Somebody Somewhere (32 page)

T
he Christmas break was over and I welcomed the impending demands upon my time, and the structure they would bring. Slowly my ability to talk personally, keeping a sense of self and my own emotions intact, grew, not only with my new work colleagues but with the journalists, as well. I felt, somehow, most of us were on the same side.

I went to France and Germany to promote those editions of the book. The countries flew by, with the sights of Paris and the city lights and reflections playing upon the river in Hamburg. Statues, beautiful parks, old wooden cathedrals, and marble sculptures, paintings by Renoir and scenes by Monet, captured me and brought home the beauty of “the world.” These were things we could all share and about which we could all have a dialogue of appreciation with or without words no matter who we were.

The frozen pond I had waited my whole life to see (lakes didn't freeze in the Australian state where I'd grown up) had waited for me. Birds were walking on the ice like skaters. “Jesus Christ birds,” I named them. They could walk on water. The views of Paris and Hamburg, of frosted trees and icy fields, were landscapes in pastel shades. The beauty moved me so deeply I found myself crying as it flashed past me through an endless succession of train windows. “Hello emotions,” I said gently to myself.

T
he Géode in Paris, a huge mirrored ball at least thirty feet tall, stood free in the outdoors. The haunting sound of music came from it and the whole scene seemed beyond the notion of when or where. Breaking away from the ever-smiling translator who had lived my
book in translating it, I ran to this mirror world as though I had finally come home. The water of nearby ponds, the city lights of nearby buildings, the pattern of purple and blue in the cloudy night sky were all captured in there and so was I.

I looked up at the real sky. It was so two-dimensional and flat in comparison. My hands upon those of the me in the mirror, I looked intensely at her in the mirror world. It seemed so much more real than the free-floating place I stood in. I could take in her world with one glance. I was so blind to mine. I could only see mine piece by beautiful piece. In hers I saw the whole painting.

Tears fell down my face as the music played, and the me in the mirror and I cried together. I looked up to see a door in the top of the mirrored ball at least twenty feet up. I laughed. Typical, I thought. They give you a door to get in, but put it out of reach.

“Do you want to go inside of the dome, Donna?” my translator wanted to know. “There are all sorts of displays in there to see.” “No,” I said. I didn't want to. I didn't want anything to change this ability to perceive a whole world with a me in it, even if it was only transient, even if I would never get in there.

I had finally seen beyond the room my reflection lived in. I had seen her standing in “the world.” I couldn't fix my own broken brain, which made it hard to take in scenes as a whole in any depth. But I had waited all my life to know this feeling. Displays and images, no matter how brilliant, seemed so pale in comparison.

N
ew York was the next stop on the way back to Australia. On the way to Australia, I would stop off in St. Louis and meet two of my autistic pen pals for the first time.

New York was full of bridges. The tower blocks stood for my abilities, the open flat space of Central Park stood for my capacity to develop untouched potential, and the bridges stood for the means of sharing these beyond the company of myself.

I was met by a tall, flowing, fairy-like woman who was to be my American editor. She was soft-spoken and calm and avoided looking at me, which made it so much easier to be there. We had arrived at a huge hotel opposite Central Park. It was like I had walked into a movie. Broadway was around the corner and Forty-second Street was just down the road.

As I entered my room on the fifteenth floor, it was just sunset. The sky was a haze of purple and blue, and the city lights against this formed the most beautiful picture over the vastness of Central Park. I was hit with a sense of panic. I raced to my suitcase.

I had brought my paintings along with me for the trip back to Australia. Among them was a copy of the painting I had given my solicitor. It was a city scene with a hazy blue and purple sky, with the lights of the buildings playing in the reflection of the water stretching out before them. I raced to the window with my picture. My heart was thumping. Fifteen stories up, I found I had painted the scene outside of my window, building for building, steeple for steeple, in the same order, complete with the cranes now towering over them in the process of construction work. There was one thing wrong. I had painted the picture four months before coming to New York and I had never been there before.

The next day, a rather large cleaning woman arrived to tidy the room. Having finally given in to allowing people to clean my room in London, I was accustomed by now to their seeing my things and shuffling about.

“Look at this picture,” I said to the cleaning lady. “Where is this?” I asked her. “That's out there,” she replied, “it's Central Park. Did you paint that here?” “I painted it four months ago,” I said. “Oh, so you was here before then,” she remarked. I explained that I was not.

It dawned upon her what I had said. Suddenly she looked like she had seen a ghost. Her voice went up and she became animated and bouncy. Another cleaning lady entered and the two stood there holding my painting, pointing out the window, and speaking in such high-pitched voices that I covered my ears.

My American literary agent arrived in the midst of the commotion.
Without knowing who she was, the two cleaning ladies accosted her and swept her up in the pointing and picture-waving before she even had a chance to introduce herself to me.

The cleaning ladies left. “There's no water down there, though, in Central Park,” I said. “There is in my picture.” My agent pointed out that, out of sight, there was a vast reservoir, just beyond the trees that met the road in front of the buildings. The light reflected in it just as I had painted.

My Canadian publisher and press person had also flown down to New York to meet me. Through hour-long walks through Central Park, along with occasional meetings with red squirrels, and the beauty of the now iced-over reservoir, I came to the conclusion I could work with these people.