“Eva, my child. Come and meet your new mother.”

From the day I stepped into their home, Mrs. Weatherspoon was so kind to me… well at least most of the time. Everyday, we’d have tea together in the garden. I liked lemon tea. How did she know that? I do not know. Lemon, the smell of the fresh linen sheets. My mother. My real mother. After moving in with the Weatherspoons, I liked lemon tea even more, and fresh bedding too.

Mrs. Weatherspoon was so kind…

“You will be five years old soon, what would you like for your birthday?” Mrs. Weatherspoon asked the little girl.

“I would like my mother back,” the little girl said with a heavy heart.

The woman was surprised by that naïve answer. It angered her to a point where she felt compelled to violently slap the small child. And she did.

Eva’s eyes welled up. But she didn’t cry.

A Marshall doesn’t cry.

I am a good girl.

“What would you like for your birthday?” the woman asked again.

“I would like a golden chandelier like the one in my picturebook,” the little girl said with a broken heart.

“A golden chandelier! How lovely! That is exactly what our dinning room needs!” said the woman with exaggerated enthusiasm.

She tightly hugged the little girl while stroking the child’s head.

“You make me so happy,” the woman whispered in her ear. “Always be a good daughter, will you!”

Mrs. Weatherspoon was so loving…

Everyday, we’d have tea together in the garden. We’d dress up in our best clothing, always with ribbons in my hair. I liked strawberry jam on my bread. I liked cute little sandwiches cut up in triangles. I would take one and eat it. Then reach for a second.

“Eva, my child, one is enough. You’re a young lady now, manners are important. You are almost 6 years old. Which makes me think, what would you like for your birthday?”

“I want to go home. My real home.”

“Insolent brat, this is your home,” Mrs. Weatherspoon furiously spat at the child.

Eva knew what would come next. She braced herself. The slap bruised her cheek.

A Marshall doesn’t cry.

I am a good girl.

The woman asked again: “What would you…”

“I’d like a friend. I am lonely here. I want a friend to play with.”

“A friend! How lovely! That is exactly what this garden needs! Two children happily running around. And I know just who would be perfect” said the woman with exaggerated pleasure.

She tightly hugged the little girl while stroking the child’s head.

“You make me so happy,” the woman whispered in her ear. “Always be a good daughter, will you!”

Benagher started visiting the Weatherspoon’s compound. Around the same time, I started joining Ted in the lab. I was 6 years old. He needed my help, he had said. So once a week I’d go down with him and undergo various testing they had called brain mapping. In exchange, I could have a playdate with Benagher the rest of the day. I hated the lab: the wires and the gritty cream, the blood work, and the pulmonary function tests. I loathed them all, but I cherished my time with my new friend. The time I spent in the lab, was a small price to pay. When I wasn’t in the lab or running with Benagher, I was Mrs. Weatherspoon’s doll.

“What a lovely dress. As soon as I saw it, I just knew it! It would be perfect with your dark complexion. What a fine daughter you have become. Tell me my child, are you enjoying your new friend.”

“Yes. I like playing with Benagher. I wish he could be here all the time.”

“Is that so? Well, that’s good to hear. I’ll tell Ted to have him move in.”

“Move in? What about his family. Will they move in with him?”

“Of course not!”

“But won’t he miss his mom, and his dad?”

“Details that do not concern you. Would you like more lemon tea?”

The next week, Benagher arrived with his bags. He spent the afternoon crying. I felt guilty. I had caused this despair. I was the reason he had been surrendered to the Weatherspoons. But I felt jealous too. I would have love to cry freely, just like him.

But a Marshall doesn’t cry…

And I felt like Benagher shouldn’t have cried either.

That same year, his father became Chancellor of Antarticum. I found out, years later, this was part of the deal he made for giving up his son. His wife never accepted that their son be whisked away. She fell into a deep depressing. She never recovered. In the end she committed suicide in the family home. Mrs. Weatherspoon liked to describe the bloody mess she left behind. Every occasion she got; she’d bring back the sight. Even when Benagher was in attendance. I should have stood up for my friend, instead I was more concern with his mother’s choice of death. It baffled me that one wouldn’t choose something cleaner and quicker.

As I approached 7 years old, I started spending more and more time in the lab. As always, my time there was rewarded with a playdate. The tests were becoming more and more obtrusive, then I got sick. A bad fever, I was told. I spent a few days unconscious. When I woke up, I had the worst headache of my life. I felt sore. My whole body bruised. It was a familiar feeling, I wished I had never known. My recovery was slow. During that time no one came to visit me. Ted brough me the picturebook to keep me company. He seemed obsessed by that book. Eventually, I got better; then normal life resumed for a short while.

“You will be seven years old soon, what would you like for your birthday?” Mrs. Weatherspoon asked her daughter.

“I don’t want to go back to the lab,” the young lady said.

Mrs. Weatherspoon threatened her with the back of her hand.

“I want a beautiful blue dress, with a yellow sash” the young lady mechanically answered.

She tightly hugged her daughter while stroking her head.

“You make me so happy,” she whispered. “Always be a good daughter, will you!”

I belonged to them. My father never came to visit. He was always too busy. My father had become an important man. He worked for Ted. That’s what made him important. Ted liked to remind me how hard my father had to work. Ted liked to praise my father, in front of me.

My father was often a dinner discussion. I heard all about his achievements, the achievements Ted orchestrated for him. I saw him on TV too, but I didn’t see him in person. For my birthday, he’d send a gift. But in this house, I lacked for nothing. Therefor, I needed nothing, and I wanted nothing. That is, nothing I could have. The gifts were insignificant but like a good daughter, I’d open them with a smile and would write a thank you note.

Smiling.

Always smiling.

But hurting, nonetheless.

As I grew older, I saw my father for what he was: a marionette playing in Ted’s hand. I resented him for it. I wanted him to take a stand. To claim his life back, to claim me back. Of course, that would have meant giving up his position, his power… maybe more. I hated him for being the coward that he was. But then again, wasn’t I doing the same with Mrs. Weatherspoon… answering to all her fancies, playing the good daughter. I hated him and I hated myself. I wanted to run away. To leave this place behind.

But it wasn’t just about me anymore. I had brought forth unfortunate events onto someone else. The guilt I felt about it was growing daily. Benagher. Benagher wasn’t meant to be part of this story. He had nothing to do with us, with all this. But by my whim, he had gotten tangled in this web of lies. As he joined me, on Ted’s stage, he became a string puppet like the rest of us. And it was all my fault.

I hated myself with such passion. Running away was all I could think about. Leave this place behind. I had to leave this place behind. Benagher too. Benagher wanted the same. He wanted to leave this dreaded place. As different as we were in character, we had this goal in common. But leaving wasn’t that easy. Ted had a firm grip on the strings. Ted was a skill marionettist. He knew how to give just the right pull, the right jerk of the wrist. Ted could be generous at time, while holding on firmly to the character.

Benagher and I wanted to break free. But we knew there would be a cost.