Swallowing a scream, she woke up as the remembered dream lingered in her mind. Her power; lack of it and amazement of what she did have of it. The attack was brief before she woke to the purple sky and haze of sleep. She thought of her husband at work, with distaste as she remembered the "man" that always attacked her or kept her too suffocated with love during these dreams. A shudder of repulsive hate washed through her body as she sat up to start the day. She sat up on the side of the bed and traced a line across the purple and blue flowers embroidered in the cream quilt. She stretched her sore muscles. Her muscles were always sore. She ached, deep in her body, every day of her life. She hated the aches and pains that had taken over her bloated body in the last few years since the stroke. She stood, slowly so she didn't have a sudden blood pressure drop and pass out. She was thirty years old. She rubbed her eyes and looked around her small bedroom. Correction, her and her husband's small bedroom. The periwinkle painted walls reflected the sun. She loved the contrast of the purplish walls and the austere white trim. She smoothed her hand across the dusty nightstand and examined the dirt on the tips of her fingers. The grime she knocked off glittered in the sun like fairy dust. She shrugged on a pink bathrobe from the hook behind her bedroom door and tied the belt around her fat belly. She looked across the bed to the window and winced at the sunlight streaming through. She walked around the bed, to her husband's side and drew the chocolate colored, polyester curtains closed so the light wouldn't be as blinding. She scooted back between the narrow opening between the foot of the bed and the door-less closet that was too small to hold all of her and her husband's clothes. She stubbed her little toe on the footboard as she sidled back to her side of the bed. She swore and gave the offending piece of furniture a scathing stare as she made her way around the rest of the bed and to the door to the hallway. She walked down the green hallway carpet to the long, narrow bathroom without turning on any lights. She staggered and let her shoulder fall along the smooth hallway wall and guide her to the dimly lit, yellow bathroom just like she did every morning. Her balance had failed her after the stroke and it was especially bad in the mornings after a prescription-drug induced sleep. The tepid water came from the short spout and sputtered to life as she took a blue washcloth from the shelf that stood next to the sink stand. The washcloth was thick and new and luxurious. No old towels in this house. She ran the cloth under the flowing well water as it became too hot to touch and burned her fingers and she wrung the excess water from the cloth then placed it open and burning on her upturned face. The steam felt good as she breathed in the moist air for a second before scouring her flesh with the stinging cloth and scrubbing away the sleep and the muddle. Her eyebrows curled up in a devilish way when the washcloth went up her forehead and she, as always arranged them back into a careful arch over her brow bone. Her cheeks were red and inflamed and her skin was smooth and clean from blemishes. This was her only facial skin care routine. She didn't really care whether she got wrinkles or age spots or red skin. Who cared? There was no one to care. Not anymore. Not even herself. She turned her cheeks to the mirror, then her chin and nose checking for open pores or blemishes, but knew there wouldn't be any until she started her menstrual cycle when she would get one pimple deep underneath her skin on her chin and it would never come to a head and would clear up on it's own. She combed her day-old greasy hair back into a pony tail and sighed as she took her electric toothbrush and turned the cool handle on the sink to make the still running water go from scalding to warm. She brushed her teeth with the mild water, thinking that cold water might not be as effective at fighting teeth gunk as warmer water. When she finished her careful three minutes of brushing she switched the hot handle off and only left the cold water running because she liked to rinse with cold water, it made her breath feel fresher. She finished the sink handles by finally turning off the cold water. She liked her routine with the sink handles. Hot to warm to cold to off. It made her feel clever. At least something did. She went back to her room and opened her wardrobe to pick another pair of cotton sleep shorts and a t-shirt to change into from the current ones she was wearing. At least today she changed clothes. She doesn't always. She gets tired. She doesn't care. Her dirty clothes go into the hamper at the side of the dresser and she decided not to even look at the mirror as she left the room. Her shoulder lead the way again down the L-shaped hallway to the living room. The worn living room wooden floor squeaked under her weight as she entered the pretty room. She had had this room painted a bright apple-green. Her artwork adorned the walls. She didn't bother with artwork anymore. She had no inspiration or time. The sunshine coming in through the glass door and floor to ceiling window didn't bother her. By now her sleepy eyes had adjusted to all of the light and she found the warmth of the room comforting. She walked clumsily into the kitchen. The cabinets were stained a warm honey color to match the real wood paneling on the walls. The white linoleum floor was cool on her bare feet. She went to the new black refrigerator and poured herself a glass of milk. She loved the way the black appliances contrasted with the honey color of the walls and cabinets. She had done good when picking out appliances for the kitchen. She sat down at the rickety, second hand dark brown table. She wanted to replace this, but money was too tight right now for her to worry about replacing it. Her husband and children, long gone to work and school left the usual morning mess. Cereal bowls lay haphazardly over the table. Milk spills pooled on the placemats and a spoon, sticky with sugar, was stuck to the wood surface. She gathered the relics of breakfast and grimaced at the disrespect of the mess and perceived it's deeper meaning. The mess said to her that she was only here to clean up behind those more important than herself. It screamed to her "Screw you and your plans, clean and earn your keep". It taunted her. She ran the dishes through the hot water of the kitchen faucet and put them neatly into the black dishwasher for a later load when it would be more full. She finished cleaning the remains of her family's refuse. The air was hot and stagnant and she turned on the antique, greenish metal fan in the kitchen. It looked like the kind one would see in black and white films. If she stuck her finger in it, it would cut it off. The thought lingered in her mind and she watched the knife-like blades spin until she thought she might fall face first into the fan. She walked back to the table and took up the cup of milk and sorted out the pills she had to take every morning. The pills mocked her hatred of them every time they stuck in her throat and caused her to choke back a cough. She wasn't supposed to take some of them with milk. Water only. She doesn't care. Water first thing in the morning gagged her.
She walked back to the bedroom. She had hoped to feel good enough today to do a little housework, but knew if she did the work and felt weak later, her husband would scold her like a child for "overdoing it" and somehow make her feel worse than if she had done nothing at all. She chose to do nothing at all. She is in the middle of a novel and today seemed as good as any day for finishing it. She might do some laundry. The pile was getting high, but she could have the kids do a load or two when they get home. Her mother was always telling her how much work those kids should be doing and keeping her from having to do as much of it. After all, they are plenty old enough and doing chores never hurt any kid and if they don't do them, how will they know how to do things for themselves when they are older. They are older now. They should help out. The stroke was four years ago. They've grown a lot since then and they grew up a lot since then. They can help now. She absentmindedly walked back out of her room and went into the living room. She passed the couch and saw an old popsicle stick laying on the wood floor as though this house were simply a giant wastebasket and trash could be put anywhere. Except the garbage can. She bent over and picked up the popsicle stick and walked it back into the kitchen to the garbage bin. She remembered the spilled milk on the table and got the dish cloth and cleaned up the mess and rinsed the rag so it didn't smell of sour milk later. She walked back to the bedroom and looked around at the dirty clothes on the floor and decided to leave them where they were.
She crawled back into bed and took a pain pill and rolled over to read her novel. Belong to Me, a book she had bought on a whim in a drugstore bin. It was wonderful actually, the name conveyed the message of all these characters and their deepest desires. Her deepest desires. She didn't belong to anybody. Maybe. She didn't know if anyone belonged to her either. As she read, the pain medicine began to affect her and she nodded off.
She was running. Running with her children, who were her children but smaller, like dolls. She had to keep them safe. There were only two of them. Where was the third? Where was Ferris? He wasn't biologically hers, maybe that kept him from her dreams but her daughter Rowan and her son Blythe were there and she had to protect them. Where the fuck were the bullets coming from? She ran with the children into a glass building. A tall glass building. Where was this? The inside was away from all the panic and death of outside. In fact the inside was very much like a little home. She put her children in a bed together and told them to hold each other and turned on an enormous box television set to a cartoon that was very loud but she couldn't figure out how to turn it down, so she left it on and went out of the room. As she explored the house she found a little door. A little white door that she could barely fit in and went straight up to a spiraled staircase. She climbed and climbed and began to suffocate in the small space. Suddenly she was in her grandmothers old trailer home and this staircase had led her to an upper story she had not remembered in her grandmother's real house, but inside were all types of beautiful dolls and lovely furniture and jewelry that her grandmother had left to her and she cried for the loss of her grandmother as she stroked the pretty dolls and looked at old photographs. He came in. Into her grandmothers sacred space. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her into breathless gasps. She struggled and couldn't escape this suffocating embrace and cried out for the ghost. He always heard her. He filled her, every fiber of her body and leaked in through her pores. He consumed her and made her nipples hard and her body strong and her sex come alive. She broke the embrace and made the conscious decision to fly away. She knew she was dreaming, but also knew she could do this and the feel of the ghost in her made her feel giddy and free and he was inside her mind and body. His shapeless form enveloped her and touched her naked buttocks and gripped her erect nipples almost painfully. Immobilized with need and fear, she opened herself to him and he entered her sex and brought her to climax as she woke with a shudder. Trembling, she opened her eyes and wished for the dream to come back as she involuntarily touched between her legs. My god, she thought, I'm wet. She was still haunted by the resonance of passion this ghost had aroused in her and caused her to physically react.
She rubbed herself between her thighs in the hopes of arousal and possibly bringing herself to orgasm but found herself completely spent and in no need of such a thing. She felt sticky and humid in the stagnant air of the room and got up to get a glass of water. Her fingers didn't smell of sex; she had had a complete orgasm in her sleep and never touched herself. She still pulsed lightly from the act and went to the bathroom to pee and change her wet underwear. Her nap had cost her nearly four hours and the kids would be home soon. She liked to try and look decent for the kids like a real housewife. She had never had milk and cookies waiting but she knew she was the role-model for her daughter and didn't want her sons to eventually marry some slob who couldn't even get the energy to bathe herself everyday, or sometimes every third day.
She re-fixed her hair into the greasy pony tail and put on a pair of Capri pants that were too baggy in the butt, but who cared? She didn't. She washed her hands in the stainless steel kitchen sink with the orange antibacterial dish soap. She scrubbed hard in case her hands did smell like her sex and she just didn't realize it. After all she couldn't have the kids smelling such a thing on her. She went outside the heavy kitchen door to the side deck and smoked one more cigarette and brushed her teeth again so her youngest son wouldn't question her. She hid her cigarettes in her dresser and found some clothes in the dryer to fold so that she looked like she had been doing something all day. She folded three shirts and a pair of jeans and then waited to fold any more until she could see the kids running down the driveway so she wouldn't run out of laundry to fold before they saw her in action. She didn't start another wash load but did put the wash into the dryer so it wouldn't get that sour mildew smell. She hated that smell, especially on towels. Towels that had that smell would make a body smell sour all day. The kids came running in the door, not shutting it all the way like they did everyday and she smiled and said "shut the door all the way", which her daughter did by slamming it into the door frame. "How was school today guys?" She kept her smile on because asking that without a smile was stupid. Like her. Stupid. "Great mom! Can I have some money for the social on Friday? They are having this band play, it's a christian band, but they're like rock? So they're like cool? So can I?" Her daughter, her beautiful daughter. Some days she wanted to just stare at her daughter in the face and cry tears of pride. She was tall with milky skin and chic freckles. Her green eyes could flicker and joy spread everywhere her radiance touched. She had perfect, ripe peach lips; a little on the thin side but still nicely shaped. She would be a good kisser. Her long red hair hung nearly to her waist and was the color of a new copper penny. How had she created a creature as beautiful as her Rowan. This faerie-like creature just popped into her life when she was 18. She had still been a scared kid, but this being, this perfect human being would be her life and death and breath. This was her legacy. No son could be his mother's legacy. This would be her gift to the world. A creature so lovely and strong and ethereal that making this child made her feel like a goddess. This was creation. Her youngest son, Blythe, ran to her and hugged her tight and kissed her right on the mouth. He was nearly twelve but wasn't embarrassed to show affection to his mom. He had always been this way. He was such a delicious baby. Fat. Not roly-poly, butterball kind of fat, but chubby and sweet smelling. He had deep brown eyes that reminded her of a fawn and olive skin that tanned in the lightest sun exposure. She had always kissed his mouth from the time he was a baby. His lips were full and pouty like his fathers and smelled like sweet things. He pulled away long enough to show her his comic book he had been studiously working on while at school. He made straight A's and she never worried about his school work suffering even when the teachers complained that he was too talkative and liked to draw too much. She liked to point out to the teachers that he was also in the advanced learning classes and was allowed to tutor other kids in advanced reading courses. Leave him alone, she thought. Let him be a child. Let him be this beaming sun-ray of light with fawn eyes and dimples in his left cheek when he smiled. She knew his every freckle, every nuance of his face. He had a freckle on the inside of his right nostril that sometimes even she mistook for a need to blow his nose. He had a small mole, beauty mark, on the underside of his jaw and a freckle on the sole of his left foot that had been there since the day he was born. His nose was still round and soft like a child's, not the grown up nose that sometimes graced the faces of other children and made them look like small, odd adults. He had written in maker all over his hands in the decorations of his favorite wrestler and snuggled into her one more time and kissed her and said he loved her more than she did him which led to the inevitable "argument" of who loved who best, often reaching ridiculous levels of love such as "I love you more bestest in the entire universe of people who love people and one more than infinity, etc..." She loved that game, and liked to let him win some of the time; pretending that whatever he could come up with was nothing she could top at the moment. Ferris stood glumly waiting for his turn at the attention. Everyday she asked her stepson how his day in school was and everyday he said it was horrible while looking like a famine victim. She had not conquered this attitude no matter how many books she had read, about everyone from little kids to teenagers. Ferris was 12 years old and a little troubled thanks to a careless natural mother and misguided attempts at parenting by his single father and his grandparents. Ferris needed counseling, this she knew, but she didn't know how to get it for him as she had no legal guardianship over him and no way of knowing his medical history. His father was in denial, and she just coped the best way she could. She tried the "drawing out" questions, such as "what made your day so bad?". His reply was "Everything". He usually stuck to one answer questions and when he couldn't answer in one word, he ignored her completely. He didn't hate her or hate that she was with his father. He simply wished his mother would live up to the pedestal he had tried to keep her on for seven long years and every year she fell further. Not to mention he hated her new husband and the fact that she had children with him after all but abandoning him. He once said "she had a family, why does she need a new one?" She couldn't answer him except to say that his mother still loved him, but just couldn't be with him now. She hated herself for covering for that woman. She would go through heaven and earth to reach her children, even the one that didn't seem to want her. How could a natural mother abandon her child. She couldn't. Only an unnatural woman could do such a thing. A snake of hatred wound through her head at his mother while another snake of anger towards Ferris's attitude twisted together with the first leaving her with the thought that she would never measure up, and never be this little boys mother. Fuck your love, it isn't good enough. Neither are you. You never will be. Every time those almond shaped black eyes stared at her through that mask of black hair that he hid behind she knew she would never matter to him. Only in gifts and favors. She refused to buy his or anyone else's love. Her irritation towards his seeming lack of feeling made her feel a bit repulsed by him and she didn't bother to try to hug him. He would dodge it anyway. "You guys can have a small snack but I'm making dinner tonight so only one sandwich or bowl of cereal or one pack of Ramen noodles, OK?" She would make sure dinner was ready by 6:30 when her husband got home so he could walk right in and eat. She opened the freezer and pulled out a Stouffer's vegetable lasagna, her favorite. Two hours in the oven and it was done and she could feel good about getting some vegetables into her kids without a battle because they loved it too. Just a loaf of garlic bread in the oven next to it and it was a complete meal. She should probably make salad with it, but somehow homemade salads never tasted the way they did in restaurants and she had never figured out why. Lettuce, spinach, cheese, cucumbers, cherry tomatoes, maybe some crumbled bacon, store-bought croutons, but it didn't taste the same at all. She hated making salad anyway. All the kids wanted to know exactly what they had to eat and didn't have to eat in it. She wanted to tell them to eat all the veggies but they could skip the rat poison pellets and cyanide pills. She told the kids that while the lasagna was cooking she needed to take a nap, she was still kind of sick and needed to rest. Her daughter repeated the mantra "don't over-do it". She smiled even though she wanted to slap her daughter and said "thanks sweetie" and touched her peaches and cream cheek and kissed the top of her penny hair.
She lay in bed after shutting the door and looked at the ceiling for a long time. She thought, I can feel you all suck me down. I can feel myself shutting down and you all are drowning me. Every time I lay down I'm dying and screaming all at the same time. I'm too lost. Too lost by now to be saved. Who would save her anyway? No one. She closed her eyes and pictured herself trying to break out of the prison of her home. She wasn't allowed to drive since the stroke. Every doctor appointment, every trip to the store, every time she wanted to go a mile and a half up the road to the convenience store for cigarettes, she had to ask. Ask to be let out. Ask for her freedom. As long as it didn't conflict with someone else's schedule. Sure, she could wait. Why not, she wasn't all that important, right? Her plans for the weekend? Oh, nothing much, just thinking up ways to die; have a good time. She drifted into sleep.
Mother? What are you doing here? You didn't even want me to keep this baby. You insisted I give her up for adoption and when I refused you said you would put me in a home. NO SHE ISN'T LIKE YOU. SHE DOESN'T LOOK LIKE YOU. GET OUT! I HATE YOU, TAKE YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF MY DAUGHTER! The ghost is back, he is powerful. She smiled ruefully at her mother and raised her hands to the raging storm above her. The sky was black and silver with fury and the ghost overtook her. She knew she was dreaming and this made her feel more powerful. She was asleep and awake at the same time. "ENTER ME!" She screamed at the top of her lungs and her pulse quickened as the entity consumed her body and mind and spirit. "I WILL SHOW YOU", she screamed as her mother tried to stand taller and grab at her. Her mother tried to hit her and she pulled all of the being's energy into her center and pushed her mother back with an invisible, powerful force that sent her mother crashing into a distant wall as the ghost held her naked form in midair and swept his hands between her legs and she cried out in desperate pleasure. His invisible form probed deeper and harder into her body and enveloped her butt and naked breasts in a breath that carried such strength with it that it was erotically painful. She pushed harder and harder into the invisible force raping her and writhed with the ecstasy of orgasm. He laid her on the ground and cupped himself around her mound until the spasms finally dissipated. She rolled over and her hand landed on her husbands folded clothes waiting to be put away on his side of the bed.
She was covered in sweat and had soaked her panties again. Desperate for the feel of release, she rubbed her hands between her legs and there was nothing left to continue. In the distance she could hear a redundant beeping noise and a helpful child knocked on her door to let her know that dinner was "beeping". Shit, she thought, she slept another two hours away. She got up, re-did her pony tail, walked to the kitchen and scrubbed her hands with the antibacterial soap until they turned pink. She opened the oven, got out the perfect lasagna and her husband walked in the front door. He crossed the room to kiss her and she kissed him back. His lips were too wet and she wiped her mouth afterward. He smelled like dirt and grease and day old sweat. It wasn't a good manly smell. It was just a smell and it turned her stomach. He sat at the entry chair next to the kitchen table and took off his old work boots and socks. His pasty white feet with the black hairs and thick toes smelled of sweat and leather. It made her furious that he did this at the table. She simply smiled and asked how his day was. He told her. He didn't ask about hers. She set the table with the Correll wear she bought after the stroke. Her mother had always prized heavy dishes and never bought anything less than stoneware but after the stroke she could no longer lift the plates. She can lift a whole stack of ten Correll plates and put them in the cabinet with no problems. She only worries if one does manage to break, she has heard that they shatter into about a billion little, tiny shards. That could be bad with the kids around. After dinner Blythe and Ferris got assigned "after dinner dishes and clean-up"; Rowan was assigned feeding all the cats and dogs and cleaning the litter box. They groaned and did it anyway. She sat at the table until all the cleaning was done in order to make sure it got done properly. No one had homework that night. No one had soccer or basketball practice. No one had Boyscouts. She retreated back to her bedroom and her husband retreated to his office to play another computer game. She would give anything to have him come to her and hold her or lie in bed and talk to her. He doesn't. She didn't say anything. She lay down again to continue reading her novel. Please belong to me, she thought. He doesn't.
At 8:30 pm she started telling the kids to get ready for bed. Every night was an argument about who had to take a shower. She didn't insist on everyday unless they had gotten particularly dirty, but did require a shower every other night with no exceptions. She had to remind Ferris to shampoo his hair twice or he wouldn't clean it. She had to search for her daughter's shaving foam and Blythe insisted he just bathed yesterday and didn't do much today. She sent Blythe to brush his teeth in the one bathroom the family has while Ferris showered. No one is allowed in the bathroom while Rowan is in there. She locked the door securely due to her overly shy nature and the abhorrent thought that someone might get in there and see her naked. The fact that her mother changed her diapers for two years added nothing to her argument for entry, so everyone always waits for Rowan. Then it was Rowan's turn to brush her teeth and brush her hair and then Ferris's turn. He stayed longest in the bathroom combing his wet hair to get the black curtain of tresses to cover as much of his face as possible while still maintaining enough eyesight not to walk directly into the door. Around ten pm. the kids were ready for bed and slowly go through the motions of getting that one last drink of water they absolutely had to have and the overdone goodnight hugs and extra trips to the bathroom trying to buy themselves just enough time to really irritate their mother. She hugged them all and tucked them in, though to tell the truth, her husband is better at this than she is. She couldn't bend over well anymore and it was painful to bend over a bed. She hated this about herself and wished she could do better and berated her inadequacies. She is worthless and she knows it. What kind of mother cannot tuck her children into bed? Her. She could not do this. It was only "goodnight, sweet dreams" at the door. A lump caught in her throat and she swallowed it into the other lump of guilt that never left her stomach. She pushed it aside and smiled and said goodnight.
She got a thick, brown washcloth from the bathroom cabinet and turned the water on hot and waited. She ran the cloth under the water until her fingers burned and steam rose from the terry cloth. She laid it open on her face and let the steam settle and breathed in the moist air before she began her nightly scrubbing. She scrubbed away all the sweat and sticky feel of dreamt sex and heat from dinner. She took the cloth to her room and sat on the side of the bed and washed her feet. She hated the idea of dirty feet in a bed. She changed the sheets every Sunday. That is one week of dirty feet on the sheets she sleeps on. Her nose involuntarily curled at the thought of her husbands big white, thick feet smelling up his side of the bed. Even though he showers, the dead skin of his feet rubbing around under the covers made her skin break out in gooseflesh and she tried not to imagine it. She took out her greasy pony tail and decided she should wash it tomorrow and if not then, definitely the day after that. She didn't need to change clothes. She wore pajamas all day long unless she was going somewhere. She went no where today. She had no plans for tomorrow either.