Cut the Cord

The only light is a silver gleam at the bottom of the closet door. Otherwise, there is only blackness, deep and dark as the interior of a mountain cave. I hide in the closet because the monster is not in the closet nor is it under the bed. It is sitting on the edge of my bed humming a tuneless melody that worms it way into into my head. 

If I could open the door, I would see my laptop stuffed in the trashcan that sits by my desk. If I could get to the laptop, I could wire for help. That is if she has not figured out how to block all my communications. That is all communications except ones to the only person I should communicate with-her. I don't know how long she has been up here playing with the computer. I don't know if she figured out my password. I don’t think she is that skilled, but who knows?

I think back to how I ended up here, breathing dust as I hunker down under dresses, coats and slacks. I have always been good at hiding. When I was little, I could make myself very small. I would hide in the cabinets, under the beds, even under the sofa. You had to be really small to hide under the sofa-just a slice of a girl, flat on my stomach behind the ornate fringe. 

She always found me, but sometimes the vodka would have gotten to her brain and her hand would not be able to pull me out. She would curse and growl. “Get out here you little brat. You didn’t finish your chores.”

I never finished my chores. No one could have finished all the chores she lined up for me. I think that was part of her plan-to make it impossible for me to succeed.

Once she was asleep, a light whistle falling from her lips and drool running from her mouth, I would scurry upstairs, slide into bed and pull the covers up over my head.

My first day of school was way late because she fought the authorities so hard. Finally, after the first few years, they wouldn’t let her homeschool me anymore so you know that they knew. Knew but did nothing except finally reject her nonsensical teaching plans. I was in fifth grade before they were able to pry me out of that house.

I stood at the end of the driveway, my heart beating fast as the yellow school bus lumbered up the hill. The door wheezed open and the kindly bus driver welcomed me aboard. I didn’t stand out, was not dressed in rags, my hair was washed and combed, new shoes on my feet. She was clever, so clever. She knew where to hit me so that it didn’t show. Knew how much to feed me so that I was thin but not too skinny. 

At the school, I joined the stream of children as they jostled and pushed their way onto the sidewalk. A lady in a navy skirt and white blouse stepped toward me. She had a clipboard in her hand. She removed a photo and zeroed in on me.

“Allison Patterson?”

I froze. Would they send me back already?

“Alison—Hi. I’m Mrs Foster, your new teacher. They gave me this so I could recognize you. Generally the Moms or Dads bring new students on their first day, but….”

Her voice trailed off.

I remembered the social worker insisting on taking that picture. “For our files you know.”

Mom didn’t like it but what could she do?

School became my safe place. I didn't realize it at first, but they tried to help me as best they could. If I seemed dizzy, they sent me to the nurse. Miss Mackey, would give me an apple and a sandwich. Sometimes she would lift my sleeves or roll up my pants legs. She never found any bruises.

Miss Mackey set it up so I could stay late for “extra help” since I had missed so much time. She had Father Flynn from the Catholic church stop by our house. Mom wouldn’t let him. 

“He’s gonna’ tell me I’m going to Hell. I’l tell you whose going to Hell. Him and all those other Holier-Than-Thou phonies.”

I never fit in with the other kids. I was sure they had nice mothers who dressed in pretty clothes like the mothers in the shows Mom watched in the afternoons. That was my favorite time of day. Mom would sit for hours, the ice-filled glass of Voka sweating on on the table.

The one thing I was good at was computers. Father Flynn talked Mom into letting him set up a connection. He told her she could keep track of everything that interested her. The only things she was interested in were the rantings of the White Supremacists. She spent hours scrolling through conspiracy theories, muttering to herself. 

Once the connection was in the house, it was no big deal for him to give me an old, used laptop. This was close to total freedom. Mom didn’t even know. She was so wrapped up in her blogs, texts and emails that she even started to drink less. She had to stay aware enough to keep her connections going-at least in the afternoon. After what passed for supper all bets were off and she made up for her sober afternoons.

That worked out for me. When I got home from school, I shouted "Hello" over my shoulder and scurried up the stairs. Mom and I spent the rest of the day working separately on our machines. 

Yesterday, Mom wasn’t on the computer when I got home. She was sitting in the high backed chair she said came from her Grandmother’s house. She must not have been working at the computer as her hair was mussed, her cheeks red, her lipstick smeared. She swiped across her lips with the back of her hand, removing what color was left. Her voice was harsh.

“I went up to your room looking for that old pocketbook I let you use. Guess what I found.”

I said nothing.

”A computer! Now, where would you get a computer and what would you use it for?”

My mouth went dry. I had a hard time forcing words out.

“I got it from school. To do my home work.”

“That’s a lie! I already called the school. They don’t give or lend out computers. It was that nosey priest wasn’t it?”

I said nothing. 

“Well, I took care of that! I pulled it out and threw it in the trash. Now I’m going to deal with you-little sneak.”

I was up the stairs in a flash. I would have been faster than her even if she were sober. I could have run out the front door, but I had to have that computer. Maybe it could be fixed.

The machine was indeed in the trashcan, the screen still on- a gentle beep seeming to call for help. I rushed toward it. She was right behind me, staggering but moving amazingly fast.

I ran for the closet, pulling the door behind me, activating the interior lock I had installed myself. It’s amazing what you can learn on YouTube. 

Now I am here in the darkness. I know she is sitting on my bed because that is where she always sits when she comes to my room to give me lectures. I am sure she thinks the computer is toast. I think it might be OK. The cord was still attached. It did make that noise.

I put my eye to the peephole I had drilled in the door. Remember YouTube. She is stretched out on the bed. I crack the door relieved to hear her gentle snore. I opened the door slowly, oh so slowly and creep across the rug on cat feet toward my salvation.

She rises from the bed, blond curls flying about her face. Her hand grasps my wrist like a vise.

“Got you! Guess your old Mother is smarter than you think. Smarter than you anyhow.”

She reaches into the wastebasket and pulls out the laptop.

“Like baiting a mousetrap only this time with an Apple,” she cackles. 

Keeping hold of my wrist, she drags me to the window, half open with curtains blowing in the breeze. My freedom sails into the fall afternoon sunlight. I hear a small crash. 

She lets of my wrist. No need hold me now. I am disconnected