Rending Mythos

Rending Mythos

By

Amy Lancaster

The piercing ring of the phone made her freeze; the knife in her hand hovering over the vegetables on the small cutting board. Ainslee made no move to answer it in spite of the incessant demand. A tinny voice rattled out from the small speaker of the answering machine. The sound brought a sickening surge of adrenaline with it. As the machine reset itself, she let out the breath she had been unconsciously holding. Abruptly setting the knife on the counter, she turned her pale face towards the phone and stood staring at the onerous harbinger. The small black box with its blinking red eye may as well have been the Reaper himself. She jumped, startled, as the ringing began again. She knew what refusal to comply meant but she was determined to strangle her fear this time. She would not yield.

The voice coming from the machine was harsher now, more accusatory, and more contemptuous. Suddenly, she felt very small and very much alone in the big kitchen. Distressed and anxious in the extreme, the pressure to pick up the phone became enormous. Her lips compressed and her eyes shut tightly as she retreated into an inner world for strength. Silence returned as the machine shut down once again. Her hands moved to cover her stomach as if to soothe the feeling of nausea from the adrenaline rush. She forced her eyes to open. This time her intake of breath was ragged and shuddering. Again, the ringing started.

Anyone unfamiliar with the debilitating effects of abuse, could never appreciate the courage it took not to answer those phone calls. In her family, you were expected to submit. Refusing to accept the rage directed at you was simply not done because even hotter vengeance would follow. She knew that her actions would be seen as an open declaration of war. This tradition, though unspoken, was written in stone. It was an all-consuming mythos, constantly etched into the heart, mind, and soul, with every miserable moment of existence.  Every member of the family knew it.  It was the reason they all acted in unison to avoid the wrath of their tyrannical mother. They held no real power. Their lockstep was merely the dance of the hopeless.

It was only the rising surge of resentment inside her, that saved Ainslee at that moment. Her anger gave her the strength she needed. She desperately hoped it was equal to the task at hand. This was not the first time Bree had betrayed her, and while it was also not the worst one, it was no less hurtful. As sisters they had once been close, but in an emotionally unstable family, self-preservation ruled the day. 

Bree was a practiced hand at playing the victim. In her mind, the ends justified the means. Whatever ploy saved her from her narcissistic mother’s wrath was fair play.  Even though Bree was still young, she had developed a vast repertoire of schemes for immediate use. This time it had involved scapegoating Ainslee. Bree wasn’t one to consider consequences either. A quick study, she had not only learned to imitate her mother’s abusive tactics, but often surpassed them.

Momentarily, Ainslee’s children came running downstairs to tell her that the phone was still ringing. She hollowly replied that it wasn’t important, and led them out to the back-yard playground, closing the door securely behind her. The muted ringing of the phone inside the house was soon drowned out completely by the happy sounds of the children playing in the calm summer evening.

She stood with arms tightly folded, watching them play. She waved and applauded their amateur acrobatics. The interaction helped bring her back out of her virulent anxiety long enough to remind her that this so-called tradition, had to be stopped for their sakes. She resolved that it was not going to be passed on to another generation. She would save her children from the sadistic experiences she had come to think of as normal. They would not realize the cost she was paying, but they would receive the benefit.  The thought of saving them from such malevolence bolstered her courage even further.

The following months brought unrelenting distress. Physical distance from her mother was little protection from long years of trauma bonding. The rabid negativity in her own head inflicted constant punishment for not meeting her mother's needs. There truly seemed to be no escape.

As the days rolled on, the phone calls slowly dwindled, only to be replaced by letters full of insinuation and accusation. Sardonic messages were conveyed in passing by extended family members. These were followed by exaggerated character assassination, ironic bribes, scathing threats, and eventually a flinty silence that was equally ruthless in provoking her anxiety. Inwardly, she felt every blow but used her desperation to save her children to keep it firmly cloaked in public.

The passing of time brought the quiet realization that escape, though extremely difficult, was possible. Astonishment followed when entire days passed without the threat of imminent destruction. There were no fires to be put out, no overblown drama, no constant hysterics.  She worked resolutely to understand her family dynamics. Hours of research, reflection and discussion, allowed her to begin the process of healing from a lifetime of abuse. 

Nearly indiscernible changes began to occur in her mind, but as they grew, they began to reveal themselves externally.  Her speech became more positive. She made an effort to dress better, choosing brighter colors and taking time to arrange her hair. She spent more time with her husband and played games with her children. She made it a point to talk to her neighbors and to try to make new friends. The realization of personal empowerment was a miracle that she could not adequately describe even to herself. Even though she was only just beginning to feel it, that knowledge had permanently altered her life. At the end of three years, she felt that it was time to face her mother again.

On the appointed day, the wintry conditions outside, were no less bleak or cold than those inside of her mother’s small house. Consequently, she made no attempt to remove her coat and sat gingerly on the edge of one couch. Her mother sat across the room in the center of the opposing couch, one arm resting along the back; for all appearances a queen holding court. Ainslee studied Vesta, as if seeing her for the first time. The bold prints, gaudy jewelry, and high teased hair, were all part of a manufactured persona that barely covered the raging insecurity of the woman within.

Immediately she began to doubt her decision to come. The approaching holidays seemed an increasingly poor pretext as her mother attempted to avoid the true purpose of the meeting by gossiping incessantly about every trivial subject near at hand, as if there were nothing more important to be done. Gathering her courage, Ainslee said,

“Mom. I thought we were going to talk about what happened.”

The steely glint in her mother’s eyes warned of impending danger and Vesta replied condescendingly,

“You know I’d do anything to help my children. I forgave you a long time ago, so it’s over now. You don’t have to apologize.”

 The information came as an electrified slap across the face. Exasperated and stung by the remark she exclaimed,

“What are you talking about? I don’t need to apologize.  I didn’t do anything! You know Bree lies and you didn’t even ask me about what happened?”

Seething with thinly concealed scorn, Vesta fumed,

“Yes, she lies a lot, but you’re not perfect either. You do things wrong all the time. You’ve treated us terribly. You don’t just turn your back on your family.” 

Provoked by the supplementary accusation, Ainslee contended incredulously,

“You just admitted that you know she lies, but you won’t believe me when I tell you that she’s lying? You’re my mother! Shouldn’t you give me the benefit of the doubt?”

“I’m her mother too. You just think you’re better than us and you’re not. You’re going to have to learn to know your place.” Vesta replied dismissively, but her haughty expression betrayed her enjoyment of the conflict.

“What do you mean?” Ainslee protested. “How can you just accept her side as the gospel truth without even talking to me about it?”

Laughing disdainfully her mother said, “I know what happened.” 

The rush of gaslighting was too much. Ainslee felt the fire rush to her face. 

“No! You don’t and you never will! You don’t even deserve to know if you can be so biased, and now I will never tell you! You're impossible!” She retorted hotly. 

Her mother shifted her position on the couch, reclining triumphantly and folding her arms in satisfaction. She paused leisurely to examine her jeweled watch as it glittered in the cold sunlight, and then with even more arrogance, trumpeted loudly,

“I don’t need to talk to you about anything! I don’t need you for anything!  So, you can just go back to your little castle on the hill. I already know what happened.”

“So, you’re going to destroy any hope of resolving this?” Ainslee lamented.

“There’s nothing to resolve.” Vesta lied icily.

The shadow of malevolence etched across her mother’s face confirmed that there was no going back. Ainslee had broken iron clad tradition, crossing the line by refusing to submit to her mother’s arbitrary punishment. She stared in outright disbelief for a moment and opened her mouth to argue, but suddenly understanding glimmered among the tears welling up in her blue eyes. Nodding self-reflectively, a faint smile crossed her face. She calmly stood, turned, and resolutely walked back out into the biting wind and driving snow.