Sickness

"Listen, what you did was dangerous."

His belt whipped through the air and bit me. I screamed out in pain, tears blurring my vision. The belt popped me again, and I fell to my knees. Daddy jerked me back up, his rough, calloused hand clamped around my wrist like a dog's teeth.

"This hurts me more than it does you," he said, and struck me one hard, final time.

The hell it does, I thought as he let me go. I dropped to the bathroom floor like a sack of wrenches.

  I lay on the cold tile in a heap, rubbing my searing bottom. I hadn't got a whipping like that in a while, and I knew from experience it would be a few days before I was able to sit on anything other than the soft cushion of the living room recliner. I could already feel the welts rising like pie crust.

I looked at Daddy. He towered over me, looping his belt around his thick waist. He was a big man, barrel-chested, with legs like tree trunks. In that moment, my face and butt hot, my chin trembling, snot bubbling from my nose onto my upper lip, he looked as tall as a skyscraper.

"You know why you got that don't you?" He asked, buckling his belt.

I shook my head. I knew, of course. I was just too scared to speak.

"Don't play dumb with me boy. You know what you did." 

I looked up at him. His face was solid granite, hard and smooth. He helped me to my feet. I sniffed and wiped my nose with the back of my hand. My legs felt like jelly, and I wobbled unsteadily as I said, "She was crying, and calling for me. I felt bad for her, in there all alone."

"I don't care if she was screaming bloody murder," Daddy spat, "you don't go in there when I'm not home. I've told you that a dozen times."

I looked at the floor, ashamed. He was talking about Mommy. She was sick. Daddy said we couldn't go near her or we would catch whatever disease she had. And I hadn't gone near her. She hadn't looked good. Whatever disease she had had made her face look all dry and cracked. She had looked at me when I opened the door, a thin sliver of light falling over her plaster white body. The room was pitch black, and it smelled bad. Like sour milk

"Tommy," she had moaned. "Oh, baby, come here. You've got to help me. You've got to let me out of here."

"Daddy says I can't," I told her. "He says you're sick."

"He's the one who's sick," she hissed. "He locked me in here because I want to leave. He wants to take you away from me, Tommy. You don't want that, do you? Don't you love me? Come here and give Mommy a kiss."

And I almost had. I was two steps forward when she grinned...and I saw her teeth. They were black. When I saw those awful teeth, I turned and ran from the room, slamming the door behind me.

Now Daddy ruffled my hair and looked down at me, his bushy brows furrowing together. "I know you miss her. I do too. But Mommy's not well right now. She's going to be soon. Another doctor is coming tomorrow, and he's going to make Mommy all better. Then things can go back to normal."

He grabbed my shoulder. His huge hand, which had seemed so rough and stonelike only moments ago, rested there like a feather.

There had been a doctor at the house last week, a tall, skinny man in a black suit and white shirt. His dark brown hair had been combed to one side, and he carried a briefcase in one hand. He and Daddy had went into Mommy's room. I wasn't allowed. Daddy told me they were going to try and make Mommy better. So I sat in the living room watching Looney Tunes, listening to the sounds that came from behind the door.

There had been a lot of shouting. It had been so loud I had to crank the volume on the TV almost full blast. But even with the TV up, I could still hear Mommy's chains rattling...and her cries for help.

After what seemed like hours, Daddy and the doctor had emerged from Mommy's room. I remember how much older they had both looked, their faces wrinkled and sagging. They talked in the kitchen for a few minutes, then the doctor had left.

Daddy led me out of the bathroom and told me to get to bed, that we had a big day tomorrow. His room was across the hall, and as I lay on my stomach, my eyes cinched shut, I could hear him sobbing

And I could hear Mommy, banging her chains against the wall, screaming and moaning and cursing...

I didn't get any sleep that night.

Daddy took off work the next morning. I was tired and groggy, and Daddy looked like he felt the same. The skin around his eyes was red and puffy. My butt stung so bad I had to waddle when I walked, like a penguin.

He cooked breakfast- scrambled eggs and oatmeal. It wasn't as good as Mommy's, but I didn't tell him that. He barely touched his. He just forked his eggs around on his plate, scratching his chin. Again I noticed how much older he looked. The stubble that had sprouted on his cheeks, which he usually kept shaved, was peppered with flecks of gray.

We spent the morning in the living room. Daddy sat on the couch and I sat on the recliner (I still had to put a pillow underneath me to keep my butt from hurting). We watched all the early TV shows: Good Morning America, The Price is Right, stuff like that. Daddy didn't talk much. He just sat there with his legs crossed, his hand still on his chin, his cup of coffee getting cold.

Around noon there was a knock at the door. Daddy jumped from the couch, spilling coffee on the carpet. He didn't seem to notice. He ran to the door and jerked it open.

The doctor stepped in and shook Daddy's hand.

He was older than the last doctor. His hair was white and wispy. I could see his liverspotted scalp underneath it. He wore the same type of black suit, carried the same type of briefcase, but this doctor had a white collar tied around his neck. And he had a book, a thick, leather thing that he clutched to his chest like someone was about to snatch it from him.

"Thank you for coming," Daddy said, closing the door.

"Of course." The doctor's voice was thin and raspy, like his chest was full of gunk.

How's he gonna make Mommy better? I thought. He sounds sick himself.

He caught me peeking around the edge of the recliner and smiled at me. His skin seemed to hang off his face like pizza dough.

"Hello there, young man," he said. "How are we this morning?"

I told him I was fine. "Are you going to fix my Mommy?"

He gave Daddy a weird look, then turned back to me, his shiny white dentures flashing again. "I'm certainly going to try."

"She's really sick."

"That's enough Tommy," Daddy cut in. "Go to your room and play."

I protested, but Daddy wasn't having it. He gave me one of his looks that meant I was going to get another whipping later if I didn't do what he said, so I waddled to my room and got out my Hot Wheels.

It wasn't long until the first screams started. With the TV and radio off, they were much louder. I stood up and crept out of my bedroom.

I tiptoed to Mommy's room and pressed my ear against the door. My heart thudded in my chest and the hair on my arms stood up. I could hear Mommy. Her chains rattled. They sounded like a box of coins being shaken around.

"Get the hell away from me!" She shouted.

"Oh Linda. Come back to us, sweetie. Please." That was Daddy. He sounded like he was crying.

Then the doctor: "Leave this vessel at once! I command thee! In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit!" His voice sounded different than it had earlier, deeper and more powerful. It boomed like a clap of thunder.

Then there was a hissing noise, like bacon sizzling in a pan. Through the door, I could smell something like burning rubber. Mommy shrieked even louder. "No...stop...quit it...LET ME GO!"

I heard footsteps coming toward the door and my heart sank. I turned and ran for the couch, leaping on it, breathing quickly.

Daddy opened the door. His face was dripping sweat and his hands were covered in something green and slimy that looked like snot.

He walked to the kitchen. I peeked in the open door and saw Mommy sprawled on her back. There were burning candles surrounding her on the floor, the flames flickering, casting dancing shadows along the walls. Her gown was drenched in the green, snot-looking stuff that had covered Daddy's hands. The doctor stood over, speaking in a language I didn't understand, reading from his book.

I felt my throat tighten as I stared at Mommy. She looked dead. Suddenly I imagined what life would be like without her, and I started to cry.

"What are you doing?" Daddy said, and I jumped. He stood in the hallway, a bundle of fresh towels in his hands. "I told you to go to your room."

I told him I got scared when I heard Mommy screaming. "Is she dead?" I said, looking in her room.

He ran for the door and pulled it shut. "No. Mommy's fine. Everything's going to be fine. Now go to your room and don't come out until I say it's okay."

I did as instructed. I couldn't say how long I sat there, waiting. It seemed like days. There were a few more screams, but mostly everything was quiet.

Finally, my bedroom door creaked open and Daddy poked his head in.

"Tommy," he said softly. "Come here, son. Mommy wants to see you."

I leaped to my feet, my pulse quickening, my sore butt a distant thought. "Is she better?"

Daddy nodded. His black hair was plastered to his forehead, and his eyes were wet and shiny. He smiled. "Yes, buddy. Mommy's all better now."

I sprinted past him and headed for the living room.

Mommy sat on the couch, a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. She was wearing her flannel pajamas now, her soiled nightgown hopefully thrown in the trash. Her hair was stringy and wet, like she had just gotten out of the shower.

"Tommy," she whispered, and smiled.

For one terrifying moment, I thought I was going to see those awful black teeth again. But they were normal. I could still see the spots where her face had been cracked, and she had one black eye, but other than that, she was as beautiful as ever.

I ran to her and she took me in her arms, planting soft, wet kisses on my forehead and cheek. Her hair was wet against my face. It smelled like strawberries.

"I've missed you so much," I cried. Tears streamed down my face.

Mommy wiped them away. "I have you too, sweetie."

I looked around for the doctor, wanting to thank him and give him a big hug, but he was already gone.

That night, I slept in Mommy and Daddy's bed, snuggled close to Mommy, her warm arm wrapped around my stomach. For the first time in weeks, I slept dreamlessly and peacefully.

Everything was back to normal.

When I woke this morning, Mommy was already up. The sun shone through the window and felt warm on my face. Daddy was still asleep, lying on his back with his arms crossed over his chest like he always slept. He must have been worn out from yesterday. He was sleeping so deeply I couldn't even see him breathing. His mouth hung open and there was a thin line of crusty, dried drool on his stubbled cheek.

I was so excited that I wanted to wake him. We had so much to catch up on now that Mommy was better. "Daddy," I said, and grabbed his arm...

And yanked my hand back. His skin was cold, like the ice pack I kept in my lunch box when I was at school.

I hopped to the floor, a weird, achy feeling in my stomach. I looked over my shoulder before I left the room.

Was that a breath? Yes, of course it was. There was nothing wrong with Daddy. He was just exhausted. He would wake up later and maybe we would all go to the park and have a picnic. Or the zoo. I didn't care, as long as we were all together.

Mommy was in the kitchen, standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot. She looked over her shoulder when I walked in.

"There's the little sleepy head," she said. "I thought I was going to have to wake you up myself."

I took a seat at the table. There was a strong smell of cinnamon in the air, and my stomach grumbled. Mommy was making oatmeal.

"Daddy must be awfully tired," I said.

"Oh yes, Daddy is very tired. We better let him get as much sleep as possible." She sat a bowl of oatmeal in front of me. It looked different from her typical oatmeal...darker, thicker. But it smelled delicious, so I picked up my spoon and dug in.

Mommy sat across the table from me with her own bowl of oatmeal. I looked at her and frowned, a big, sticky mouthful sliding down my throat.

"What's the matter?" She said, and took a bite.

"Your eyes," I said, filling my spoon. "They look different." Her eyes had always been a dark shade of green, like emeralds, I remembered that. But now, they were an icy blue, almost gray.

Mommy pooched out her lower lip and frowned. "What a shame. You haven't seen your poor Mommy in so long you forgot what color her eyes are."

I was more confused than ever. I hadn't mentioned anything about the color. I just said they looked different. But I shrugged and took another bite of my oatmeal. It didn't matter, Mommy was better and we were a family again.

"Can we go to the zoo today?" I asked

Mommy chuckled, and I looked up, startled. For a second, her voice sounded different, like a man's.

But when she spoke again it was back to normal. "We can do whatever you like, sweetie. But there are much better places to go than the zoo. And we're going to see all of them. Together. As a family."

She chuckled again, and I smiled.

It felt so good to have Mommy back. But I think her sickness must have affected her cooking.

My oatmeal tastes funny.

And I feel dizzy.