A Mother's Cross

In all aspects of life, we take on a part and an appearance to seem to be what we wish to be--and thus the world is merely composed of actors.

-Francois de L Rochefoucauld

(1613 – 1680)

She could see it now, the flames licking the bright yellow paint. Kissing the white trim before overtaking the façade. Ember’s and flames would dance in the night sky, while twinkling stars would waltz to the sound of the roaring. Her shoulders settled, and her clenched jaw loosened as her eyes closed. With a deep breath, she regained composure and responded to Rick’s inquiry, “No.”

His blue eyes glinted, and she shuddered, but turned her back on him to continue folding the small blue t-shirt already held in her pale hands. Her glossy nails, perfectly manicured, gently folded the baby blue shirt into a perfect square.

“I don’t know why you think you can lie to me.” He said and she heard him plop into his leather recliner before setting a half-empty glass down on the coffee table.

Even with her back turned, she could feel his eyes boring into her back. The candle lit earlier flickered beside his drink as perspiration dripped down the glass leaving a ring on the table, one of many… What kind of drink was he having today? In her mind’s eye she thought back to when he’d asked his filthy question, but all she could see were his glossy blue eyes, and the glistening swamp green surrounding the pupil.

With her hands on each of her knees, she sighed while looking over the folded laundry. Just as she leaned forward to pick up the smallest pile, Timothy’s pile, she felt a blow to her face, and she winced as lightning flashed across her closed eyes. Her entire head pulsed with pain as words Rick spoke with a steely edge, “I said, I don’t know why you think you can lie to me.”

She hadn’t heard him get up, but she gathered herself before looking up at him through thick lashes, her eyes aching.

Without hesitation, she simply asked, “Do you work tomorrow?” His look of surprise at her nonchalant question after he’d just shoved his knee into her face left her unphased.

“Uh, yes?”

“Then why don’t you finish your drink? Don’t you need clean clothes for tomorrow?” She gestured toward the laundry and in his drunken stupor, he seemed to have forgotten what he’d been upset about.

A single tear fell quickly from her eye. She glanced down, quickly wiped it and picked up Rick’s shirts, each neatly folded with the buttons facing up then set Timothy’s pile on top.

“What’s the…”

“No catch,” She interrupted him, straight-faced, “Don’t you want to look nice for work?”

He narrowed his eyes for a moment before nodding and sauntering away. She stood and headed up the old wood stairs. With each step, the old wood creaked, and she breathed deeply, acknowledging the fresh ache in her head.

He’s going to kill me.

This thought, in all its bleakness only held truth, its energy encompassing her in a blanket of surety rather than fear. Once at the top of the stairs, she went to their bedroom. Golden light filtered in through the lace curtains illuminating the well-kept room. A rosy quilt with scalloped edges handmade by her mother laid out neatly on the bed, while plump pillows leaned against an ornate headboard. She was aware of her clenched jaw, her welling eyes, and the heaviness of the cotton-polyester blend pile of clothing in her hands.

Neatly, she began placing his shirts in the second drawer down before glancing up at herself in the mirror that hung above. Her reflection, backlit by the golden sun, showed sunken eyes and the pink and purple stippling of a bruise beginning to form on her right cheek. She lifted her hand to her face and closed her eyes. Her body began to tense, but Timothy’s small pile still needed to be put away.

With a small shake of her head, she slid the drawer shut gently as the sound of the fridge being slammed shut made her jump. Not missing a beat, she continued down the small hallway, stepping lightly along the creaking floorboards and passing the bathroom lit by the same golden glow. His room was at the end of the hall with the door slightly ajar.

Inside, sage green walls paired with cream wainscoting encased his room. Along the wall, his small bed was neatly made up with a smaller quilt, also made by her mother, this one plaid with varying shades of green and gray. A fluffy white pillow leaned against the wall, nestled by two small teddy bears. She went to his white dresser, where a small candle flickered atop smelling of cinnamon apples, his favorite. She placed his clothing inside, setting each one down with care. The one with a dinosaur, the one that read ‘Mommy’s Favorite’, and her personal favorite, a starry pajama top with ‘Not Afraid of The Dark’ in glow-in-the-dark lettering.

With a deep exhale, she sat atop his small bed fixating on golden light that left shadows along the wall where the small dresser stood. Her head pounded as she gazed at the shadows and held the smallest of the two bears. As she ran her fingers over the glossy plastic eyes, a memory of Timothy in a thick winter coat zipped all the way up and the little bear’s head sticking out beneath his chin flashed through her mind. She smiled. The winter air had left his nose and cheeks a bright red and his toothless smile had never left his face as he ran through the playground every which way. She paused to listen intently; nothing but the sound of the TV and the creaking recliner came, so she set down the bear, and stood to head for the bathroom.

There, she closed the door softly before hurriedly rinsing her hands in cool water and splashing her face. In the mirror she saw her calm expression, while her mind began to race. The white tiles of the bathroom seemed to glow as the sun shifted into twilight. With shaking hands, she opened the mirrored cabinet, reached for the lorazepam and Tylenol and, cupping cold water in her hands, swallowed a single dose of both. She put them away, closed the cabinet, then turned the squeaking handles on the faucet. Leaning over the sink, her hands gripping either side, she focused on each of her breaths as they came and went. As she looked up at her reflection once more, she saw a kempt woman, despite the stippling, that looked alive. Ragged breaths escaped as her eyes began to well.

“How are you?!” The cheerful question echoed in her memory and she could feel her mother’s arms wrapped tightly around her before they pulled apart and she responded with, “Well, I was fine, but then I got over it.” Her mother smiled warmly in response and tousled her dark hair. The memory faded, along with the comfort it had brought.

Another voice echoed now, this one more recent, “Mommy, I’ll be okay.” His amber eyes blazed as he reassured her from his little bed. Her eyebrows furrowed in response as she gently let out a nervous laugh at his daunting, unprecedented words. She closed Goodnight Moon, kissed his forehead and said, “I wouldn’t doubt that for a second, my sweet.”

“Can we read one more story?”

“Sure baby, which one?”

“Mmm…” His eyes looked at the ceiling as he pondered which one, anything to stay up with his mum a little longer, “Where the Wild Things Are!” He said excitedly. She smiled in response and opened the book with worn pages, from many, many bedtime readings. As she started reading it aloud, Timothy gazing lovingly at her, and at the drawings inside the book, the memory faded. And she was left gripping the cold sink.

A week prior, she’d told her mother Timothy needed a weekend with grandma, and her mother had simply responded with a knowing smile and nod. What meaning her mother assumed, she didn’t know, but to be known, in some fashion, brought her comfort, not to be confused with ease. Now noticing how dark it’d become she left the bathroom and took the creaking steps down to find Rick asleep in his chair. Not hungry, but knowing how customary dinner is, she went to prepare something.

The smell would wake him, she knew, and so she began heating oil in a pan, spilling some on the counter, and stove, resolving to leave it spilled. She placed two breaded chicken breasts into the hot oil. It crackled and spit its fiery drops on her skin.

Mashed potatoes, broccoli and fried chicken, his favorite.

Just as she began preparing two plates, his heavy steps echoed in the kitchen and when she turned, a steaming plate of food in each hand, she found him glaring at her, his upper lip raised in disgust.

“I made a plate for you.” She gestured with both hands.

“You’re so disgusting.” He words slurred as he came forward and raised his hand to slap her across the face, hitting her precisely where he had before. He breathed heavily and pushed her onto the floor where she now laid with the scattered dinner and broken ceramic plates.

“You make me look like a fool! I don’t wanna be married to a nasty whore!” He yelled, looking down at her. He kicked her, hard, and she screamed, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“You’re wrong. You know and everyone in this goddamn town knows!” He kicked her again, this time she felt a crack.

“Rick, stop.” She breathed, pain ravaging her body.

“Shut the fuck up!” He knelt down, and placed his face right next to hers, “Lay there. Think about how filthy you are, and ugly, and how much you… how mu—” He burped, “How much of a lying bitch you are.”

He stood, grabbed the bottle from the counter, and before walking out, looked down at her again and said, “I’m top-notch. I’m well-rounded,” He ran his fingers through his greasy hair, “And everyone knows I’m a good of father and husband, Denise. You’re a..a.. a godforsaken disgrace.” He spit at her and began to pour his whiskey over her face. “Here, this’ll clean those.” She winced while he laughed, and the cold liquor wet her hair.

His steps echoed out of the kitchen, creaking across the living room to his chair once more, and she lay there. Her tears melded with the whiskey and she waited until she heard his snores before sitting up slowly.

She put her hand to her head and waited for the pressure to cease before standing. She quietly opened a drawer to the left of the sink and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds. She left the mess on the kitchen floor, the burner still one, and pulled out a single cigarette. With shaky hands she placed it in the corner of her mouth and lit it while staring into the living room at Rick asleep in the chair, the bottle empty at his feet. After two long shaky drags, she quietly went to where he lay, and placed the cigarette between his fingers, letting it smolder. It dropped, only a moments later, and she watched, waiting, as it began to burn the carpet where it lay. She willed it to ignite as she stared intently.

“Please,” She begged, beneath her breath, quickly glancing to be sure he hadn’t woken.

And it lit, a small flame catching just at the corner of his chair. With triumph quietly raging in her chest, she quickly made her way through the downstairs, finding each candle and lighting it. As she crossed back through the living room, she took no time to notice what was burning, and what wasn’t, but the heat was insurmountable. She raced up the stairs, her heart pounding. In the bathroom, she grabbed her lorazepam and took three more, doses she’d been saving.

Once more, she lit any candles upstairs, and as sleep beckoned, she headed for the bedroom, but not before glancing down to see fire climbing the dark stairs. Her breath caught and she stared. For a moment, she thought she heard Rick scream. She ran to the room, closed the door, and changed into her nightclothes. She covered herself in her mother’s thick rosy quilt, nestled into the soft pillows and sleep began to wrap its arms around her.

What a tragic accident this was.