The Milk We Left behind

Warning: This story contains themes of domestic abuse, emotional trauma, infidelity, and descriptions of a toxic family environment. Reader discretion is advised.

Note: This narrative is loosely inspired by true events.

My eyes flutter open, and I lift my right fist to rub the blurry sleep from my eyes. It’s so dark in here, dark enough to give refuge to the shadow monsters that live beneath my bed or in the corners of my bedroom walls. I hear the wooden hallway floorboards groaning under the weight of slow and dubious footsteps, approaching outside my door. Mom always talks about the ghost that lives in our basement. He’s supposedly a young soldier who passed away at war according to the previous homeowner. Mom said I might even hear his whispers at night.

 I seize up in sudden fear, hopeful that the ghost will pass by without noticing me. I clutch the book I fell asleep reading, to my chest, seeking any source of comfort. At fifteen years old, I feel ashamed that I’m still afraid of the dark. I shuffle deeper into my bed as if it’s going to swallow me whole and hide me from the darkness. My eyes begin to adapt, and I immediately notice the tall shadowy figure slowly creeping past my cracked door. I clamp my hands around my mouth to muffle my sudden intake of air and squeeze my eyes shut. Fear quakes through my limbs and my hands tremble. Every muscle in my body is tense and stiff, paralyzed by the anticipation of coming face to face with something made of other people’s nightmares. I stop breathing and the silence of the sleeping house only makes the sound of my own heart beat louder. It slams against my ribs like a galloping horse. Can the ghost hear my heart beating in my chest? 

The shadow continues down the hallway towards my parents' bedroom. I release my mouth and finally take another breath. Another door creaks open in the hallway and the sound of faint whispers can be heard, but I can’t tell what is being said. In a brief moment of bravery, I lunge out of my warm bed and race to whip open my door, but the hallway is empty, and not even an echo of a whisper lingers. Where did he go? Was I imagining him or was it a dream? I feel a hint of disappointment. I wanted to catch a ghost wandering the house at night. My brothers will be so jealous that they missed it when I tell them tomorrow morning! Dad won’t ever believe me though. 

He always says, “Your mother makes that crap up”. 

He just doesn’t have the imagination that we all share. He doesn’t believe in fairytales or ghosts and goblins. The only things he believes in are new toys like a new truck to look cool in, a new computer to play online games with his friends until early morning hours, and a new Jessica to prance around town with. I’m not exaggerating when I say there have been multiple Jessicas, but there’s one in particular that mom hates the most, Jessica Mathewson. Jessica Mathewson and Dad took us kids to the mall one time and pretended she was our mother. Mom sobbed herself to sleep that night and didn’t leave her bed for two days, except to bathe once. The third morning was the worst morning after the mall incident. That third morning, my mom’s parents brought us home from an impromptu sleepover at their house. Mom came down the stairs with big red puffy eyes and a cut on her bottom lip that had just begun to scab over. She said it was a silly cleaning accident, a vase fell on her head and broke. 

“A piece of the shattered ceramic glass must have sliced my lip” she suggested that day. 

However, I saw the faint marks of a fresh bruise developing around her ankle as if someone had dragged her by her foot. I saw the raw flesh around her wrists that appeared swollen and chaffed. I noticed the broken family picture frames in the kitchen garbage can and the missing coffee table from the family room. I even saw the raised red lines along my father’s forearms, but I didn’t dare to ask why. 

The last time I asked a question that I was not supposed to ask, I wound up with my back flat on the ground and a tight fist around my throat. To make matters worse, the screams made me wet my cotton leggings. That was a huge mistake that cost me my consciousness. Hours later I had woken in the same spot on the floor alone, wet, cold, and shaking. 

After last night’s spooky ghost encounter, I spent the majority of the morning reading. It’s my only source of escape. My father had finally returned home around noon from his weekly ice hockey practice. He’s working the night shift at the police department tonight, so he’s gone before dinner. He stopped in and out so quickly that I’d never known he was even here if I hadn't seen him stroll in with his giant hockey duffel bag or if I hadn’t heard him and Mom roaring in the upstairs bathroom. Other than that, Mom has been silent all day, hiding in her bedroom alone with the door shut. I worry about her. After Dad leaves, I sneak up the stairs as best as I can without stepping on the loose planks of the wooden stairs. I approach Mom’s room with hesitation and gently press my right ear against the hollow wood door. I hear shaky sobs mixed with sniffles and hiccups. She’s murmuring, I assume on the phone with someone, but I can’t understand the hushed hiccupy cries through the door. A heavy weighted feeling presses down on my chest after hearing her in pain. I take a step back and leave to preserve her dignity and give her privacy. In truth, I’m avoiding her because I know that with that pain comes resentment and anger. Whenever we roll into that stage of this endless cycle of grief, she turns to me as her only source of trauma dumping. 

I slip back downstairs unnoticed and decide it’s time to grab something to eat because neither parent cooked today, it’s summer break, and my brothers are playing with their friends, so that means I’m on my own. It’s a little too early for dinner, but it’s too late for lunch, so I’ll just make a quick snack. I wander around the kitchen and take inventory of the food we have on hand. Truthfully, it’s not much, maybe a few boxes of pasta, a can of tuna fish, a bottle of ketchup, some Mac and Cheese, and half a hot dog in a Ziplock bag. As if Mom had read my mind or maybe heard my stomach whining, she appeared behind me in the kitchen. Her quiet demeanor told me to be gentle with her. I distract her and ask if we can make something to eat. She hesitates for a moment as if she’s contemplating my request. She begins to pace frantically around the kitchen in search of food, like I did. She stops and turns towards me as I stand in the doorway of the kitchen. She approaches me and gently pushes me out of the kitchen by my shoulders and asks me to come back in a bit because she is going to whip something up! I won’t say no to a break from cooking, so I head to my room and continue reading my favorite SCI FI novel. 

Thirty minutes later, Mom pops her head in my door with an alarmed look on her face.

“Get ready quick, we need to make a trip to the store for some milk for the mac and cheese.” She instructed me. 

She’s fidgety and breathy as she speed walks back down the stairs without waiting for me to respond. I hop out of bed and mark the page I left off at. I head downstairs, get my shoes on, and hop in the car. My oldest brother, Jace, calls shotgun, so I'm stuck in the backseat with the car seat for my younger brother, Wade. 

“Guess what I saw last night?” I taunted the boys. “I saw the ghost!”. 

“NO WAY” Jace yells as he whips his head around to peer back at me. 

His eyes are wide with wonder and his mouth is gaping open in shock. I knew he would be jealous! Mom goes stiff at my statement though. Her hands grip the steering wheel like it's the only thing keeping her seated. Did she see him too? I don’t ask though because I fear the conversation will veer into a darker territory that I don’t want to talk about right now. She always hijacks the conversation to make it about my father. I’m honestly so sick of hearing it, but I could never break her heart by telling her that. She’s fragile and soft, a passive people-pleaser. Whereas my father, he’s a narcissist to his core. The word empathy does not exist in his vocabulary. 

We continue the drive in silence, but we pass by the grocery store. Confusion muddles my thoughts and I look at my mom through the rearview mirror. I can see her face is tense, her jaw is clenched and she's grinding her teeth together. Her whole body is leaning forward like she is looking to read the street signs. She drives us to a neighboring town, and we pull into a small narrow driveway of a little two-story home. It’s a green house with a silver chain link fence around the yard. Mom doesn’t speak still and ignores the questions that Jace and I toss at her. She exits the car, and we follow. I get Wade out of his car seat, and we enter the house. I am immediately surprised by my mother’s entire family sitting and standing around in the living room, watching us enter with somber looks on their faces. I instantly recognize where we are. We are at my aunt’s daycare center which she owns and operates in a residential home. The silence in the room is deafening as I make eye contact with aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents. My grandma beckons me over and I sit next to her.

“What is this?” I ask her quietly. I think I already know the answer when she looks down and then at my mother before answering me. 

“My pretty girl, you know your grammy loves you right? She asks me rhetorically.

I nod my head in agreement anyway and wait for her to continue. 

“Your father needs some time alone right now, so you guys will be coming to live here for a little while.” she states gently. 

“Here? In Aunt Kim’s daycare center?” I asked incredulously. 

All I get is an up-and-down nod as a response. My grandma holds a grimace on her face as she locks eyes with my mom again. My aunt Yvonne interjects the awkward silence and offers to show us kids our rooms. We walk upstairs to see there are only two bedrooms and a tiny bathroom. Mom and I are set up for the small rectangular bedroom on the left and the boys have a bunk bed set up in the large square room to the right. Mom approaches the top of the stairs behind us and I turn to look at her. Her eyes are glossy with wet tears collecting in the lower lids. She sucks in a deep breath and a single tear rolls down her right cheek, leaving a wet trail from her cheek to her chin. Her bottom lip begins to tremble and I open my arms wide knowing she needs to be held. I know she wants to tell me she is so sorry and that she feels like she has no other choice. She always gives me that answer, so I don’t push her for more. She lets her sobs loose and leans into me. Her head rests on top of mine and her body quakes from the violent weeping. Her arms wrap around me and pull me tightly. Just for a second, I allow myself to feel comforted. As quickly as I felt it, it left as she let go of me and attempted to compose herself enough to lead us back downstairs. My heart not only aches for her, but it also aches for the little girl inside of me who just wants a hug. It feels like a bag of bricks has been stuffed into my chest and there’s an ache in my throat, making it feel tight.

I follow behind mom and as we descend the stairs, I whisper to her in an all-knowing tone “We never needed milk, did we?”. 

EPILOGUE:

Fifteen years later…

I sit at the table with Dad laughing about the not-so-spooky haunted house we just walked through. It’s October and Halloween is around the corner. My father and I get along well, like a friendship. We visit with one another for dinner every few months to catch up. Tonight, we picked Mexican food because it’s a shared favorite of ours. As I’m dipping my tortilla chip in some delicious and creamy queso, I ask my dad if believes in ghosts because I always believed he thought it was pure fictional fantasy. To my surprise, he does in fact believe in ghosts now. 

“What about the ghost that lived with us when you and mom were still together?” I inquire. 

“Of course, I remember it because there was no ghost. I paid the old man across the street to watch over the house when I was at work, and he saw your mom inviting Adam inside whenever I was on night shift.”. He said with a laugh and a smile that left his face before you could meet his eyes.

Every fiber in my body went still with shock. How did I not notice that? How could I have been so naive to believe such a childish story, even as an adult? I suppose I will add those questions to the long list that I know I will never receive an answer to. I will never understand the toxic relationship my parents clung to for so long. I suppose something was always missing between them, like a cake baked without the flour, or just like the Mac and Cheese without the milk.