Author's Note, 3-31-03: Yo. Well, this chapter was rather difficult and a
bit disturbing to write, otherwise I probably would've had it up sooner.
Don't think me too dark and twisted. ;) Thanks for the reviews for chapter
11. "You like me, you really like me!"
Chapter 12
MOTHER AND CHILD
*
We stared at each other for a long, long time, Maggie and I. My breathing was shallow, scarcely getting any air into my lungs, and I thought maybe it was because she was stealing it all for herself with those drawn out breaths she kept taking. So that's how she planned to kill me. It had always been a possibility in the back of my mind since I was about ten years old, but I never could decide how she'd pull it off. The very few people I'd confessed my suspicions to had just laughed at me. Oh, what an imagination you have, they'd say. They weren't the ones who'd gotten chased around the Thanksgiving dinner table with a big knife, though. I could picture them all standing over my lifeless body - still huddled up on the couch like one of those bugs that roll into a ball when you poke at them - and shaking their heads in dismay. What a pity. She had such imagination. And the cause of death? An excruciatingly slow asphyxiation.
There wouldn't even be any blood on Maggie's hands. It was ingenious.
"I better hear some explaining coming out of that mouth of yours, young lady," she finally said, pointing a deadly finger at me. "Right now."
"Can't it wait?" I challenged, stretching my legs out and slouching lazily, my rebelliousness kicking in again. She'd abandoned me for a week, I shouldn't be the one to explain anything first. "I'll be able to lie a lot better when I'm sober."
She blinked like I'd flicked water into her face. I was making things worse, but I didn't care. It was worth it to see her looking so dumbfounded. She probably thought she'd come home to find me and Eric tucked safely in our beds - visions of sugarplums dancing in our heads - and she could wake us up for Christmas morning like nothing had happened, like we'd slept for six or seven days, hibernating till her return. Bull. I wasn't going to let her get away with it this time.
"Sober?" she growled, her fists clenched at her sides. I gritted my teeth a bit. I'd seen her dig her nails into her palms so hard before that they'd left behind little bright red crescent moon shapes that practically bled. If I wasn't careful, I sometimes caught myself doing the same thing when I got too tense. I always felt like I'd been holding fire afterwards. "You have no right to be drinking. You're a goddamn baby! Who gave you alcohol?" she demanded.
"Andy," I yawned. I couldn't look at her hands. It made mine itch.
"Who??"
I grinned. "You sound like an owl."
"Abby-"
"He's the guy you just threw out," I interjected. "Which was very rude, by the way. I didn't even get the chance to introduce you to each other. I wanted to bring him home to meet you and Daddy-- what's his name again? Beau? Where is he, anyhow?" A warning light blinked frantically inside my head, trying to stop me. Too late. Shadows of anger and disgust darkened Maggie's features, the goblins she kept inside emerging to make her more formidable than I could ever hope to be. It was starting to get lonely there on the couch with just me and my sarcasm.
"What is happening to you?" she said, as if mystified by the monster I'd apparently transformed into within the past few days. "You're bringing complete strangers into our home, letting them get you drunk, and having sex with them? You might as well be a hooker."
"Oh God, Mom." I rolled my eyes dramatically. "We weren't having sex! We were just... fooling around a little," I corrected, though it didn't come out as blithely as I'd meant it to. Nothing in Andy's roving fingers had hinted that he was only fooling around. Self-consciously, I slid my own hands under my legs until I was sitting on them, pressing them palms-down into the cushion of the couch incase they'd changed somehow and might tell Maggie more than she needed to know. My pants were still soaked through. "But if he happened to pay me later, who'm I to complain?" I added, unable to shut up.
"You little dip-shit," she said, and I sucked my breath in fast like she'd hit me. After thirteen years and all the things I'd learned to take from her, I'd never gotten used to her calling me names. Maybe because she did it so casually, no differently than if she'd said honey or sweetie or just plain Abby. Even bullies at school had the decency to put some taunt into their name-calling so it didn't sound like a simple fact they were stating. "Men like that don't plan on just 'fooling around' with girls your age. Do you realize what could have happened to you if I hadn't shown up when I did?" she went on, all high and mighty.
"Yes, Maggie, I know," I sighed. "You're my hero. Swooped in to save me in the nick of time. Now you can leave again."
She suddenly burst into tears, whimpering and blubbering and being very pathetic. The whole nine yards. I watched with disdain, familiar with the routine and sick to death of it. Sometimes I doubted if she was really manic-depressive at all. Maybe she was nothing more than a bad wife and mother but a brilliant enough actress that she escaped the blame and made you feel sorry for her in the end. I bet she had Best Actress Oscars stashed away somewhere to prove me right. Well, she could shove 'em. I wasn't falling for it.
I blocked her out as she went on muttering to herself but not before a few words like "whore" and "drunk" slipped through. It made my skin heat up with something beyond anger and embarrassment that there was no term for. Despite my brand-new resolution not to let her hurt me anymore, the room began to shimmer as tears welled up in my eyes. "Like mother, like daughter," I said to the air, figuring Maggie wouldn't hear me. She usually didn't when she worked herself up so much.
"What?" Maggie instantly stopped crying, quick as if she'd flipped a switch that controlled her emotions; one side labeled "Sadness," the other labeled "Mad as Hell." Whoops.
"You heard me," I said bravely.
"Come here." My mother pointed to the area on the floor where she wanted me standing directly in front of her, or rather, in my condition, swaying directly in front of her. Neither of us had moved from the spots we were in when she slammed the door on Andy, I didn't want to be the first to budge.
"No." I tried to be stubborn, but my voice quavered. I'd never said that to her before, at least not that I could remember. A hundred smart aleck quips didn't seem near as risky as that one tiny word that was the ultimate defiance.
"Abby, come here," she repeated.
I hesitated for too many seconds, getting twisted back up in the web she always seemed to trap me in - the cunning spider ensnaring her prey. It was either fight it and wear myself out, only to find I'd gotten nowhere, or let her finish it off swiftly. I didn't feel too well and the quicker option was more appealing, so I stood and shuffled over to her, my steps measured, uncertain. I wanted to lie down to stop the rocking, spinning room. Instead, I reeled violently when Maggie slapped me across the face. It came fast and loud, her open palm a perfect fit against my cheek. I didn't have time to gasp or flinch, but I did put my arm out to break my fall. Sort of like when you're riding your bike and - boom! - a stone or something throws you off balance and all you can do is try to catch yourself as the ground races towards you. My mom had good reflexes, though. She caught my outstretched arm with ease, yanking me upright before I collided with the floor, before my face really started to sting on the one side.
"I'm sorry," I yelped, my socked feet providing no resistance as she spun me around almost like we were dancing. I felt as clumsy as those cartoon characters whose feet and legs go shooting out every which way when they lose their balance. "I'm sorry, Mom," I said again.
"Don't you EVER speak to me that way," she replied, ignoring my apology, driving in each word with her hand smacking me on the butt. I barely felt it through my jeans, her merciless clutch on my arm hurting worse than anything else as she spanked me from the living room to the hallway to just outside the bathroom. People naturally assumed that her small size meant she wasn't very strong, but they didn't know her like I did. "I am your mother!" she reminded me. Always and forever reminding me of that as if I had somehow forgotten. But it was one thing I could never forget. "You don't back talk me, do you hear?"
"I'm sorry." And I hit the bathroom floor hard on my hands and knees because she shoved me forward. My loose hair made a veil that hid my face as I knelt there on all fours like a dog, composing myself, sucking in big gulps of air through my mouth. My arms were shaky, but I locked my elbows and managed not to end up flat on my stomach. The beer churned inside me and I kept my head down because lifting it would have been too much motion.
"You smell like a goddamn brewery," Maggie said, sidestepping me after she'd turned the light on. I stared at the beige floor tiles but still saw her shoes from the corner of my eye as she passed, dangerously close to stepping on my fingers. I was concerned that if she broke one of them I might have to go to the hospital. I didn't want my brother to see me this way. But she was careful of my hands, and her feet wandered off for a moment, out of my view. I heard water running in the sink. "Get up," she ordered moments later.
But I couldn't. "I'm sorry," I blathered weakly, the effort to hold my weight up making me shudder. It started at my shoulders and shook me all the way down to my knees.
"Oh, for Christ's sake." She grew impatient and crouched in front of me, cupping a hand to my forehead, pushing on it until my head tilted back, hair falling away from my face. I finally had the chance to look her in the eye, but there was no sympathy there. I'd hoped she might kiss me, or hold me and say that she forgave me, that she loved me. What I got was a steaming hot washcloth to the face, vigorously scrubbing off my makeup, smothering me for a few seconds at a time. "That junk makes you look cheap," she said, not ceasing till my skin was good and raw.
"Can I go to bed now?" I asked when she finished. I desperately wanted to sleep.
"You're taking a shower first. You stink to high heaven."
I did my best to contribute as we both struggled to get me on my feet, but the floor was like a magnet, pulling me one direction while Maggie jerked me in another. It was too much. I broke free of her hold, crawling rapidly over to the toilet and throwing back the lid. My mind went numb as my stomach took control - or lost control, I guess. Everything seemed to be moving up, pressing and burning at my throat, yo-yoing my insides more than a roller coaster could have. I gagged and sputtered through all the hills, loops, twists and plunges, my fingers gripping the round toilet bowl so tight my knuckles turned as white as the porcelain. I wondered if it was possible to puke up your soul.
"Lovely," Maggie muttered, kind enough to rescue my hair from the smelly, mucky pool it dangled above. She brushed it back with her fingers, giving me twice as many chills. But not the good kind I used to get when she did that out of affection, every bit of love she had for me right there in her hands. It was only an obligation now, done because she didn't want an even nastier mess to clean up.
My body went limp when I finally quit vomiting. I slumped to the floor like a jittery rag doll, leaning against the toilet, letting it cool one of my inflamed cheeks. I was almost fast asleep until Maggie slapped lightly at my other cheek and offered me a drink of water. I accepted, swallowing greedy mouthfuls that set me to coughing. She smoothed the bangs off of my damp forehead, tilted the glass more slowly so I wouldn't drown. I watched her the whole time, my eyes glazing over with tears when she purposefully didn't return my gaze. They spilled out one by one, like a gradual leak was draining me of each drop of water I consumed. I clung to her when she set the glass aside and hugged me.
Then I realized she was just trying to make me stand up again.
"I d-didn't mean what I s-said before," I stuttered in a raspy voice, keeping hold of her as long as she would allow it. Her sturdy arms and the familiar spicy scent of her Estée Lauder perfume made me feel safe, but they both pulled away too soon. She was forever forcing me to stand on my own. "I wanted you to c-come back. We missed you."
"Oh?" Maggie scoffed but left it at that, as though she'd lost the will to be sarcastic. "Lift your arms," she instructed.
So I did. The faucet dripped and neither of us said a thing while she peeled my shirt off, close to taking my face with it when the collar got stuck under my chin and she yanked it loose. I accidentally bit my tongue.
She calmly unsnapped my jeans next, no different than if she was undressing herself, and stripped them down to my feet. I used her shoulder for support, raising first one foot and then the other so she could pull my pants completely off, taking my socks with them. "It's beer," I explained when she noticed the jeans were wet.
"What, were you swimming in it?"
"A bottle spilled," I said, then quickly added, "It wasn't mine."
She shook her head and tossed my clothes into the corner. "Panties," she said, letting me do that part myself. I clasped her shoulder again, nevertheless wobbling to and fro while I shed my last stitch of clothing. Maggie crumpled the underwear into a little white ball and flung it to the pile in the corner as well. She'd probably do the same to me if she could.
I stood there trembling - the after effects of puking my guts out, not because I was chilly or frightened even - and it occurred to me that I should be ashamed. I didn't have much that Maggie hadn't already seen before, but by thirteen you just didn't go prancing around naked in front of people, mom or not. The last twenty or thirty minutes had been so demeaning though, I barely had room for embarrassment. I sniffled, looked blankly at my mother. She expected something; I wasn't sure what. I worried maybe there were marks dotting up the skin where Andy'd touched me, fingerprints left behind at the scene of the crime. I glanced at my bare chest; the soft, doughy part of my belly that caved inward a bit; the bony places where my hips started. It was just regular pale and skinny me. No trace of Andy.
"You should start wearing a bra," she commented offhandedly. It was news to me, but I didn't know whether to smile or what. I opted for covering up instead, shoulders hunched like when I was cold and bundled in a blanket, both arms folded over my breasts. That seemed to satisfy her. She guided me to the bathtub and turned on the shower head, twice as generous with the knob that controlled the cold water as she was with the hot. She put the washcloth with all my makeup on it in my hand. "Get in."
It was like stepping into a hailstorm, millions of tiny frozen pellets bombarding my flesh. It took my breath away in a great big icy whoosh. I instinctively cowered, pressing my backside against the wall, as far from the stinging beads of water as I could get. "Shit!" I said, without thinking.
"Watch your goddamn mouth!" Maggie reprimanded. She pulled the shower curtain shut with a flourish that practically ripped it off its plastic rings. Her form was blurred, muted by the glossy sea shell covered barrier she'd placed between us. Obscured in so much color, she resembled those Impressionist paintings by Monet that she loved to copy. They had a dream- like quality, she said: Monet saw the world through a kaleidoscope. I disagreed. To me, Monet saw himself distanced from the objects he painted. He reached for them and they faded right in front of his eyes, becoming wispy ghosts he could only make tangible with a brush and oil on canvas. Much like looking at someone through a vinyl shower curtain.
"The sooner you clean yourself up, the sooner I'll let you go to bed."
That sounded like a little slice of heaven. I wanted nothing more than to bury myself under a warm blanket and forget this whole damn day had ever happened; pretend I'd never yelled at Eric, never said I'd go live with people that probably didn't want me. Never gotten drunk or felt up by a sicko perv just wanting to get off and using the closest thing to a woman he could find to do it. Never made a fool of myself in front of Scott. Never, never, never. I plunged into the mind-numbing blast of water before me, drenching my mistakes, freezing them out. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, jack frost nipping at your nose.
*
Maggie was gone when I finished showering and eased back the curtain. She'd left a towel on the closed lid of the toilet. I snatched it up, thankful that she favored buying huge beach type towels that you could wrap around your shoulders and still get plenty of covering with, at least down to your shins. I did just that. But a cape was hardly enough to stop the tremors that shook me until my teeth chattered. My lips looked kinda bluish when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Not too pretty now, I thought. More like a drowned rat. One that was making a bunch of puddles all over the floor.
I tiptoed out of the bathroom, trying not to drip everywhere, keeping my eyes peeled for Maggie so she wouldn't startle me. My heart fluttered anyway when I rounded the corner to enter my room and found her seated on the edge of my bed. She was holding a piece of paper - I could see my handwriting through the back where Eric's blue marker had bled through - and the two suitcases I'd packed to take to Jimmy's house were open on the floor, the clothes inside rumpled like she'd searched them for clues. I hoped she hadn't tampered with the gifts stored underneath my shirts and pants. Those were for Eric.
"You didn't give me a chance to explain," I said softly, hanging around the doorway where she couldn't reach me. There was no emotion on her face when she looked up, and that scared me more than any of the menacing expressions she had down to an art.
"Explain what? That my children hate me so much they were going to leave me alone on Christmas?"
"No... that's not-- we weren't-" I knew I should want to yell at her, to tell her she had no right to whine about anyone leaving her - the Queen of Desertion. But she'd re-instilled some of my respect that had been lost to alcohol. Or maybe it was just fear. Whatever the reason, I only wanted to patch things up between us and have her need me again. I was nothing if I wasn't needed.
"Save it," she said, letting the note drift to the floor as she went to my closet and gathered some hangers. I watched her carefully, anticipating each move, calculating what would happen next. That was not an easy task with my mother. She dropped the hangers beside my suitcase, the noisy clatter they made not even fazing her. She must have sensed my attentiveness, because she paused in the middle of shaking out one of my sweatshirts and said, "Get that look off your face. You're not going anywhere for a while."
"Okay."
I studied the moist, wrinkly skin on my feet, stuck in a slowly expanding puddle till I had permission to move. My knees twitched like they were trying to make me go, but I waited. That seemed to annoy Maggie even more. She threw me an oversized t-shirt, one of the few items my dad had left behind when he bailed. I used it for a nightgown now. It had a big picture of Jimi Hendrix's face on the front. Maggie hated it.
"I don't know why you would want to stay with your father anyhow," she continued, for the sake of hearing her own voice convince her of how right she was. "He'd fuck you up more than I ever could."
I took my chances and walked over to my bed while she hung a pair of my pants in the closet, her back turned. Mostly I just listened when she ranted about Jimmy. I shut off my true feelings and let her say whatever she felt was necessary. Judging from my stolid expression, she might as well have been talking about the weather or gardening. I'd gotten so good at snuffing out my emotions that I sometimes didn't know what I was feeling at all. But it was strange to know that one person who'd helped create me was thoroughly despised by the person who made up the other half of me - like they were in the middle of combat and I was the battleground. America divided by the Civil War; Maggie my North, Jimmy my South. Slavery or freedom, take your pick. Glory, glory, hallelujah. Ready. Aim. Fire.
"You're already taking after him."
"How?" It slipped out like a cannonball while I dried myself with the towel.
"All he did was drink, don't you remember?"
"You drink sometimes too," I reminded her. Duck and cover.
"Yes, but he drinks excessively. My drinking has never been out of control."
"Oh." I contemplated that for a minute, rubbing the remaining drops of water from my legs. Did control mean passing out on the living room floor with a bottle of vodka in your hand? Maybe because she'd only done that once and the other times she had enough control to stay awake? It confused me. But if I asked about it, she'd probably think I was being insolent or planning a second binge, so I didn't. "Well, he doesn't drink anymore," I informed her.
"Is that so?" She made her voice childish, mocking.
I slipped the Jimi Hendrix shirt over my head. It wouldn't keep me warm enough, but I could change later when Maggie left. "Yeah, he quit a long time ago. After he got away from" - I wasn't listening to myself until the last word came out like a baby's sigh and it was too late - "you."
"Me?"
Mayday, mayday. "I mean us. Us. Got away from us," I floundered. She had an empty hanger in her hand, the wire coiled like a poisonous snake about to strike. I stared at it rather than meet her stony gaze. Those animal documentaries on TV said direct eye contact provoked attacks among some species. Mothers and daughters might be one of them.
"Right. And what makes you think he wants you around anymore now than he did then?"
I folded my towel into a neat square, even though it was soaking wet and would just get thrown in the wash anyway. "He, um, asked me and Eric to live with him." I chewed nervously on my bottom lip as she stepped closer.
"What did you say?"
"I said yes. But only till you got back. I had a good reason. Eric-"
She pointed the hanger at me. "Don't blame this on your brother."
"I wasn't," I insisted. "It was... it was me. I said yes. But he-"
Every muscle in my body tightened when the hanger snapped against the bare skin at the back of my legs. It stunned me that she'd actually done it, actually used such a harsh weapon to get her point across. I was used to getting swatted or grabbed once in a while but usually not whipped with anything other than a hand. I took it pretty well most of the time, but this scared me and I started to cry.
"Why?" she demanded, striking again, higher up where my tie-dyed nightgown served as a buffer. It still hurt. Like the dickens. I jumped forward, covering my butt with both hands, a reflex I was ashamed to give in to. It was something a little kid would do. But I was bawling already, so what did it matter? "You're mine, not his. He doesn't give a shit about you! Why would you choose him over me?"
I couldn't even answer, though the words were right there. If I had opened my mouth, I would have let loose the scream that was building itself up in my legs and arms and knuckles as the hanger whizzed back and forth, biting at them, sinking its teeth in deeper with each stroke. I felt like it was taking little snatches of skin off, but I wasn't sure. My mind told me to move and it seemed an eternity before my feet finally got the message. I clambered onto my bed, catching one last swipe to the belly, and recoiled into that protective ball I'd been in earlier on the couch, my baggy t- shirt making a tent around me. I buried my face against Jimi's where my shrill voice would be muffled, and gave Maggie the answer she wanted. "We needed a place to stay after Eric got out of the hospital!"
The air in the room changed. Maggie gasped. I tensed for another blow, but it didn't come. The sound of the wire hanger hitting the hardwood floor made me cringe.
"Hospital? What?" She grabbed my arm, and I squealed. I couldn't help it. It didn't matter that she didn't do it roughly, just that she was touching me.
"He got hit by a car the other day. He's been in the hospital since. We thought it'd be ok to stay with Dad when he was released. While we waited for you to come back," I tearfully rattled off what I'd been trying to explain to her before, my head raised just far enough off my knees so she could hear me but not see my face. "I didn't know what else to do. Everybody kept asking me questions. Bridget, Doctor Blake, Maxine. Scott said I should call Dad, so I did. I thought it would help. And I told him we wouldn't live with him, but he said you should take care of yourself and he'd take care of us. That's not what I wanted. I'd rather live with you, Mom. But you weren't here. So I said we'd stay for a visit, that way it wasn't permanent. That's why I put the number on the paper, so you could call and come get us. I didn't know what else to do!"
It tumbled out in bunches, like an elevator stuffed with people all pushing and shoving to get off at once, and probably didn't make much sense. But I needed to say it before I exploded, before trying to be perfect and brave for everybody ripped me to smithereens.
The silence that followed made me wonder if Maggie had left while I vented my frustration, but when I peeked up she was there, sagging like a deflated balloon. Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde. "Sweet Jesus," she whispered, her hand over her chest like I'd shot her in the heart. I half-expected her to pounce on me, and I readied myself for it when she suddenly moved. But she darted out of my room instead.
Her gut wrenching cry when she opened Eric's bedroom door and didn't find him in his bed made me ache. I put my hands over my ears, rocking myself slightly, because I needed some kind of comfort or else she might just drive me to the brink of madness with her. I thought about hiding, but she returned before I even gathered the courage to sit up straight, let alone leave my pitiful safety zone for a better one. She was so white and shaky that I had to look away, like during an intense scene in a horror movie that makes you avert your eyes for fear of what you might see next.
"I tried to tell you," I said defensively.
"Oh my God," Maggie said, and then kept repeating it as she hurried to my side to pray for redemption. She did penance by examining the puffy welts that looked like pink caterpillars tunneling beneath the skin of my arms, baptizing them in her tears. She rubbed her fingers over them like it would smooth them out and kissed them when it didn't. "I'm sorry, baby. I didn't mean it," she repented, over and over. Nothing she did came in singles.
I let her hug me, let her cup my face in her hands and shower it with kisses and more tears, but I didn't return any of it. She noticed, and her eyes were begging me for forgiveness when she looked down at me. Vengefulness and spite lay dormant inside me, not even sparked by the memory of how callous she'd been when our roles were reversed and I was the apologetic one. But I couldn't pretend things were just hunky-dory now, either. I was stuck in a rut, waiting for something to push me in whichever direction was best to go. Maggie gave the final nudge.
She got her lithium. She made sure I watched as she placed a pill on her tongue and flushed it down with a long drink of water. Washing away her sins. "I promise," she said solemnly, "I'll take them from now on. No matter what. I swear to God."
I didn't believe her. Not even a little bit. But I had her back for a while, needing me, seeking my approval like an anxious child. I'd learned to take what I could get, to not be greedy and pressure for more. Sometimes people only had so much to give.
I scooted off the bed and went to her, hugging her around the waist, my head tucked under her chin when she rested it atop my hair. She squeezed me so fiercely I thought my ribs might crack. She apologized more, assured me I was loved, inquired about the welts on my body. I gave the best answers I could: Yes, I forgive you. I know, I love you too. No, they don't hurt that bad.
I talked her out of going to the hospital right then to see Eric. He would be sleeping and it would be best to wait till later in the morning, I reasoned. It was selfish of me, but I wanted her to myself for a bit longer. I didn't object when she led me to my bed and got under the covers with me. Despite my exhaustion, I stayed awake for a long time just resting against her, feeling her chest vibrate as she hummed softly. It was an old song by The Mamas and the Papas, a favorite of Maggie's. I knew all the lyrics from hearing her sing them over the buzz of her sewing machine on her good days when she felt motivated to mend clothes or make a new outfit. I fell asleep with the tune in my head, the words making more sense to me than they ever had during safer, happier times: While I'm far away from you, my baby/ I know it's hard for you, my baby/Because it's hard for me, my baby/And the darkest hour is just before dawn/Each night before you go to bed, my baby/Whisper a little prayer for me, my baby/And tell all the stars above/ This is dedicated to the one I love.
I prayed for Maggie in my dreams.
Chapter 12
MOTHER AND CHILD
*
We stared at each other for a long, long time, Maggie and I. My breathing was shallow, scarcely getting any air into my lungs, and I thought maybe it was because she was stealing it all for herself with those drawn out breaths she kept taking. So that's how she planned to kill me. It had always been a possibility in the back of my mind since I was about ten years old, but I never could decide how she'd pull it off. The very few people I'd confessed my suspicions to had just laughed at me. Oh, what an imagination you have, they'd say. They weren't the ones who'd gotten chased around the Thanksgiving dinner table with a big knife, though. I could picture them all standing over my lifeless body - still huddled up on the couch like one of those bugs that roll into a ball when you poke at them - and shaking their heads in dismay. What a pity. She had such imagination. And the cause of death? An excruciatingly slow asphyxiation.
There wouldn't even be any blood on Maggie's hands. It was ingenious.
"I better hear some explaining coming out of that mouth of yours, young lady," she finally said, pointing a deadly finger at me. "Right now."
"Can't it wait?" I challenged, stretching my legs out and slouching lazily, my rebelliousness kicking in again. She'd abandoned me for a week, I shouldn't be the one to explain anything first. "I'll be able to lie a lot better when I'm sober."
She blinked like I'd flicked water into her face. I was making things worse, but I didn't care. It was worth it to see her looking so dumbfounded. She probably thought she'd come home to find me and Eric tucked safely in our beds - visions of sugarplums dancing in our heads - and she could wake us up for Christmas morning like nothing had happened, like we'd slept for six or seven days, hibernating till her return. Bull. I wasn't going to let her get away with it this time.
"Sober?" she growled, her fists clenched at her sides. I gritted my teeth a bit. I'd seen her dig her nails into her palms so hard before that they'd left behind little bright red crescent moon shapes that practically bled. If I wasn't careful, I sometimes caught myself doing the same thing when I got too tense. I always felt like I'd been holding fire afterwards. "You have no right to be drinking. You're a goddamn baby! Who gave you alcohol?" she demanded.
"Andy," I yawned. I couldn't look at her hands. It made mine itch.
"Who??"
I grinned. "You sound like an owl."
"Abby-"
"He's the guy you just threw out," I interjected. "Which was very rude, by the way. I didn't even get the chance to introduce you to each other. I wanted to bring him home to meet you and Daddy-- what's his name again? Beau? Where is he, anyhow?" A warning light blinked frantically inside my head, trying to stop me. Too late. Shadows of anger and disgust darkened Maggie's features, the goblins she kept inside emerging to make her more formidable than I could ever hope to be. It was starting to get lonely there on the couch with just me and my sarcasm.
"What is happening to you?" she said, as if mystified by the monster I'd apparently transformed into within the past few days. "You're bringing complete strangers into our home, letting them get you drunk, and having sex with them? You might as well be a hooker."
"Oh God, Mom." I rolled my eyes dramatically. "We weren't having sex! We were just... fooling around a little," I corrected, though it didn't come out as blithely as I'd meant it to. Nothing in Andy's roving fingers had hinted that he was only fooling around. Self-consciously, I slid my own hands under my legs until I was sitting on them, pressing them palms-down into the cushion of the couch incase they'd changed somehow and might tell Maggie more than she needed to know. My pants were still soaked through. "But if he happened to pay me later, who'm I to complain?" I added, unable to shut up.
"You little dip-shit," she said, and I sucked my breath in fast like she'd hit me. After thirteen years and all the things I'd learned to take from her, I'd never gotten used to her calling me names. Maybe because she did it so casually, no differently than if she'd said honey or sweetie or just plain Abby. Even bullies at school had the decency to put some taunt into their name-calling so it didn't sound like a simple fact they were stating. "Men like that don't plan on just 'fooling around' with girls your age. Do you realize what could have happened to you if I hadn't shown up when I did?" she went on, all high and mighty.
"Yes, Maggie, I know," I sighed. "You're my hero. Swooped in to save me in the nick of time. Now you can leave again."
She suddenly burst into tears, whimpering and blubbering and being very pathetic. The whole nine yards. I watched with disdain, familiar with the routine and sick to death of it. Sometimes I doubted if she was really manic-depressive at all. Maybe she was nothing more than a bad wife and mother but a brilliant enough actress that she escaped the blame and made you feel sorry for her in the end. I bet she had Best Actress Oscars stashed away somewhere to prove me right. Well, she could shove 'em. I wasn't falling for it.
I blocked her out as she went on muttering to herself but not before a few words like "whore" and "drunk" slipped through. It made my skin heat up with something beyond anger and embarrassment that there was no term for. Despite my brand-new resolution not to let her hurt me anymore, the room began to shimmer as tears welled up in my eyes. "Like mother, like daughter," I said to the air, figuring Maggie wouldn't hear me. She usually didn't when she worked herself up so much.
"What?" Maggie instantly stopped crying, quick as if she'd flipped a switch that controlled her emotions; one side labeled "Sadness," the other labeled "Mad as Hell." Whoops.
"You heard me," I said bravely.
"Come here." My mother pointed to the area on the floor where she wanted me standing directly in front of her, or rather, in my condition, swaying directly in front of her. Neither of us had moved from the spots we were in when she slammed the door on Andy, I didn't want to be the first to budge.
"No." I tried to be stubborn, but my voice quavered. I'd never said that to her before, at least not that I could remember. A hundred smart aleck quips didn't seem near as risky as that one tiny word that was the ultimate defiance.
"Abby, come here," she repeated.
I hesitated for too many seconds, getting twisted back up in the web she always seemed to trap me in - the cunning spider ensnaring her prey. It was either fight it and wear myself out, only to find I'd gotten nowhere, or let her finish it off swiftly. I didn't feel too well and the quicker option was more appealing, so I stood and shuffled over to her, my steps measured, uncertain. I wanted to lie down to stop the rocking, spinning room. Instead, I reeled violently when Maggie slapped me across the face. It came fast and loud, her open palm a perfect fit against my cheek. I didn't have time to gasp or flinch, but I did put my arm out to break my fall. Sort of like when you're riding your bike and - boom! - a stone or something throws you off balance and all you can do is try to catch yourself as the ground races towards you. My mom had good reflexes, though. She caught my outstretched arm with ease, yanking me upright before I collided with the floor, before my face really started to sting on the one side.
"I'm sorry," I yelped, my socked feet providing no resistance as she spun me around almost like we were dancing. I felt as clumsy as those cartoon characters whose feet and legs go shooting out every which way when they lose their balance. "I'm sorry, Mom," I said again.
"Don't you EVER speak to me that way," she replied, ignoring my apology, driving in each word with her hand smacking me on the butt. I barely felt it through my jeans, her merciless clutch on my arm hurting worse than anything else as she spanked me from the living room to the hallway to just outside the bathroom. People naturally assumed that her small size meant she wasn't very strong, but they didn't know her like I did. "I am your mother!" she reminded me. Always and forever reminding me of that as if I had somehow forgotten. But it was one thing I could never forget. "You don't back talk me, do you hear?"
"I'm sorry." And I hit the bathroom floor hard on my hands and knees because she shoved me forward. My loose hair made a veil that hid my face as I knelt there on all fours like a dog, composing myself, sucking in big gulps of air through my mouth. My arms were shaky, but I locked my elbows and managed not to end up flat on my stomach. The beer churned inside me and I kept my head down because lifting it would have been too much motion.
"You smell like a goddamn brewery," Maggie said, sidestepping me after she'd turned the light on. I stared at the beige floor tiles but still saw her shoes from the corner of my eye as she passed, dangerously close to stepping on my fingers. I was concerned that if she broke one of them I might have to go to the hospital. I didn't want my brother to see me this way. But she was careful of my hands, and her feet wandered off for a moment, out of my view. I heard water running in the sink. "Get up," she ordered moments later.
But I couldn't. "I'm sorry," I blathered weakly, the effort to hold my weight up making me shudder. It started at my shoulders and shook me all the way down to my knees.
"Oh, for Christ's sake." She grew impatient and crouched in front of me, cupping a hand to my forehead, pushing on it until my head tilted back, hair falling away from my face. I finally had the chance to look her in the eye, but there was no sympathy there. I'd hoped she might kiss me, or hold me and say that she forgave me, that she loved me. What I got was a steaming hot washcloth to the face, vigorously scrubbing off my makeup, smothering me for a few seconds at a time. "That junk makes you look cheap," she said, not ceasing till my skin was good and raw.
"Can I go to bed now?" I asked when she finished. I desperately wanted to sleep.
"You're taking a shower first. You stink to high heaven."
I did my best to contribute as we both struggled to get me on my feet, but the floor was like a magnet, pulling me one direction while Maggie jerked me in another. It was too much. I broke free of her hold, crawling rapidly over to the toilet and throwing back the lid. My mind went numb as my stomach took control - or lost control, I guess. Everything seemed to be moving up, pressing and burning at my throat, yo-yoing my insides more than a roller coaster could have. I gagged and sputtered through all the hills, loops, twists and plunges, my fingers gripping the round toilet bowl so tight my knuckles turned as white as the porcelain. I wondered if it was possible to puke up your soul.
"Lovely," Maggie muttered, kind enough to rescue my hair from the smelly, mucky pool it dangled above. She brushed it back with her fingers, giving me twice as many chills. But not the good kind I used to get when she did that out of affection, every bit of love she had for me right there in her hands. It was only an obligation now, done because she didn't want an even nastier mess to clean up.
My body went limp when I finally quit vomiting. I slumped to the floor like a jittery rag doll, leaning against the toilet, letting it cool one of my inflamed cheeks. I was almost fast asleep until Maggie slapped lightly at my other cheek and offered me a drink of water. I accepted, swallowing greedy mouthfuls that set me to coughing. She smoothed the bangs off of my damp forehead, tilted the glass more slowly so I wouldn't drown. I watched her the whole time, my eyes glazing over with tears when she purposefully didn't return my gaze. They spilled out one by one, like a gradual leak was draining me of each drop of water I consumed. I clung to her when she set the glass aside and hugged me.
Then I realized she was just trying to make me stand up again.
"I d-didn't mean what I s-said before," I stuttered in a raspy voice, keeping hold of her as long as she would allow it. Her sturdy arms and the familiar spicy scent of her Estée Lauder perfume made me feel safe, but they both pulled away too soon. She was forever forcing me to stand on my own. "I wanted you to c-come back. We missed you."
"Oh?" Maggie scoffed but left it at that, as though she'd lost the will to be sarcastic. "Lift your arms," she instructed.
So I did. The faucet dripped and neither of us said a thing while she peeled my shirt off, close to taking my face with it when the collar got stuck under my chin and she yanked it loose. I accidentally bit my tongue.
She calmly unsnapped my jeans next, no different than if she was undressing herself, and stripped them down to my feet. I used her shoulder for support, raising first one foot and then the other so she could pull my pants completely off, taking my socks with them. "It's beer," I explained when she noticed the jeans were wet.
"What, were you swimming in it?"
"A bottle spilled," I said, then quickly added, "It wasn't mine."
She shook her head and tossed my clothes into the corner. "Panties," she said, letting me do that part myself. I clasped her shoulder again, nevertheless wobbling to and fro while I shed my last stitch of clothing. Maggie crumpled the underwear into a little white ball and flung it to the pile in the corner as well. She'd probably do the same to me if she could.
I stood there trembling - the after effects of puking my guts out, not because I was chilly or frightened even - and it occurred to me that I should be ashamed. I didn't have much that Maggie hadn't already seen before, but by thirteen you just didn't go prancing around naked in front of people, mom or not. The last twenty or thirty minutes had been so demeaning though, I barely had room for embarrassment. I sniffled, looked blankly at my mother. She expected something; I wasn't sure what. I worried maybe there were marks dotting up the skin where Andy'd touched me, fingerprints left behind at the scene of the crime. I glanced at my bare chest; the soft, doughy part of my belly that caved inward a bit; the bony places where my hips started. It was just regular pale and skinny me. No trace of Andy.
"You should start wearing a bra," she commented offhandedly. It was news to me, but I didn't know whether to smile or what. I opted for covering up instead, shoulders hunched like when I was cold and bundled in a blanket, both arms folded over my breasts. That seemed to satisfy her. She guided me to the bathtub and turned on the shower head, twice as generous with the knob that controlled the cold water as she was with the hot. She put the washcloth with all my makeup on it in my hand. "Get in."
It was like stepping into a hailstorm, millions of tiny frozen pellets bombarding my flesh. It took my breath away in a great big icy whoosh. I instinctively cowered, pressing my backside against the wall, as far from the stinging beads of water as I could get. "Shit!" I said, without thinking.
"Watch your goddamn mouth!" Maggie reprimanded. She pulled the shower curtain shut with a flourish that practically ripped it off its plastic rings. Her form was blurred, muted by the glossy sea shell covered barrier she'd placed between us. Obscured in so much color, she resembled those Impressionist paintings by Monet that she loved to copy. They had a dream- like quality, she said: Monet saw the world through a kaleidoscope. I disagreed. To me, Monet saw himself distanced from the objects he painted. He reached for them and they faded right in front of his eyes, becoming wispy ghosts he could only make tangible with a brush and oil on canvas. Much like looking at someone through a vinyl shower curtain.
"The sooner you clean yourself up, the sooner I'll let you go to bed."
That sounded like a little slice of heaven. I wanted nothing more than to bury myself under a warm blanket and forget this whole damn day had ever happened; pretend I'd never yelled at Eric, never said I'd go live with people that probably didn't want me. Never gotten drunk or felt up by a sicko perv just wanting to get off and using the closest thing to a woman he could find to do it. Never made a fool of myself in front of Scott. Never, never, never. I plunged into the mind-numbing blast of water before me, drenching my mistakes, freezing them out. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, jack frost nipping at your nose.
*
Maggie was gone when I finished showering and eased back the curtain. She'd left a towel on the closed lid of the toilet. I snatched it up, thankful that she favored buying huge beach type towels that you could wrap around your shoulders and still get plenty of covering with, at least down to your shins. I did just that. But a cape was hardly enough to stop the tremors that shook me until my teeth chattered. My lips looked kinda bluish when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Not too pretty now, I thought. More like a drowned rat. One that was making a bunch of puddles all over the floor.
I tiptoed out of the bathroom, trying not to drip everywhere, keeping my eyes peeled for Maggie so she wouldn't startle me. My heart fluttered anyway when I rounded the corner to enter my room and found her seated on the edge of my bed. She was holding a piece of paper - I could see my handwriting through the back where Eric's blue marker had bled through - and the two suitcases I'd packed to take to Jimmy's house were open on the floor, the clothes inside rumpled like she'd searched them for clues. I hoped she hadn't tampered with the gifts stored underneath my shirts and pants. Those were for Eric.
"You didn't give me a chance to explain," I said softly, hanging around the doorway where she couldn't reach me. There was no emotion on her face when she looked up, and that scared me more than any of the menacing expressions she had down to an art.
"Explain what? That my children hate me so much they were going to leave me alone on Christmas?"
"No... that's not-- we weren't-" I knew I should want to yell at her, to tell her she had no right to whine about anyone leaving her - the Queen of Desertion. But she'd re-instilled some of my respect that had been lost to alcohol. Or maybe it was just fear. Whatever the reason, I only wanted to patch things up between us and have her need me again. I was nothing if I wasn't needed.
"Save it," she said, letting the note drift to the floor as she went to my closet and gathered some hangers. I watched her carefully, anticipating each move, calculating what would happen next. That was not an easy task with my mother. She dropped the hangers beside my suitcase, the noisy clatter they made not even fazing her. She must have sensed my attentiveness, because she paused in the middle of shaking out one of my sweatshirts and said, "Get that look off your face. You're not going anywhere for a while."
"Okay."
I studied the moist, wrinkly skin on my feet, stuck in a slowly expanding puddle till I had permission to move. My knees twitched like they were trying to make me go, but I waited. That seemed to annoy Maggie even more. She threw me an oversized t-shirt, one of the few items my dad had left behind when he bailed. I used it for a nightgown now. It had a big picture of Jimi Hendrix's face on the front. Maggie hated it.
"I don't know why you would want to stay with your father anyhow," she continued, for the sake of hearing her own voice convince her of how right she was. "He'd fuck you up more than I ever could."
I took my chances and walked over to my bed while she hung a pair of my pants in the closet, her back turned. Mostly I just listened when she ranted about Jimmy. I shut off my true feelings and let her say whatever she felt was necessary. Judging from my stolid expression, she might as well have been talking about the weather or gardening. I'd gotten so good at snuffing out my emotions that I sometimes didn't know what I was feeling at all. But it was strange to know that one person who'd helped create me was thoroughly despised by the person who made up the other half of me - like they were in the middle of combat and I was the battleground. America divided by the Civil War; Maggie my North, Jimmy my South. Slavery or freedom, take your pick. Glory, glory, hallelujah. Ready. Aim. Fire.
"You're already taking after him."
"How?" It slipped out like a cannonball while I dried myself with the towel.
"All he did was drink, don't you remember?"
"You drink sometimes too," I reminded her. Duck and cover.
"Yes, but he drinks excessively. My drinking has never been out of control."
"Oh." I contemplated that for a minute, rubbing the remaining drops of water from my legs. Did control mean passing out on the living room floor with a bottle of vodka in your hand? Maybe because she'd only done that once and the other times she had enough control to stay awake? It confused me. But if I asked about it, she'd probably think I was being insolent or planning a second binge, so I didn't. "Well, he doesn't drink anymore," I informed her.
"Is that so?" She made her voice childish, mocking.
I slipped the Jimi Hendrix shirt over my head. It wouldn't keep me warm enough, but I could change later when Maggie left. "Yeah, he quit a long time ago. After he got away from" - I wasn't listening to myself until the last word came out like a baby's sigh and it was too late - "you."
"Me?"
Mayday, mayday. "I mean us. Us. Got away from us," I floundered. She had an empty hanger in her hand, the wire coiled like a poisonous snake about to strike. I stared at it rather than meet her stony gaze. Those animal documentaries on TV said direct eye contact provoked attacks among some species. Mothers and daughters might be one of them.
"Right. And what makes you think he wants you around anymore now than he did then?"
I folded my towel into a neat square, even though it was soaking wet and would just get thrown in the wash anyway. "He, um, asked me and Eric to live with him." I chewed nervously on my bottom lip as she stepped closer.
"What did you say?"
"I said yes. But only till you got back. I had a good reason. Eric-"
She pointed the hanger at me. "Don't blame this on your brother."
"I wasn't," I insisted. "It was... it was me. I said yes. But he-"
Every muscle in my body tightened when the hanger snapped against the bare skin at the back of my legs. It stunned me that she'd actually done it, actually used such a harsh weapon to get her point across. I was used to getting swatted or grabbed once in a while but usually not whipped with anything other than a hand. I took it pretty well most of the time, but this scared me and I started to cry.
"Why?" she demanded, striking again, higher up where my tie-dyed nightgown served as a buffer. It still hurt. Like the dickens. I jumped forward, covering my butt with both hands, a reflex I was ashamed to give in to. It was something a little kid would do. But I was bawling already, so what did it matter? "You're mine, not his. He doesn't give a shit about you! Why would you choose him over me?"
I couldn't even answer, though the words were right there. If I had opened my mouth, I would have let loose the scream that was building itself up in my legs and arms and knuckles as the hanger whizzed back and forth, biting at them, sinking its teeth in deeper with each stroke. I felt like it was taking little snatches of skin off, but I wasn't sure. My mind told me to move and it seemed an eternity before my feet finally got the message. I clambered onto my bed, catching one last swipe to the belly, and recoiled into that protective ball I'd been in earlier on the couch, my baggy t- shirt making a tent around me. I buried my face against Jimi's where my shrill voice would be muffled, and gave Maggie the answer she wanted. "We needed a place to stay after Eric got out of the hospital!"
The air in the room changed. Maggie gasped. I tensed for another blow, but it didn't come. The sound of the wire hanger hitting the hardwood floor made me cringe.
"Hospital? What?" She grabbed my arm, and I squealed. I couldn't help it. It didn't matter that she didn't do it roughly, just that she was touching me.
"He got hit by a car the other day. He's been in the hospital since. We thought it'd be ok to stay with Dad when he was released. While we waited for you to come back," I tearfully rattled off what I'd been trying to explain to her before, my head raised just far enough off my knees so she could hear me but not see my face. "I didn't know what else to do. Everybody kept asking me questions. Bridget, Doctor Blake, Maxine. Scott said I should call Dad, so I did. I thought it would help. And I told him we wouldn't live with him, but he said you should take care of yourself and he'd take care of us. That's not what I wanted. I'd rather live with you, Mom. But you weren't here. So I said we'd stay for a visit, that way it wasn't permanent. That's why I put the number on the paper, so you could call and come get us. I didn't know what else to do!"
It tumbled out in bunches, like an elevator stuffed with people all pushing and shoving to get off at once, and probably didn't make much sense. But I needed to say it before I exploded, before trying to be perfect and brave for everybody ripped me to smithereens.
The silence that followed made me wonder if Maggie had left while I vented my frustration, but when I peeked up she was there, sagging like a deflated balloon. Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde. "Sweet Jesus," she whispered, her hand over her chest like I'd shot her in the heart. I half-expected her to pounce on me, and I readied myself for it when she suddenly moved. But she darted out of my room instead.
Her gut wrenching cry when she opened Eric's bedroom door and didn't find him in his bed made me ache. I put my hands over my ears, rocking myself slightly, because I needed some kind of comfort or else she might just drive me to the brink of madness with her. I thought about hiding, but she returned before I even gathered the courage to sit up straight, let alone leave my pitiful safety zone for a better one. She was so white and shaky that I had to look away, like during an intense scene in a horror movie that makes you avert your eyes for fear of what you might see next.
"I tried to tell you," I said defensively.
"Oh my God," Maggie said, and then kept repeating it as she hurried to my side to pray for redemption. She did penance by examining the puffy welts that looked like pink caterpillars tunneling beneath the skin of my arms, baptizing them in her tears. She rubbed her fingers over them like it would smooth them out and kissed them when it didn't. "I'm sorry, baby. I didn't mean it," she repented, over and over. Nothing she did came in singles.
I let her hug me, let her cup my face in her hands and shower it with kisses and more tears, but I didn't return any of it. She noticed, and her eyes were begging me for forgiveness when she looked down at me. Vengefulness and spite lay dormant inside me, not even sparked by the memory of how callous she'd been when our roles were reversed and I was the apologetic one. But I couldn't pretend things were just hunky-dory now, either. I was stuck in a rut, waiting for something to push me in whichever direction was best to go. Maggie gave the final nudge.
She got her lithium. She made sure I watched as she placed a pill on her tongue and flushed it down with a long drink of water. Washing away her sins. "I promise," she said solemnly, "I'll take them from now on. No matter what. I swear to God."
I didn't believe her. Not even a little bit. But I had her back for a while, needing me, seeking my approval like an anxious child. I'd learned to take what I could get, to not be greedy and pressure for more. Sometimes people only had so much to give.
I scooted off the bed and went to her, hugging her around the waist, my head tucked under her chin when she rested it atop my hair. She squeezed me so fiercely I thought my ribs might crack. She apologized more, assured me I was loved, inquired about the welts on my body. I gave the best answers I could: Yes, I forgive you. I know, I love you too. No, they don't hurt that bad.
I talked her out of going to the hospital right then to see Eric. He would be sleeping and it would be best to wait till later in the morning, I reasoned. It was selfish of me, but I wanted her to myself for a bit longer. I didn't object when she led me to my bed and got under the covers with me. Despite my exhaustion, I stayed awake for a long time just resting against her, feeling her chest vibrate as she hummed softly. It was an old song by The Mamas and the Papas, a favorite of Maggie's. I knew all the lyrics from hearing her sing them over the buzz of her sewing machine on her good days when she felt motivated to mend clothes or make a new outfit. I fell asleep with the tune in my head, the words making more sense to me than they ever had during safer, happier times: While I'm far away from you, my baby/ I know it's hard for you, my baby/Because it's hard for me, my baby/And the darkest hour is just before dawn/Each night before you go to bed, my baby/Whisper a little prayer for me, my baby/And tell all the stars above/ This is dedicated to the one I love.
I prayed for Maggie in my dreams.
