--------------------------
Marks Between Sisters
--------------------------
There’s a storm coming up. The smell of it seeps through the concrete walls turning the cool air muggy. And you lay there next to daddy in that narrow hospital bed watching his chest rise and fall as the machines breathe for him, short and defeated.
As the rain begins to pelt the window the machines all start beeping.
Red warnings.
You sit up startled, but he stays still though the thunder and lighting that follows. Even the cries that fill the room do not stir him.
Mom shouts for a doctor. Several gloved hands grab you off the bed and pull you away into the bright hallway. You’re blinded for a moment and your face becomes purple with wet rage.
You cannot control the thunder, little sister. The manner God moves is not your business.
``````````````````````````````````
The overwhelming smell of air freshener and bleach can’t conceal the sin in this house. The old floorboards feel the weight of it everyday and the peeling papered walls keep it all hidden from the world’s eyes. The stench of alcoholism leaks out of the from under moms door—the dark cavity of her room where she vomits into old sweaters and rags then hides them, like dirty little secrets, under the bed. The furniture and doors are branded with holes from the fights. There is a nick taken out of a wall corner from when mom tried to hit you with Dad’s old baseball bat. It’s a surprise you still have a bedroom door after she tried to beat it in with a cooking pot.
She’s a frightening monster in her best moments lately. This stumbling, creature is not the classy, beautiful woman from fleeting memories and fading pictures. There is no longer lightness present in her voice or the gentle touch that can mend a cut with a simple kiss. Not since daddy got himself sick. She makes no home anymore.
The house is so full of people. Daddy’s pool hall buddies and his boss from the mechanic shop came to pay their respects. Even our neighbor, Ms. Potter, brings by her famous peach tarts and apple cobbler—your favorites, but you
touch nothing and no one. All you do is stand by the front window dressed in that sad hopeful blue dress daddy bought for your last birthday, the one you said you would never wear because it reminded you of better days and broken promises. You stare out the glass at mom, with your hands balled into tight little fists—so tight your knuckles are white. It’s a wonder what your thinking.
All mom has done since that night is sit on the porch in daddy’s favorite spot on the swinging bench. His lingering outline, made from his weary self sinking into the cushions after working a 14 hour double shift, is too small for her wide girth. That is the spot where he’d come to relax; his micro fiber sanctuary just on the outside of hells door.
She sits there invading it with her bare feet on the splintered wood, her eyes red, but not from crying. When someone goes by they touch her shoulder and she nods once.
Motionless queen.
So silent….
He finally shut her up.
````````````````````````````````````````````````````
Mom forbids you to cry at the funeral. Even as they lower daddy into the ground you can feel sad and angry as long as you don’t show it. Your face has to be like hers, a blank slate. Maybe she doesn’t want people to feel sorry for a family who have lost a husband and a father. She makes it hard to know.
She wasn’t always this way.
Maybe its pride or something deeper that keeps her from showing emotion in public. It’s like a mask she can take on or off at will—so many masks to keep the family secret in tact. The sinner still lives and God seems absent on this chilly grey day.
Damn Catholic guilt.
`````````````````````````````````````````````````````
You’re precocious and willful.
But you can’t help being “independent,” as Mom puts it so nicely.
That’s your nature.
Of course, the problem isn’t all on your side of the fence. That wouldn’t be fair.
````````````````````````````````````````````````````
“The problem’s your attitude Stella. It stinks!” Moms shrieking sounds like glass breaking. Her steps are slow and heavy, leaving deep depressions in the soiled carpet as she paces in front of you. The tie on her bath robe has loosened showing her thick legs scantly hidden by a pair of daddy’s boxer shorts, careless muddy hair tangled about her shoulders.
“You like makin’ me angry, don’t ya?”
“It’s your own fault.” The defiant eye roll is barely missed by her.
Be more careful.
Even now the smell of Jack and Johnny linger in the dim light of the small kitchen from last several nights. They trail her like perfume on a cheap whore. Their shells sleep at the bottom of the trash, but are awakened by Jim’s addition, rattling and clinking in protest as she drops the empty bottle in with its brothers. The cabinet slams, but you don’t jump. Not like before.
This is nothing new anyway.
She stops pacing, the vein in her forehead pulsing. “My fault? It’s your damn father’s fault! Gave me headaches he did, what with his carrying on and complaining. Left us here to rot. I could kill him!”
“You already did,” the sharp one liner, however true, will surely cost you. Maybe you do like making her angry after all—maybe just a little. Daddy didn’t. He couldn’t help getting sick no matter what you think. He had a bad heart.
“To much bad loving,” he’d say in his slow drawl.
“To many cigarettes,” you’d counter after drawing a no smoking sign in soap on the side window of his rundown Volvo he always tried to make new. Hidden where he wouldn’t see it unless he’d stopped for gas. The truth was harder for you.
Every time, he’d come home from work she’d start flapping her mouth at him. He would look her square in the face, but not at her mouth or eyes, just her whole face and stare at all the ugliness that came out of it. Not one word would escape him. He’d just stand there and let her work her evil out on him while he gritted his teeth. Maybe she was scared at what would happen once he was gone. He looked so tired all the time, like a breath could knock him down. Not at all like you.
“You’re just like your fath-er.” Her last word, two syllables that break in the middle have a jagged edge.
For a moment you smile, seemingly glad to see her eyes narrow, her lips pursed and ready with another cool rebuke. She looks at you for a long time. You watch her, observing her with your dark eyes the color of healing bruises as a cat would its mistress—judging. Even in her Amazon shadow, with your shoulders back and chin lifted—with that stupid ring in your eyebrow—you only flinch when she slaps you. Her anger is searing and scarlet across your right cheek. The force of her is already causing bruising to your pale skin even before she reaches for the belt.
A badge for your character.
```````````````````````````````````````````````````````
You realize you can’t ever win, of course. Every serious spar with Mom means screaming, cursing, and a ‘spanking.’…If you can call ‘it’ something that kind.
But there’s something about your autonomy. You’re compelled to assert it, even if Mom will surely cut you down for doing so.
``````````````````````````````````````````````````````
Mom dropped you once when you were two. Said it was an accident. Everyone saw it happen. She tripped trying to balance you and a bag of groceries in the supermarket parking lot. Slipped right on a nasty patch of ice the salt layers missed. Mom screamed, but caught herself by letting go of you. Luckily your head broke your fall. Thirteen stitches and a lollipop later you reached up for her to hold you.
“El-la up mama,” you squeaked. She took your hand instead and pulled you from the doctor’s office to the car where daddy waited, as instructed. From then on she never carried you again.
The crescent shaped scar is hidden by a dark mop of curls at the base of your skull. Daddy used to trace his fingers over it at night. In your sleep you turned away from his caresses and rolled to the other side of the bed, refusing him like a baby would a spoonful of spinach. After a while of this rebuff he left you alone.
````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
You and mom are both very, very stubborn. That’s one reason why you both argue so much. There are others of course, but, “what do they matter?” You often ask.
In your quiet moments, you understand. But it takes a certain kind of genius to believe your own lies.
And you’re not a good liar.
`````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
Autumn is becoming winter in such a way that it’s difficult to tell which is in charge. Every other day, dark clouds roll over the sky, bringing with them the promise of snow. Soon, there’ll be a pure white blanket that covers the patchy dirt yard and hides the cracks in the stone walkway up to the house. Everything will seem cleaner and whole when covered in white. It will be the first winter without daddy to shovel the walk.
“I hate this…not having him here.” In a voice so small you speak for two.
Suddenly, you drop the half eaten peach and pull out a slightly bent cigarette from your hip pocket. It rolls easily through your fingers, an old habit of daddy’s and you light up. You suck hard for a long moment letting it warm you from the inside out. The white filter stains easily with a blood colored ring from mom’s stolen lipstick. As you look at it, the tears that need to fall make your eyes appear like frost.
“I can’t wait leave this place; too many bad memories. Don’t care where as long as it’s away from here. I’ll get a small studio or something.” Yes, you have it all mapped out. After graduation you’ll pack up your clothes and get a one way bus ticket with the money mom hides in a coffee tin in the attic and never look back. It will be so easy to leave something you never chose.
You turn and look over here. There’s a hint of uncertainty
behind your guilty half smile, like a bird that’s about to fly the coop under the veil of night. “What about you though? Miss me?”
Only after a moment crowded with a hard stare and a swat to your thigh do you put out the cigarette.
What a dumb question.
----------------------
The End
_______________
By Jenni Mack, 2010
