Disclaimer:
Well since I didn't really say their names….. ;o)
A/N:
I'm not sure I really want to post this, because I'm not good at the personal stuff and this is definitely that, so please be gentle.
Thank you to Em and Jess for your continued, unfailing support and honesty and uberquick analyses - love you both. Jen, without your chats and sympathetic ear, I would be completely crazy by now :o)
To the real Liberty –When all is said and done, I hope you know I tried honey.
East Village, ManhattanI was five when I saw my first dead body. I think his name was Chuck; a stupid name for a stupid man who smelled like seedy bars and cheap cologne. He was momma's boyfriend before he took a bad hit and died on our living room floor one spring afternoon, vomit leaking from his lifeless jaw.
I've seen a couple more dead people since then and have known many more who have died unnoticed. The idea of loss doesn't bother me anymore because death, in my experience is violent and ugly; sort of like Chuck was. Kind of like life is.
When Chuck died we didn't call the police or the paramedics, because momma was high and I wasn't stupid. If they came, they would make me go away from her and despite her faults I could never do that. She was family and she needed me, so we left. Momma's friend Jimmy had a cockroach-infested apartment with filthy walls and bare cupboards and so we went there and we called it a home.
I remember the day she first met Jimmy. I had been sick with the flu and she had been mad because I was too weak to stand, to go outside and to protect her secret. No one ever looked at me as I walked down the street. Nobody batted an eye as I turned a corner and knocked on a filthy door at the end of a dirty alley because everyone assumed six year olds who were outside on a warm summer's day were looking for burst fire hydrants and skipping ropes. Insignificant children with dirty blonde hair and sad blue eyes didn't carry plastic packets filled with powdered death, because things like that only happened in newspapers and cop shows.
On the day she met him, it was momma who had walked the route I knew so well, who had seen him standing on a street corner, liked his smile and brought him home and into our lives. He was kind at first; he brought momma her fix and gave me potato chips. Then one night while I was dreaming and he was drunk he came into my room and he hurt me. I stopped liking him after that.
Momma had asked me once why I always looked so tired and I wanted to tell her that it was because I had stayed up past midnight cleaning floors that were stained with beer and vomit and that I was too afraid to sleep because if I did, Jimmy would look at me that way and then hurt me all over again.
I look down at my fingers stained with blood and I realize I've trailed patterns along my momma's cheeks. It looks strange, but I don't think she'll mind. Outside the apartment door I can hear sirens and footsteps that echo in stairwells that smell like crap and I want to tell my momma to hang on, that help is almost here, but I know it's too late because her eyes are empty and her soul is already gone.
I stare at her and I wonder if she knew when she woke up this morning that she had seen her last sunrise and that there would be no more church services, hangovers, Hershey bars or amphetamine highs. I look at the way her hair falls on her face and think how if she had brushed it now and then she might have been pretty.
I wonder if she had known about Jimmy before two policemen came to our door at noon today and told her how he had hurt a little girl down in SoHo. I wonder if she had known then that Jimmy hurt me too.
I had sat silently on the floor in the corner of the room watching them talk, pretending not to hear them tell momma things about Jimmy that I already knew. I didn't want to think about what he did to me because living it was more than enough, so I started to study the men perched on our ugly old couch. I remember thinking that one of the policemen looked a little like a puppy dog, with his big sad eyes and kind face. The other one removed his hat and smiled at momma, and when he did he kind of reminded me of a vanilla bean, because vanilla beans were tall and grey. They were sweet, too, despite the tough exterior.
Momma had been quiet while Vanilla Bean had told her all about Jimmy. I could see him looking at her while they spoke and I could feel her eyes on me like somehow she knew my secret. I had never told her that he came to me at night and I didn't say a word when I couldn't walk with the pain from what he did to me. Even though I wanted to tell, I never did because the knowledge or Jimmy would kill her and I could never allow that.
When the puppy dog had asked me for a glass of water I remember how glad I was that I had washed the dishes that morning. He followed me to the kitchen and played with his yellow tie as he asked whether momma's boyfriend had touched me. I wanted to tell him then because he had kind eyes that weren't like Jimmy's, but I didn't. I just smiled and shook my head and even though he didn't say so, we both knew I was lying.
I look up when I hear the door creak and I forget where I am for a moment as I watch a man with a badge and a gun push open the door to our apartment. It isn't a puppy dog or a vanilla bean this time. It is someone who has blue eyes, who looks wearier than Jimmy after a night on the town and sadder than momma after she had spent her last dime on drugs.
The man with the tired face has a friend with brown eyes to distinguish his blue and hair the color of gilded mocha. She doesn't remind me of puppy dogs or vanilla beans or the color blue. I think she looks a bit like someone I knew once, someone I loved. I can tell from her face that she is caring, like the policemen from this morning. I wonder briefly where vanilla bean has gone because he seemed nice and I really should thank him for being kind to momma. Perhaps he is out buying a new hat with the puppy dog. Perhaps I will see them again someday.
The pretty lady places a tanned hand on the man's white sleeve when she sees me parked cross–legged next to my dead mother, covered in her blood. A pulse leaps at the base of his jaw at the gesture and I watch them as they look at me, then at each other and back again. I expect that they are both thinking that now they have seen everything.
I look at them but I don't say anything because I am thinking of how this afternoon, long after our guests had left, I was in the kitchen trying to make a dinner out of cereal and four day old milk when we heard Jimmy's footsteps on the stairs. The sound had always made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end with fear and so I hadn't argued when momma staggered into the kitchen and told me to go to my room. I'd just handed her the bowl of Cheerios because she needed it more than I did and let her be the parent, let her tell me what to do, just this once.
I'd walked into my room and shut the door and turned up the music on the rusted radio in the corner as they had begun to argue, because they always argued and because momma always said that Springsteen was better than eavesdropping on angry exchanges.
I had sat on my bed and tried to drown out the sounds of war and a little bit before the third verse I had remembered that I was the one who needed to protect her from harm. So I defied authority and tradition for the hundredth time in a week and pushed my eyes up against the crack in the door; a perfect view of a distorted world.
I'd watched her stand there in front of Jimmy, hands on hips and I tried not to breathe, not to move, just in case Jimmy heard me over the music and came after me too. I watched him push her to the ground and slap her hard across the face. I watched her stand up, fearless. I watched her push him back and scream angry words in his face and how his face turned purple with rage. Then I watched him put a gun to her chest and pull the trigger.
The sound was so loud that I almost cried out. I think I opened my mouth to yell at Jimmy, to try and undo what he had done but I didn't and I know that momma would be proud of me for that. Instead I hid silently as I watched Jimmy stand over her, his boots tarnished with crimson stains from the cavity where her heart once was.
I observed him through the cracks as he looked at my doorway and smiled like he knew I was watching him. I think he lifted the gun before pointing it in my direction, but I can't be sure. I had squeezed my eyes shut so tight that I could see shapes behind my lids. I chose the darkness then because I wasn't as brave as momma. I couldn't look death in the face if it was to come for me.
I stayed like that for a while - crouched on the floor, waiting for the bang. I waited for so long that my feet turned numb and my stomach grumbled from hunger. I waited even after I heard the front door slam and the light in front of my lids became darker as the day got older. And then I found my courage and went to my momma.
I want to tell the man with the shiny badge and blue eyes that's how I came to be sitting in a lake of blood and hopelessness but I figure he probably already knows. I want to tell him and the pretty lady standing by his side that all this is my fault, but I don't. Instead, I look at them like I am helpless, like I couldn't have stopped the existential carnage that my world has suddenly become.
The room is so quiet that I can hear my heart beating and I think I can hear theirs. I wish I could hear my momma's.
"I couldn't protect her," I say into the silence, and I hate myself because I feel tears seep into my eyes and obscure my vision. I don't cry. Not since I was six years old. Not since I met Jimmy.
The one with the blue eyes is first to move nearer at my words and he almost stumbles as he tries to get closer without ruining his crime scene, because there is so much blood and I am right in the middle. I wonder absently who will scrub the floors tonight after we have gone, because it would be a shame to leave a stain. Blue eyes gives up with a sigh and walks into the puddle and I am glad he chose me over the evidence because it was nice to be important for once.
"She's cold," I state the obvious and he nods. I can feel him looking at me and at the dead body and I wonder if he can see the word victim on momma's skin. I wonder if he can see it on mine; through the hair hanging over my forehead and the memories of times when I had to score, when I had to miss school because someone had to look after momma. I wonder if he can see that my bravado is an act. When I lift my eyes to his I find what I was looking for. I don't really need to speak because he knows. He knows I want to tell and that I need him to understand. He knows because now he has seen it all and I am not fooling anyone.
I used to lie to everyone back then, make up dazzling excuses for absences and bruises. I used to imagine I was a famous actress - a brilliant performer who masked the truth of my existence behind false smiles. In hindsight, I think everyone knew. The nice policemen from this morning, Mr. Chiu who owned the bodega a couple of blocks over, Mrs. Salinas in 3C. My teachers at school.
I listen as footsteps echo in the empty room and I look up as the lady in the jeans and blue jumper moves from the doorway. She doesn't wrinkle her nose at the stench of death or look at me with pity as I sit in filthy clothes and a pool of blood, holding my mother's lifeless hand. She crouches down beside blue eyes and me and she touches my shoulder and I find myself thinking of my second grade teacher. Miss Francesco always used to know when words were not enough, when I needed the comfort of sympathetic touch over meaningless phrases.
I think Miss F. knew more about my wretched life than I told her, because she was observant that way. She knew and she tried to help me, but it was too late by then. My childhood had long since vanished and I was so lost in my own confusion and my mother's addiction that I had forgotten that I was still in the midst of youth.
I had almost told her everything once, after Christmas choir practice. Everyone was eating pizza and smiling and I was sitting by myself because I couldn't co-exist with happiness. She had joined me and my petulant stomach in our hiding place at the top of the stairs and she had touched the faded bruise underneath my eye as I picked up a piece of pizza and tried not to think how long it would be before I ate again. I could have told her then, while she watched me inhale pepperoni and pineapple about how Jimmy reckoned he was addicted to booze and cigarettes and me. I wanted to tell her that I was an addict too, that I was devoted to protecting momma from Jimmy and from herself. I wanted to ask her why some addictions could destroy and others heal, but I didn't. I think it was because I was afraid of the answer.
I suppose I said thank you when she handed me a diet coke and told me that I reminded her of herself when she was a kid. I remember thinking that if it were true, then perhaps it didn't matter that my mom was a junkie and her boyfriend an abuser.
She had waited by the school gates the next afternoon, on a day that was too cold for September, blue eyes filled with sadness beneath a sky that threatened rain; dark hair waging war with icy wind and colliding with cheeks that were colored like roses.
I had shoved my hands into my pockets, trying to blend into the exodus, hoping she wouldn't see me and praying she wouldn't notice that my bare fingers had begun to turn blue with cold. I should have known better; I was invisible to all others except her. She had called to me as I had tried to walk by and I had stopped to look at her. My name had always sounded like a promise coming from her lips. Like I could believe it would come true someday. Like I had a right to hope it would.
She had tugged me towards an oak tree and crouched in front of me as I had sat on the timber bench beneath uncovered branches and dreary clouds. She had rested a gloved hand on her denim jeans and I had watched in silent, abject fascination as her lips had curved in a smile that told me that although my future was set in stone and destiny was for dreamers, for the moment at least, I mattered to somebody.
She had lifted her woolen hat off her head and placed it on my own, the warmth a temporary comfort to the bitterness of my existence. I watched her as she fished a piece of paper out of her pale polyester jacket and I found myself attempting a retarded reincarnation of her smile as she had pressed it into my hand. I didn't look at her then, because I knew that in her eyes I would see questions and distress mixed with helpless despair. I didn't look at her because I didn't want to cry. Tears and lips had the power to spill secrets that were best left unspoken.
We had sat like that under the tree for a few moments, watched in silence as the school ground emptied and children went home to their families. Then she had sighed and touched my cheek and I had curled my fingers around the paper as I watched her walk away. I had looked down at the blue ink and perfect scripture. Teacher's handwriting was always so neat. If you lose your way……212 593 2222.
I don't think she expected me to call and I never did. Looking back, I wish I had. Maybe she could have helped, maybe not. It doesn't matter now, anyway. She died last summer, a car accident on the BQE. I remember where I was when they told us and not much else. I don't want to think about her ending because Miss F. always used to say that conclusions weren't important. It was the story that came before that people would remember most.
Instead, I remember how even though she hadn't been my teacher in four years, she still brought an extra sandwich each morning so I would have enough to eat at night. She still called me honey even though we both knew it was an epithet of the innocent and she still came to every spelling bee and school recital. She never asked where my mother was or questioned why I wore the same clothes three days in a row. I remember how she would watch from her classroom window as I walked out of the silver gates and along the broken pavement, her eyes following me until I was just another kid in a sweater and faded blue jeans on the horizon.
Some days, when it was windy out, when my hair would blow around my ears and tickle my nose underneath the hat she gave me, I would pretend I could hear her calling my name, calling me back to the safety of the school ground away from the affliction of scarcity and addiction. Memory mixes with reality as I hear someone speak in a room that had been silenced in a moment of violence. The voice sounds like the one in my imagination, like the one who tried to save me but didn't know how.
I feel a hand touch my hair and I look into a gaze that close up is more like burnt chocolate laced with compassionate familiarity than boring brown. I wonder if it is because I remind her of someone, or if I will ever have a chance to grow up to be brave and beautiful like her. I hope so, because it would be nice to think things worked out now and then.
"What's your name, honey?" She smiles, and she is no longer a stranger. I want to tell her she reminds me of my favorite teacher and the words on an old piece of paper that sits tucked underneath the mattress of my bed. If you lose your way…. I think of how I had turned the paper over just after Miss F. died, how it was the prose of a lifeless person and the idea of angels on earth who gave me the strength to believe. When all is said and done have faith little one, for in truth there will always be someone to shelter you.
I reach my hand out to touch hers and she doesn't flinch as my bloodied fingers encase her own. I take a deep breath and I open my mouth to tell her that my name, like my future is a lie but I cannot bring myself to say words that I no longer think are true.
"It's okay sweetheart," her voice is liquid caramel laced with reluctant lies. "You can tell me."
She knows as well as I do that as soon as we are out of here, as soon as the sunlight beats once more upon my pale skin that my days will be filled with foster families and forgotten memories. Justice and life are part of a sadistic rotation and it takes sacrifice and strength to break it.
I remember Father Westland espousing once on a Sunday morning years ago, that words held the power of liberation and that the spreader of devotion had the supremacy to heal even the worst addiction. I don't think I had understood what he meant then, not until momma had explained it in a lucid moment as we walked home from church, before addiction had taken over her world once more and I had wondered what Father Westland would have thought of us if he had known the truth.
There had been hundreds of services and sermons since that day, but I had never wanted to believe another word he said. Because I knew that momma had asked God for help on nights when she dallied with death and the bruises on her arm from silver needles and viscous invasions turned purple like the blossoms on a tree. I knew, because I had heard her sob into her putrid pillow in the darkness, when Jimmy was at the club and I was supposed to be asleep. Faith and words hadn't saved momma from her addiction, but perhaps it could rescue me
My eyes crawl along rivulets and lines of crimson liquid and cold flesh before I make a decision and lift my head. I can tell now, about Jimmy and my mother. I can tell now because momma doesn't need me to protect her anymore. I can tell now because I want to believe that this pretty lady and her blue-eyed friend can give me the shelter my teacher wrote about. I can tell now because maybe there is hope after all.
For the first time, I feel like my namesake. I am strong and fearless and a symbol of freedom.
My mouth moves and I watch in fascination as the smile painted on her lips traverses the lines and curves of her face, amalgamating with chocolate eyes as she hears my words. "My name is Liberty," I say, my voice quiet in a room filled with sorrow and pieces of optimism. "What's yours?"
end