Body Parts

Body Parts

[Then]

Late evening was the worst time to return home. Sixteen steps from the elevator to the front door. Ten seconds to unlock the dead bolt, another three if I hesitated long enough to breathe. One long creak of the door and the jingle of my key ring to find out if I was walking into a wolf den or a war zone. Either way, I knew I was going to bleed.

When I finally got the door open that evening, I was hit with the unexpected smell of dinner on the stove. Someone was home. Whoever that person was tonight wasn’t someone I was interested in making conversation with. I set my bag down by the coat closet while I untied my shoes. No shoes in the house, Rule Number One. I placed my untied shoes on the neatly organized rack inside the closet next to the worn high heels and the leather flats belonging to the creature making dinner in the kitchen. I unzipped my coat and hung it on a wire coat hanger. 

“You’re not going to greet your Mother?” Echoed from the other room. Every muscle coiled at the ready, almost like the electric shock that ran up my spine had been real. She sounded sickly sweet tonight. That same tone of voice haunting my memory. That was Rule Number Two. I braced for the impact of my mistake. She appeared in the entryway to the kitchen, spoon in hand. Her ice colored eyes reflecting like two dark mirrors in the dim lamplight from the living room. “You’re late.”

“I’m sorry.” This wouldn’t comfort her. “I missed the last train.”

Her shrewd glare assessed my flat features, searching for a spark of emotion, hoping to catch something that rarely ever revealed itself. When she came up empty, she turned on her heel and stalked back into the kitchen. 

I stepped in after her, looking over my shoulder before meeting the sight of her bent over an open oven door. She was pulling something out on a baking sheet. The oven door clattered shut and I set my keys down on the dining room table. I scooped the keys back up before I could hear her insufferable correction. Hook, she would’ve said, chastising me for not putting things where they belonged. I hung them next to her own set, the shiny Mercedes fob and silver keychain ring that held two other keys: apartment and storage unit. The other keys she owned were tucked out of sight, out of mind—like everything homely that resided in the aforementioned storage unit. Rugs were prone to spills and needed vacuuming. Less lamps looked more chic according to the high end designers in the magazines she would read. No letter box meant no paper clutter. Everything was cold, dry, and sterile. Exactly how she liked it. There were few places that existed in the apartment that her appetites didn’t infect.

“How was school?” She asked me, finally turning off the burner to the stove.

I settled down on one of the dining chairs and thought about a story I could tell to appease her hunger for details. “Boring as usual. One of my pieces got placed in the Earl Caplet Building on display.”

My mother paused, taking in the information the way a computer tended to buffer before showing you results. “Good. Your father would be proud, Adam.”

He wouldn’t. She just said things like that. I think it made her feel better to pretend. 

She walked over and tenderly set the white square plate in front of me. I thanked her, so quietly it sounded more like breathing than words. She placed her own plate opposite to mine and sat down. We prayed. More like she prayed, and I waited for her to be finished. Then we ate. It was bland, but it was cooked, which was enough to be appreciated at the end of a long day. 

Her ice eyes did not leave her plate, not until I cleared my throat and took a sip out of my glass. The attention she gave me felt predatory, like the way a large feline might stalk you in tall grass. She was waiting for the right moment to pounce. And pounce she did when I scraped my fork too loudly on her china. 

“Adam, I’ve told you time and time before! If you’re not gentle with the silverware you will scratch the porcelain!”

I didn’t bother flinching at the outburst. I had seen it coming from before the first hesitant breath at the front door. “Sorry, Mom.”

She ruffled, like a bird disturbed on a wire. Her reddened cheeks cooled and she went back to eating, like she hadn’t just screamed at me a minute prior. I cleared my plate and waited patiently for her to signal that she was finished eating. It took longer than necessary for her to finish. She would pause every now and then and stare off into space like a thought was plaguing her mind. I didn’t bother to ask. I would rather stay oblivious to what spoilage brimmed beneath the surface. 

I washed the dishes. She went into the living room to read. After every single inch of the kitchen was cleaned, I made my way to my own haven. She ignored my room as long as I kept it clean. Despite having the knowledge that she would dig through my drawers while I was gone, it was still more comforting than sitting in the living room with her. 

I unzipped my bag and pulled out my notebook. There were sketches to work on for my Final Project. Body Parts—that was the theme. I got to choose and I picked hands. They were the most telling sometimes. One hand open, ready to receive and the other—clenched. A fist of clay, capable of teaching me a lesson. 

I let the scratch of my pencil lull me into a different place. 

Hours had passed before I was truly aware that I wasn’t completely alone in the room anymore. My mother stood hunched into herself in my doorway. I pulled out one of my earbuds. Music leaking out into the quiet room. Her cheeks were streaked with tears she hadn't bothered to wipe away and her dress was stained with reddish brown swipes, like she had run her hands down the fabric trying to smooth it. 

Adam, she cried, Adam…what did I do wrong?

I pulled out the other earbud. “Mom?”

It was blood. Her blood. I tossed the notebook aside and got up slowly off the bed, hands extended in front of me. Ready to receive. It was just a thought and it expired quickly when she collapsed on her knees. I knelt on the floor next to her, taking her wrists gently in my hands. The cuts weren’t deep enough to kill her. She sobbed again. 

“Adam…Adam, my baby. What did I do?”

“Mom it’s okay.” 

“He’s coming back, Adam.”

“Mom, he’s not. It’s okay.”

“What did I do?” Her ice eyes wide, unfeeling. Like she was no longer in the room with me. Her chipped and broken psyche held together by skeletal webbing. It could’ve been anything. It could’ve been the china plates at dinner. It could’ve been the way I forgot to announce myself when I got home. She slipped off the careful edge she tended to perch herself on. These fits weren’t nightly, nor were they as frequent as every week, but they happened enough that this wasn’t the first time I’d seen her do this. 

“Mom, we need to wrap these up.” I squeezed her wrists gently enough to try to bring her back to the present. Her eyes remained glassy, empty. I sighed. “Stay here.”

My gut dropped out from under me when her nails pricked my arm as I stood up. She held me in place. “Adam, don’t leave me!” The cry was sickeningly sweet, just like her greeting had been. “Adam, I love you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Mom.”

“Adam.” But she didn’t say my name like it was mine. 

My stomach began to really ache. “Mom, please.” 

She tightened her grip on my wrist bringing me all the way back down to the floor. “Are you going to leave me, Adam?”

And for a split second, I wondered if this is what my father had seen that night. The same tearful face, bloody wrists. I wondered if it had been his own kind of edge. “I won’t leave you, Tracy.”

“Adam, I’m so sorry.” More sobbing, a hiccup. And then blankness. 

Understanding passed over me quietly as I realized I wasn’t nearly as comforted by this room as I thought I’d been. There were only two exits in here. One out and the other down.

“Adam…Adam, please.”

“Stop. Mom, stop. Please.”

“Adam, I love you. I’ve always loved you. Please don’t leave me. I can do better. I won’t hurt him anymore. I won’t hurt you.”

“Mom!” I wrenched my wrist out of her grip. Tiny nail marks leaving their own red trails. “Enough!”

“Adam!” 

The scream was piercing. Loud enough that I needed to cover my own ears. Loud enough that I stumbled away from her. She stumbled to her feet too, following my fleeing figure across the room. I fumbled with the plastic lock on the sliding balcony door and slammed it shut behind me. Her bloody hands smeared the glass and I stared at her in shock and distaste. It reminded me of seeing animals in glass cages at the zoo when I was a child. Somehow their captivity was no different than what I was seeing in front of me. My mother banged on the glass again and then tried for the handle. I gripped it and tried to keep her from opening the door. 

I became aware a second too late that I had nowhere to go as she pried the door open and shoved her arm through. I cringed away from the bloody arm and felt my back press the railing behind me. My Mother sobbed, stuck halfway in the doorway. One hand reaching for me, the other clenched in a fist against the jamb. 

“Adam, don’t jump!”

“I’m not going to jump!” I exclaimed in pure shock. Why would I jump? “I’m not the one who is crazy!” I said it almost like I was trying to convince myself too. 

Her wide eyes still feigned this sort of surprise at my words. Like she was seeing a version of me and a familiar ghost all at the same time. Her hand swiped at me and I dodged it. “Go back inside!” I ordered her. Another swipe.

She freed herself from the door and lunged for me. I moved out of the way just in time as she sent herself over the edge of the balcony where I’d been standing. It took me a minute to turn around and look behind me at the city lights. It took me an even longer moment to look down.

[Now]

Late evenings were the worst time to return home. My girlfriend was usually already asleep. I would sneak in as quietly as I could, hang my keys on the hook, and kiss her forehead where she’d fallen asleep on the couch waiting for me. There was something nice about having someone wait for you the way that she did. It was the way of the dog. Loyal, kind, present. 

Kara was a third year in the art program. I graduated last year and found a job with the Earl Caplet Building as a Creative Director of the Arts. Kara was interning for my boss when I met her. Our taste for similar art put us in the same creative circles. Nights of drinking and dinners ended up flourishing into a rather beautiful relationship. Something I neither thought I knew how to do or appreciate. Somehow I ended up doing both.

I snagged my cigarettes off the end table and made my way over to the balcony. Our apartment wasn’t nearly as high up as I’d been used to in my youth. It was what we could afford. But there were shoes piled by the doorway and dirty dishes in the sink. It was home. I flicked open my lighter and sucked in a drag of eery blue smoke. I rested my arms on the railing and plucked the cigarette out of my mouth. I might hate late evenings, but early mornings were starting to grow on me. I couldn’t remember what I found so peaceful about them.

My eyes flicked downwards to the city streets below. 

Still had no idea.