman appeared with the clack of heels and the groan of hinges, calling my name and looking disgustedly at the battered old phone in my hand. I’ve thought about that moment countless times since then. I thought about how I left without a second thought, running through the crowded maze of the theater and out to my car, telling my mother I would be there in three hours. I thought about how I never considered that this would be my last chance, that when I walked out of Broadway I was walking out of any hope of my dream career, that I was sacrificing it all without even realizing it. But I always remember that day and think that I would do it all again.
My father died that day, just a few short hours after I arrived. Jenny was there with him in the beige, half dark room, holding his senseless hand and telling how excited she was to go home and work on her coloring book. When his heart stopped beating it took us almost half an hour to make her understand that he was really gone, that she needn’t stay and wait for him to wake up. I don’t think I ever really grieved for him. Not properly. I had to make sure mother and Jenny stayed warm and fed—they were far too distracted by their grief to remember such things, and I just set mine aside until it was convenient, but that time never came. The closest I got to grief was as we were leaving the hospital room, and a rainbow created by the prisms thrown by the rhinestones on Jenny’s homemade, elastic-cord bracelets once again opened up the world I had seen so long before. Again, there were crowds of people flooding into the beautiful city, and among them my father was hailed as a hero and I stood locked outside the gates, longing to be with him. This time, the breeze brought with it a mournful sound, like that of string instruments or a deep brass choir, but again I smelled strawberries. How could anything be allowed to smell as sweet as they did? Father was gone, and it was up to me to care for both mother and Jenny.
Afterwards, our lives settled into a predictable pattern, and the passing of the years seemed just as swift as the turning of the seasons. I leaned on some old connections and landed a job at my former high school, directing the theater program I had once loved so much, and which allowed me to leave mother to take care of Jenny until I came home to mind her. Every evening I would take her outside when the weather was nice or let her play inside with books and toys intended for children a fraction of her age. There was no education for her really. No attempts to adapt her to the world of reality or give her some useful occupation. Though my mother and I never discussed it, we knew, and we had always known that she must be taken care of, that one of us would always have to tend to her like a young child. Her body had grown, but with her perpetually childlike mind, there was never any thought of teaching her independence.
Only on one occasion did I leave the oppressive familiarity of this pattern. My mother convinced me to go on a date, as if as an isolated forty-year-old I had any hope of a family outside of her and Jenny. Still, I agonized over a simple black dress and splashed makeup over my face—my years of theater makeup had not prepared me for trying to coax worn and slightly wrinkled features into a semblance of beauty. I tried to slip passed Jenny, but she caught me going out the door and threw an impressively dramatic tantrum. She threw herself on the gravel driveway, clinging to my ankles and nothing other than a promise to return inside would console her, nor could I bring myself to invite the date into our old, messy, and still child-proofed house. There ended my feeble attempt at the life of a normal adult when he pulled back out of our driveway, and my mother offered me a bowl of freshly cut strawberries, which weren’t quite ripe, and tasted as bitter as cranberries.
Mother died soon after, and again I was reminded of my fleeting vision of Valhalla. I couldn’t forget the idea of a world of peace and beauty, a world in which valiant warriors receive rest and no one must be ready to go into battle at every moment. As I watched the grey moonlight filtering through my half open curtains, I remembered my vision and had a burning desire to know where all the people had been going; they were all in such a hurry, dressed in such fine robes. This was stupid. I had a sister with the mind of a toddler to take care of for the rest of my life and here I was worried about the details of some dream I had as an empty-headed teenager and again as a grief-stricken adult. Strawberries don’t even carry a scent, and still I had spent every trip to the grocery store searching for the sweet warmth that I had smelled all those years ago. Probably it was all just my imagination. Probably I wished that I could dress as a princess and walk into a fairy land, leaving everything else behind. It wasn’t that I disliked Jenny, or that I begrudged her the attention she needed. Just that I had always at least half known that one day I would be the only left to take care of her, and that when that day came, she would be the only thing that took precedence in my life, and for this role there would be no flowers or applause at the end of the performance.
Though she has no ability or skills to function on her own, Jenny’s childish mind has sudden flashes of self-awareness, and often on the most beautiful summer evenings or frosty winter mornings she will throw her arms around my neck and kiss me. She only has the words to thank me for bundling her in a scarf or splurging on sparklers, but I always like to imagine that she is thanking me for a thousand and one other things I’ve given up for her. It’s these moments that remind me why I kept her in the house with me after mother died. She knows this is her home, and she knows somewhere deep down that I am all she has left in the world, and all the temper tantrums and ruined plans in the world couldn’t convince me to take that from her.
As the years passed and my hair became more grey than black, I often thought about my vision, particularly when Jenny was especially challenging. The legends all say that Valhalla was where only the bravest and best were worthy of living, but that if they died in battle, they would immediately be granted a place there. I often wondered if the battles must always be played out with swords and axes. There were women in my vision too—perhaps even in the days of the Vikings there were battles fought without ever a weapon being raised.
The crowds had looked so peaceful as I had seen them, so calm even in their great masses and so certain that whatever they were walking towards would be all that they had ever hoped for. If I could only see the vision again, perhaps I could tell where they were going. What I really wanted was to escape to their world of ended battles and fulfilled hopes. Every time I saw a rainbow, or really any time Jenny made decisions or put things together I would look closely, searching for any sign of the world I wanted to enter, but I never seriously thought I would get another chance. I contented myself with strawberries, even going so far as to pick them from the dirty fields myself, wondering if the connection lay in their sweetness, their blood red color, or something else, but nothing seemed to afford me any hope.
Well, now I have that chance, staring through swooshing, liquid color and looking for what might lie beyond it. I have no dreams anymore, no hopes for a different future nor ideas of recognition for my work, and Jenny still wears a faded neon pink dress and flip flops, and still asks why we don’t see mother and father anymore. This evening in the empty fields, the sound of ethereal music made me turn around, and I caught sight of that promised world as I was turning away to fetch some more glow sticks, trying to avoid the tantrum that is sure to come when they run out. This time though, I stay and watch the vision, trying to hold on to it for a little longer. If I focus on Jenny’s figure, I can see the colors blurring in the corner of my eye, and the vision appears but if I try to look at it directly the scene is gone again, vanishing in the blinking fireflies and singing grasshoppers like those optical illusions where a black spot can disappear and then reappear depending on where you look. The scene of mountain pastures and richly decorated halls is so vivid that I start to ask Jenny if she can see it, but I stop myself. If she’s content now, there’s no use trying to ask her about something she won’t understand, but will upset her all the same, and I’m not strong enough to fight another battle with her today.
This time I can focus long enough to watch the scene progress. It has moved to a throne room, accented by the flash of well-polished armor and the glitter of jewels set into the golden walls. I catch a glimpse of my mother and father as part of the crowd—restored to their youth and beauty from a time long before I was born. I see an elaborate throne, empty. The music ceases and the crowd falls silent as I see an old man with a scarlet robe. He lifts a crown to place on the head of his successor, but I see no one else around who is worthy. Just as the grey-headed old man opens his mouth, Jenny lets out a wail and I sigh, the last vestiges of the vision disappearing into the screams that pierce the night air. Jenny played too vigorously and a glow stick burst, and now she comes to me smearing neon glowing fluid all over me. Oh well, I think. It’s not the only shirt of mine she’s ruined, and it certainly won’t be the last. As I take her inside to wash our hands and change our clothes, I remember how beautiful the crown was, and wonder what it would feel like to have it placed on my head.
Ella Fairbairn is an Equine Training and Creative Writing major at Asbury University. She enjoys spending time in nature and using what she learns there to improve her creative writing. She hopes her writing may be a blessing to her readers, and will encourage them to likewise spend time outside in the beauty of the natural world.