O hai, Once-ler's kind of a weird name, where'd he get it? Everybody has their headcanons, and this is mine. Rated M because of a pretty dark backstory for the Once-ler's mother, who I've decided to call Mayleen. I've also decided that she and Grizelda are sisters. Fight me.
(Edit: Having recently received an otherwise lovely review 'correcting' me on the Once-ler's mother's name, I respectfully contend that I did my research before writing this, and she had NO canonical name in any official material. 'Isabella' is fanon, and it's fanon to which I have every right not to subscribe. If you really can't swallow 'Mayleen', by all means don't read this, but reading a review in which my main character's name is replaced with another name rubs me the wrong way.)
Once
Mayleen's mother had never much liked her. Second born, second best. No, it was more than that – it was that she was nothing like her big sister, and nothing like Mother, either. Mother had been the regional shot-put champion in high school, women's and men's teams, three years straight. Mother was huge and solid and could lift the refrigerator when Mayleen's doll cars rolled underneath it, and Grizelda was the same way.
But Mayleen was a bony wisp in pale pigtails and glasses, too skinny, Mother always said, to be good for anything but firewood. She couldn't lift anything heavier than the family Bible. Besides all that, Mayleen was a mistake; she knew because there were eight years between her and Grizelda, nine and seventeen, and because Grizelda told her so.
She'd be sitting on the swings outside their double-wide in the trailer park, trailing the toes of her Mary Janes in the dirt, and Grizelda would lumber past with her friends and shove her off the swing into the mud, just because. Because she was older and bigger and Mayleen couldn't stop her and Mother wouldn't, said Mayleen needed to learn to stick up for herself. She just doesn't care, Grizelda would snort, hocking a glob of spit into the ground.
Mayleen's daddy worked construction, early mornings and late nights. She only saw him at night. From her bed, she would see his car's headlights paint her wall, flashing brighter than daybreak through her bedroom window. She would hear the car rumble, grunt, and fall silent, and the crunch of gravel as he approached the front door. She would listen as he heated and ate his supper in the kitchen, hear the rustle of the newspaper, the clink of his fork. The clatter of his plate in the sink.
Then – when she felt she could wait no longer, that she might burst and wet her bed, like she hadn't since she was seven, from anticipation – she would see him in her doorway, silhouetted by the hall light. He, too, was nothing like Mother, at least in build. He looked to her impossibly tall, tall and thin, with long limbs than seemed to bend more than fold. Useless beanpole, Mother would mutter. One of these days I'll chuck him out that door like a javelin, just you wait. But Mayleen thought he was the most handsome man in all the world.
He would come and sit on her bed, her nightlight throwing soft shadows over his face. He'd smile, say good evening, baby May. She would smile back at him, and he would begin to stroke her hair, and softly, so as not to wake Mother or Grizelda, he would tell her a bedtime story.
It always began the same way. Once, he would say, and then, any number of things: there was a beautiful princess who lived in a tower, there was a young queen who longed for a child, there was a girl walking through the woods to her grandmother's house. He recycled the stories, sometimes, but Mayleen didn't mind. Like Mother said, when she whined about franks and beans for supper or cleaning house on Sunday afternoons, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.
Sometimes the stories were scary, in the middle, but there was always a happy ending. The princess married her prince, or the knight slayed the dragon, or the lost children found their way home. Once, Mayleen thought, must have been a far nicer place than the world where she lived.
When the story was over, Daddy would peel back Mayleen's bedclothes and slide in on top of her, his weight gentle and warm. He would undo his pants, hitch up her nightgown, and push himself inside of her, into that secret place that had no name she knew. It was then that she could smell him best, and though his scent was nothing special – cigarettes and shoe polish – to her he smelled of all the magic in his stories: unicorn breath, fairy tears, butterfly milk.
And it was then, moving in her, breathing hard, that he told her things even better than the stories. He told her she was precious. He told her she was beautiful. He said Mother was nothing, that he had never loved her like he loved Mayleen; they hadn't lain together like this in years. They'd only gotten married because Mother was pregnant, shotgun wedding, he grunted into her hair. Mayleen didn't know exactly what that meant, but she gathered that Grizelda was a mistake, too, and felt quietly vindicated.
It hurt sometimes, but not a lot. Not for awhile now. Mayleen was good for Daddy, gave him what he needed, and when she got up to use the bathroom the next morning, she didn't see blood in the toilet anymore. It was still a little bit messy, when he was finished, but that was okay; Mother just thought she'd wet the bed.
Once he'd stopped moving, Daddy would lie still for a minute, his breath hot against her cheek. Then, he would smooth her hair, and kiss the top of her head, and her mattress would creak and shift as he sat up. Pleasant dreams, baby May, he would whisper as he stood, seeming to fill the room, floor to ceiling, his shadow stretching across the carpet. Only when he was gone – when she'd heard him shut the door to his and Mother's room – did she give in to deep, dreamless sleep.
Four years later, at thirteen, Mayleen got her period for the first time. When she first saw the blood, sitting on a toilet in a grubby junior-high bathroom, peeking through the window between her thighs, she didn't think much of it. It confused her – why now, after so long? she asked herself – but it wasn't as if it was new.
When it didn't stop after three days, she got scared. The third morning found her cowering in Grizelda's doorway, asking what's wrong with me, what do I do? Grizelda laughed, hoarse and hacking, and said nothing to do, brat. You're gonna die.
Mayleen ran, red-cheeked and hiccupping, into the kitchen, where Mother stood stirring a pot of oatmeal on the stove. I'm dying, she cried, and showed her, and Mother rolled her eyes. Shut your fool mouth, she said, swatting Mayleen with her spoon. Means you're a woman now. The stuff's in the hall bathroom, second cabinet. Mayleen gulped, stultified. But Grizelda said—
Mother snorted. Aren't you smart enough not to listen to her by now?
Mayleen found what Mother called the stuff, and after some trial and error, figured out how to use it. She never breathed a word of it to Daddy. He'd been getting in later than usual that week, so late that he was too tired for her, and by the time his schedule had returned to normal, the bleeding had stopped. Lying under him then, feeling his stubble scratch her cheek, she hoped he'd never find out she was a woman, whatever that meant. She just wanted to be his baby May.
Daddy hadn't changed much in four years – just a dusting of grey in his dark hair – and neither had Mayleen. All of her friends had filled out, lost the weight in their cheeks and gained it in their chests; they wore makeup and ripped their jeans. Mayleen was a little taller, but she was as long-faced and knobby-kneed as ever, so flat-chested Mother wouldn't waste money buying her bras.
Then one morning, a few weeks before her fourteenth birthday, she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror and noticed that something was…different. Her breasts were bigger, her nipples showing through her nightgown. She didn't have long to look at them, with Grizelda pounding on the door, but she buttoned a cardigan over her blouse before school.
She confided in the girls at her lunch table, whispering so that the boys a row over wouldn't hear. It happens that way sometimes, her friend Missy said. Like with my sister. She went to bed flat as a board one night, and woke up with double-Ds. Just like that, swear to God.
That made Mayleen feel a little better. At least, she felt better until her stomach turned, and her throat contracted, and suddenly it was all she could do to scramble out of her chair and dash down the hall to the bathroom just in time to puke into a sink. Hugging the basin, she heaved and heaved until she felt sure there was nothing left in her to throw up, no bones, no organs, nothing. Nothing but a shaking, gasping husk, standing there wobbly and bewildered with her own vomit in her hair.
Missy appeared in the doorway, asking what was wrong. It's weird, Mayleen said as she ran the faucet, trying to wash her mess down the drain. I've barely eaten today. Standing in front of a mirror, plumping her push-up bra, Missy offered, maybe you're pregnant.
Mayleen laughed. That's not possible, she said, but Missy, energized by the possibility of a scandal, swept over and tugged her away from the sink. Isn't it? she teased. We'll go to the drugstore after school, buy a piss stick. Then you'll know for sure. She slung her arm around Mayleen's shoulders and together they left the bathroom, Missy promising to keep their not-yet-secret, Mayleen's face white and cold as a snowcone before the syrup.
Mayleen wasn't stupid. She'd seen the reels in health class; she knew how babies were made. But it couldn't happen to her, not now, not like this. In Daddy's stories, no one ever had babies unless they wanted them. Snow White's mother died elegantly in childbirth, and the witch flew into a rage when Rapunzel's dress wouldn't lace, but no one ever had babies unless they wanted them, and there was always a happy ending. In the fairy-tale place called Once, nothing happened that wasn't meant to be.
Missy begged Mayleen to take the pregnancy test in the drugstore bathroom, but Mayleen put her foot down. She shoved the box into her pocket and rode home on her bike, left it on its side, wheels still spinning, in the gravel. In the hall bathroom, she squeezed her eyes shut and held the stick as steady as she could, whispering please no, please no, please no.
She stared at the stick until a tiny plus sign materialized, red as the first line of blood that rose from a papercut. No sooner did she see it than the nausea was upon her again, and she doubled over the toilet, vomiting and sobbing at the same time. No. No. Nononononono—
She tore down the front steps and leapt back onto her bike, pedaling fiercely, the wind drying her tears. Her bike's tires squealed on the pavement in front of Missy's house. You were right, you were right, she was blubbering almost before Missy opened the door, slowly so its hinges wouldn't squeak. What am I going to do, Missy? What will Mother and Daddy—Daddy—say?
Shhh, Missy hissed, glancing nervously over her shoulder. You want the whole neighborhood to hear you carrying on? Mayleen sniffled, and Missy shook her head. Look, I'm sorry, Mayleen. But if this is for real, pretty soon everybody's gonna be talking about it, and my parents won't want me hanging out with you anymore. You better get home and figure out what you're gonna do.
The click of the door as it shut startled Mayleen. She rode home wavering, like a leaf on the breeze. Maybe she would never tell Mother and Daddy. Maybe she would run away, far, far away, until this whole thing was over with and she was Daddy's baby May again; she'd give her baby to a lonely spinster, like Thumbelina's mother. She'd come home and Mother would whip her with a willow switch and Grizelda would badger her about where she'd been, but she'd never tell, and they would never know.
That plan died – a quick, ugly death, like when Mother snapped a rabbit's neck for supper – as soon as she got home. There, in the kitchen of the double-wide, sat Mayleen's family: Mother, Daddy, and Grizelda, smirking down at the little white stick in her hand.
Grizelda! Mayleen shrieked, understanding immediately. She should never have left the test in the hall bathroom trash. You yelling at me, you little tramp? her sister snorted, shoving her off with one swing when Mayleen came at her scratching and swiping. That's rich. At least I haven't been hiking up my skirt all over town.
Sit down, Mayleen, Mother said, and with one big hand reached out and steered Mayleen into a chair at the kitchen table. She sat there blinking miserably at her parents, Mother's mouth a flat shelf that matched her brow, Daddy's face sagging with sadness. He knew, he had to know – it was his, of course it was his, Mayleen would never be unfaithful – but he didn't own up. He didn't even defend her. Just sat there looking at her with that terrible sadness, as if all his dreams had died on her doorstep. As if he'd never smile again.
Daddy, please, she wanted to say, but couldn't. Instead, she looked at Mother and said, so softly she could barely hear herself, I didn't mean it to happen. Mother sighed. No one ever means these things to happen, Mayleen, she said. Her chair's legs screeched on the tile as she stood, going over to the sink to wash the dishes from that morning's breakfast. After a moment, Daddy rose to join her.
She didn't mean it, Mother muttered. She didn't mean it. She scrubbed a frying pan as if she meant to murder it, her elbow pumping furiously. I raised her better than this. For Chrissake, she doesn't even have a boyfriend! Daddy shook his head. You know kids her age, he said. Like rabbits. She may not even know who the father is.
Mayleen's eyes burned with tears, but she didn't correct him. Awhile later – ten minutes, an hour, the rest of Mayleen's life? – when Mother had finished with the dishes, they turned around, and returned to the table, and told her how things were going to be.
All Mayleen wanted was to be rid of it – suck it out, give it away, put it out with the trash, she didn't care – but Mother said no. We're good, God-fearing folk in this family, even if you did throw your virtue at the first boy who gave you a ride in his truck. She lit a cigarette and took a long drag, growling as she exhaled. You're gonna take responsibility for this mess. That weed you're growing is your problem and you're gonna have to live with it, for the rest of your life.
That night, Daddy didn't come. Mayleen waited up for him, but he didn't come. She tried to tell herself a bedtime story instead. Once, she began, but could go no farther. Once…
Once, she had been beautiful. Once, she had been loved. Once, she had been Daddy's baby May, and that was all that had mattered in the world; now, she could see the future blackening like a stormy sky, buckling under the weight of this responsibility. Daddy didn't want her, Mother thought she was a lost cause, and she was alone—alone with this parasite asleep in her belly.
Why? she asked it, because she was still young enough to think that babies were like angels, perched in the clouds, awaiting a time and place to become flesh. Why now? Why me? But there came no answer, and in the cold still of the night, Mayleen cried herself to sleep.
The pregnancy was hard on her. She was sick throughout, always ducking into bathrooms to empty her stomach into a sink. She had back pains, neck pains, swollen ankles, night sweats. She was tired all the time, but Mother still woke her up early for school – at least until she started to show, and the principal called to tell Mother to keep her home. It would be inappropriate, he said, for Mayleen to continue attending classes in her condition, but it was clear as cling wrap what he really meant. At best, she was a distraction to the other students; at worst, a bad example.
Don't think this is gonna be a vacation, Mother said when she hung up the phone. If you're woman enough to get yourself knocked up, you're woman enough to hold down your own household, so if you plan to stay in mine, you'd better work for it.
Mayleen didn't dare point out that Grizelda had been slouching around the house for four years now, doing nothing but playing with her pet gila monster and dominating the TV set in the living room. She just kept her eyes down and did as Mother told her – folded the laundry, washed the windows, did the dishes, made the beds. She raised a protest when Mother sent her to do the shopping – every time she left the trailer, there were more stares, more snickers, more shaken heads – but that was quickly quashed.
Oh, so now you have a sense of shame? Where was it when you were pulling down your panties for your little bastard's daddy? Mother shoved the grocery list into Mayleen's hand. Let this be a lesson to you: don't get yourself into anything you can't explain to the neighbors.
For several months, such was Mayleen's life: chores, stares, and the ongoing mutations of pregnancy. Her only comfort hid in the small alcove where the washer sat, where sometimes – if Mother and Grizelda weren't around to see – she would hold one of Daddy's work shirts to her nose, and inhale its scent before tossing it into the machine. Where she could remember, for a fleeting second, once.
When her belly grew too big for her to lean down over the laundry basket, she spent her days leafing through magazines in bed, wearing one of Mother's old muumuus, waddling back and forth to the bathroom. Her friends didn't call. Mother barely spoke to her. Daddy wouldn't even look at her. The listlessness, the loneliness verged on maddening, and the only company she had – the occasional wriggle or kick – made it all the worse. Leave me alone! she wanted to scream at the flutters in her belly. Why couldn't you have left me alone?
No one ever explained to her what labor would feel like – what would happen to tell her it was time. She woke up one morning and just knew. She hurried to get Mother, and the next thing she knew they were in the car: Mother speeding silently, Mayleen in the back, hyperventilating, and Grizelda taunting her from the passenger seat.
You know how bad it's gonna be, right? They'll hear you wailing all the way down the hall. Bet it comes out ugly, too – claws and horns, the works. You're gonna give birth to the Antichrist, it'll claw its way outta you and—
Shut up, Grizelda, Mother snapped. It was the first time Mother had ever scolded her, so far as Mayleen could remember – and the first time her sister took an order from someone else.
At the hospital, Mother and Grizelda settled down in the waiting room, and an aide wheeled Mayleen down a long white hallway to Labor and Delivery. After that, everything swirled together, a blur of colors and motion and sound. There was a room that smelled of bleach, and a swarm of people in blue scrubs. A hospital gown. A bed with a raised head. A white plastic bracelet with a lot of numbers and her name.
At one point someone stuck a needle in her hand, which hurt; soon after someone pushed gloved fingers, smeared with something cold, inside her, which hurt even more. She choked on her tears and wished there were someone with her, stroking her hair, holding her hand. Wished for Daddy, most of all, but even Mother or Grizelda would have been better than being alone, abandoned. No one had ever told her how terrifying this would be.
In the moment there were her hands gripping the bedrails, their knuckles white, and voices saying push, push, but when it was over all Mayleen would remember was the pain. It was worse than any torment Grizelda could have teased her with. Worse than skinned knees, worse than menstrual cramps – worse, even, than her first time with Daddy, which until then had hurt more than anything in her memory. Worse and far less sweet, far less bearable in the name of love. The night Grizelda found her test, she'd decided she would never love anyone again.
She felt like a wishbone, being pulled until she snapped. For an incalculable, seemingly eternal stretch of time, her world was squeezing and twisting and stabbing and screaming, horrible, horrible screaming – hers, she thought, but nothing made sense anymore. For all she knew, it was the unholy howl of the Antichrist.
Then—all of a sudden—her scream was joined by another, high and hiccupping, actually more of a shriek. As soon as she heard it, the sound in her throat shriveled and died. The pain liquefied and drained away and all that was left was her gasping, her hair sticking to the sweat on her cheeks, her entire body becoming numb with exhaustion. She lay limp on the bed, her eyes closed, trying to shut out the cry of the thing that had come out of her.
It's a boy! she heard someone announce, and for a moment, thought she might have the energy to strangle them. This thing is ruining my life, she wanted to shout, and you think I should care what's between its legs? I'd rather hear it was born dead!
They tried to lay the baby on her chest, once he was quiet and clean. I don't want it! was all she could think—might even have screamed aloud. Take it away! Whether they heard her or not, they did, and at last, there was peace in the bleach-smelling room. An aide stayed behind for a few minutes, clucking under her breath, tidying up, then said something Mayleen didn't hear and left her in the company of her thoughts.
She thought about the baby, much as she didn't want to. She realized, curled up on her side, still panting for breath, that right now, the people in blue scrubs were probably filling out the paperwork that would make him a person. A real person. A person who might be anything, do anything, mean anything to anyone – he might go a hundred places, see a thousand things, leave his footprints on a million lives. Dream the dreams she'd never dreamt. Find the once that had left her behind.
He could be anything, and all she was was his mother. Her life had ended when his began. Wasn't that how it worked? When you had a baby – when you brought a new person into the world – there was no longer room for you to be a person yourself. Mayleen was only fourteen, but her future was sewn up tight; all she had to look forward to was taking responsibility for this mess.
She didn't have much time to dwell on it. An aide brought the baby back, swaddled in a blue blanket, a matching cap pulled snugly over his head, and this time she didn't give Mayleen a chance to send him away. Cooing softly – to her or the baby, Mayleen wasn't sure – she positioned Mayleen's arms and laid the blue bundle in their cradle.
The aide disappeared, quick and noiseless as a wisp of smoke. With cool detachment, Mayleen inspected the baby. He was warm, smelling of milk and soap. His face was red and wrinkled. His eyes were closed, and if he had hair, the cap covered it; it seemed to her that he could be anyone's baby, a box of store-brand cereal with a knockoff mascot.
She knew she probably shouldn't, but she unwrapped the blanket, just enough to get a look at him under it. He was tiny, tiny as a helicopter seed spinning in the breeze, but already she could tell that he would grow up to look like Daddy; his body was the body she'd so often felt bearing down on hers. He had Daddy's long limbs and thin frame, cast in miniature in her arms.
She knew then that she would never be able to look at him without seeing Daddy. For as long as he lived, she would never be allowed to let go of what she'd lost.
The baby's face scrunched and his mouth opened in a squeak, protesting the cold. Mayleen tucked the blanket back into place. Greedy, she thought. Less than an hour old, and already expecting things you don't deserve. You destroyed everything, and you think I owe you kindness? Love? What have you done to earn it?
She stroked the baby's cheek with the tip of one finger, thinking. You'd better give me something really wonderful someday, she said, this time out loud, to make up for everything you stole.
They were the first words she'd ever spoken to the baby—to her son. They hung in the air just long enough to scatter when Mother and Grizelda plowed into the room like a two-truck convoy, their shared bulk displacing the silence. Grizelda launched into a sneering monologue about the hospital and the bleach-smelling room and the baby and Mayleen, lobbing petty judgments from a chair near the foot of the bed.
Mother neither sat nor spoke. She looked at Mayleen, sitting up in the too-big hospital bed, her hair a mess and her face filmed with dry sweat, and gave a phlegmy snort, deep in her throat. Readjusting the fake-fur stole around her shoulders, she turned and left the room, having said without words all she needed to say.
When she was gone, Grizelda stopped talking, and for a short while roosted quietly. Then, her eyes met Mayleen's, and she said, so I'm getting married.
Mayleen blinked at her, bug-eyed. What? she asked, not sure she'd heard right, and Grizelda half-grunted, half-laughed. Yeah. Some idiot called Ubb. Mom got tired of me loafing around the house, and I'm sure as hell not busting my ass mopping floors at the stop-n-shop, so I told the poor bastard he's gonna take care of me now. He's had it bad for me ever since he saw me crush that Russian slut at the wrestling semifinals senior year, so he didn't put up much of a fight.
Anyway, he's got himself a little farm a few hours out in the boondocks. It ain't much, but it's nicer than the trailer park. We don't need the whole place, so I was thinking that maybe once they let you outta here—if you wanna get away from all this bullshit—you could come live with us. She jerked her chin at the bundle in Mayleen's arms. You can even bring that thing.
Once, Mayleen would have been horrified at the thought of living in her sister's household, stuck with her taunting and griping forever. Now, she would have gone anywhere, so long as it meant she didn't have to go home. So long as it saved her from living with Mother's contempt, like a fire constantly burning at her back. So long as she wouldn't have to raise Daddy's son around him, both of them knowing, knowing, and never saying it aloud.
Really? she said. Grizelda smirked. I mean, if you beg me. She hauled herself up out of the chair and came to get a look at the baby, frowning down at his pink face poking out of the blue blanket. So you got a name for the brat?
Once, maybe. Now?
Mayleen hugged the baby tightly to her chest. Yes.