Play & Book Excerpts
Shattering the Mirror
(Independently Published)
© Lena Fein
Playing Blocks
I was two-and-a-half years old and playing with my sister Cathy, who was fourteen months older than me, on the floor of the family room. We each had a colorful pile of wooden blocks in front of us. Beside us, bright sunlight burned through the drapes of the floor-to-ceiling windows. I couldn’t see my mother, but I could hear her talking on the phone in the kitchen to her best friend Hannah, who lived down the street. I wanted her to hang up so Cathy and I could go outside and pretend to fly on our swing set.
Suddenly, Cathy reached for the green block I was holding. I’d always given Cathy whatever she wanted, but this time I clenched the block tightly against my chest.
“No! It’s mine!” I cried.
Angered by my newfound defiance, Cathy frowned and pulled hard at my wrist, yanking me to my feet. The harder she tugged, the uglier her face became. I’d never seen her so mad, but I still didn’t let go of the block. Finally, with one great effort, Cathy swung me toward the window. In an instant, the floor disappeared from under me, and I was flying. As the world rushed past, I was flooded with a terror I’d never known before and grabbed at the drapes that flashed before me.
My world slammed to black.
When life resumed, I was sitting on the carpet. My mother, breathing hard, knelt in front of me with a white dish towel pressed against my face.
“Be a good girl. Hold this here and sit still. Don’t let go of the towel.”
I wanted to be a good girl. I held the towel just as she told me to. I sang to myself, Don’t let go. Don’t let go. The words didn’t come out of my mouth; they stayed in my head. Over and over, I sang my new song, Don’t let go. Don’t let go....
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I felt nothing.
Still clutching the towel, my mother carried me out the front door and placed me in the front seat of her car.
“That’s it. Sit up like a big girl. Don’t move. Just keep holding the towel against your face.”
She shouted at Cathy, “Quick! The back seat!”
The song went around and around in my head: Don’t let go. Don’t let go. Don’t let go.
With a growl of the engine, we screeched out of our driveway, then jolted to a stop.
“The baby!” my mother screamed.
I watched as she ran back into the house. A minute later, she rushed back with one-year-old Judy in her arms. She jumped in and, holding Judy to her chest, sped us down the street two blocks to Hannah’s house, where she was already waiting outside. My mother hurriedly handed Judy off through the car window as Cathy got out of the car by herself.
My mother drove me away. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, I was lying on my back with bright lights above me. I wondered what had happened to the towel, and if I would get in trouble for letting it go. A man wearing a funny blue hat appeared. He had a kind face and looked straight into my eyes.
“Hello, Lena. I’m your doctor. Everything will be okay. Please lie very still.”
I was soothed by his calm and did exactly what he said. Someone strapped a long, brown belt over me, and I wondered how the doctor got Daddy’s belt here so fast. The bright light hurt my eyes, but I didn’t move. Everything seemed so quiet. And then the light wasn’t bright anymore.
When I woke up, my mother was looking down at me. “Lena, you were so brave. You held still for the doctor while he sewed your nose back on with sixteen stitches. You didn’t cry once.”
Astonished, I reached up and touched a big bandage, heavy on my nose. Its edges stuck up slightly in front of my eyes. Had my nose really fallen off? It didn’t even hurt. But it itched.
“Stop! Don’t touch it.”
A new song played in my head now: Don’t touch it. Don’t touch it.
On the way home, as a reward, Mommy stopped and bought me a vanilla milkshake. I’d never had one before. Sipping it through a straw was like magic in my throat. It tasted extra good because I was the only person getting one and didn’t have to share.
When my father came home from work that night, I ran to him, pointing to my bandage.
“Daddy! Daddy! Look! My nose fell off! But it’s all better now!”
He bent down, scooped me up, and kissed me on both cheeks.
The next day, or maybe the day after, he installed wooden bars in front of the family room windows.
“This should keep you safe,” he said.
I was glad I wouldn’t have to feel the scary sensation of falling ever again.
This excerpt is adapted and reprinted with permission from Shattering the Mirror by Lena Fein
I was two-and-a-half years old and playing with my sister Cathy, who was fourteen months older than me, on the floor of the family room. We each had a colorful pile of wooden blocks in front of us. Beside us, bright sunlight burned through the drapes of the floor-to-ceiling windows. I couldn’t see my mother, but I could hear her talking on the phone in the kitchen to her best friend Hannah, who lived down the street. I wanted her to hang up so Cathy and I could go outside and pretend to fly on our swing set.
Suddenly, Cathy reached for the green block I was holding. I’d always given Cathy whatever she wanted, but this time I clenched the block tightly against my chest.
“No! It’s mine!” I cried.
Angered by my newfound defiance, Cathy frowned and pulled hard at my wrist, yanking me to my feet. The harder she tugged, the uglier her face became. I’d never seen her so mad, but I still didn’t let go of the block. Finally, with one great effort, Cathy swung me toward the window. In an instant, the floor disappeared from under me, and I was flying. As the world rushed past, I was flooded with a terror I’d never known before and grabbed at the drapes that flashed before me.
My world slammed to black.
When life resumed, I was sitting on the carpet. My mother, breathing hard, knelt in front of me with a white dish towel pressed against my face.
“Be a good girl. Hold this here and sit still. Don’t let go of the towel.”
I wanted to be a good girl. I held the towel just as she told me to. I sang to myself, Don’t let go. Don’t let go. The words didn’t come out of my mouth; they stayed in my head. Over and over, I sang my new song, Don’t let go. Don’t let go....
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I felt nothing.
Still clutching the towel, my mother carried me out the front door and placed me in the front seat of her car.
“That’s it. Sit up like a big girl. Don’t move. Just keep holding the towel against your face.”
She shouted at Cathy, “Quick! The back seat!”
The song went around and around in my head: Don’t let go. Don’t let go. Don’t let go.
With a growl of the engine, we screeched out of our driveway, then jolted to a stop.
“The baby!” my mother screamed.
I watched as she ran back into the house. A minute later, she rushed back with one-year-old Judy in her arms. She jumped in and, holding Judy to her chest, sped us down the street two blocks to Hannah’s house, where she was already waiting outside. My mother hurriedly handed Judy off through the car window as Cathy got out of the car by herself.
My mother drove me away. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, I was lying on my back with bright lights above me. I wondered what had happened to the towel, and if I would get in trouble for letting it go. A man wearing a funny blue hat appeared. He had a kind face and looked straight into my eyes.
“Hello, Lena. I’m your doctor. Everything will be okay. Please lie very still.”
I was soothed by his calm and did exactly what he said. Someone strapped a long, brown belt over me, and I wondered how the doctor got Daddy’s belt here so fast. The bright light hurt my eyes, but I didn’t move. Everything seemed so quiet. And then the light wasn’t bright anymore.
When I woke up, my mother was looking down at me. “Lena, you were so brave. You held still for the doctor while he sewed your nose back on with sixteen stitches. You didn’t cry once.”
Astonished, I reached up and touched a big bandage, heavy on my nose. Its edges stuck up slightly in front of my eyes. Had my nose really fallen off? It didn’t even hurt. But it itched.
“Stop! Don’t touch it.”
A new song played in my head now: Don’t touch it. Don’t touch it.
On the way home, as a reward, Mommy stopped and bought me a vanilla milkshake. I’d never had one before. Sipping it through a straw was like magic in my throat. It tasted extra good because I was the only person getting one and didn’t have to share.
When my father came home from work that night, I ran to him, pointing to my bandage.
“Daddy! Daddy! Look! My nose fell off! But it’s all better now!”
He bent down, scooped me up, and kissed me on both cheeks.
The next day, or maybe the day after, he installed wooden bars in front of the family room windows.
“This should keep you safe,” he said.
I was glad I wouldn’t have to feel the scary sensation of falling ever again.
This excerpt is adapted and reprinted with permission from Shattering the Mirror by Lena Fein
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Lena Fein is an author, retired engineer, and philanthropist based in San Francisco, California. A graduate of engineering at UC Berkeley, Lena spent decades as Vice President of Sales and Marketing at a successful high-tech company. When Lena was fifty-one, her mother died, which propelled Lena on a path of healing from childhood abuse and trauma. Her debut memoir, Shattering the Mirror, explores her transformative journey to wholeness.
Lena believes it is never too late to reclaim your freedom and truth. Now in her late sixties, Lena can often be found taking long walks by the San Francisco Bay and hugging her grandchildren. Follow Lena on:
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Lena Fein
Photo Courtesy: Lena Fein |
UPCOMING EVENT:
Book Signing August 16 ~ 1:00 p.m. PT Book Passage 51 Tamal Vista Blvd. Corte Madera, CA In mid-June, find an Author Q&A in our Community Compass.
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