Mommy
By Anne Nowlin
Copyright 2012 Anne Nowlin
Mommy
I jolt upright in a daze, panicked and heart racing, when my grandmother screams. Is someone in the house, here to rob and murder us? I jump from the bed, lock the door, and scramble through the dark to climb out the window to safety. I will call for help from a neighbor’s house.
As I struggle to unlock the window, my doorknob jiggles. My heart jumps into my throat. I try to swallow it back down, as I search the darkness for something to bash in his head.
After three light taps on my bedroom door, I freeze.
“Ava?” my Aunt Sela calls calmly.
I realize there is no one here to rob and murder us. So why is Mimi screaming? My aunt calls my name again. I move away from the window and open the door. Tears streak her face. I hear Poppy talking to Mimi, using the same voice as the time I burnt myself on the stove.
Light from the doorway spreads across my room and onto my Disney Princess clock. It flashes 3:40 in bright red numbers. Aunt Sela kneels down and hugs me. She smells like cherry blossoms and I breathe it in. She reminds me of my mother. She pulls away from me and her eyes fix on mine. A tear spills over and rolls down her cheek. I brush it away. I can feel my own eyes watering up.
“Come over here, Ava.” She leads me to my bed, and we sit down. It is her turn to wipe the tears away. “There was an accident.”
My heart races, swelling with each beat, so that it will be ready to burst when Aunt Sela finally tells me that my mother is dead. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. My beautiful mother is dead.
“Your daddy is okay, but your mommy didn’t make it.” She grabs me, pulling me close, and I let her. Tears flood my face like tiny waterfalls from my eyes. I cry myself to sleep in her arms, and when I wake, I am alone.
It is still dark outside, but I don’t want to sleep anymore. Horrible dreams about my mother leave me feeling black, as if I am in a darkness I can never escape. To wake is a relief, then the realization hits that the dreams are now my reality.
I tiptoe across the floor and crack my door. Poppy takes the Lord’s name in vain. I gasp and cover my mouth. I have never heard anyone in my family say that before. Then he curses my father.
Aunt Sela says, “Dad, cussing him is not going to bring Sera back.”
“He killed my little girl! He was drunk!”
Aunt Sela cries aloud, “And she got in the car with him anyway.”
“Damn him!”
I wipe my burning eyes with the palms of my hands and my nose with the sleeve of my pajamas. I creep into the hallway to see. Poppy holds his head in his hands as he sobs. Aunt Sela lays her head against his with her arm around his back. She looks so much like my mother.
I lift my hand to wipe my face. It is shaking and I can’t make it stop. Aunt Sela glances behind her and sees me.
“Oh, honey!” She jumps to her feet and hurries toward me. She’s not my mother. She is too young. Her hair isn’t the right color and it is too long. My mother didn’t smell like cherry blossoms. She smelled like honeysuckle on a warm spring day, when the wind catches them just right and blows their sweet perfume through the air, tempting your taste buds.
I imagine jumping off the swing and running to the vines that wind around the fence in our backyard. I pull one after another from the vine, tearing off the bottoms to suck out the sweet juice. My mother watches from the back door, smiling at me with soft, pink lips. She tilts her head slightly, and a brown curl falls across her face. I reach out to sweep it away. My hand is almost there when my mother’s image disintegrates as Aunt Sela rushes towards me. I charge into the bedroom, slam the door, and lock it.
She knocks forcibly on it. “Ava, honey, I’m sorry you heard that. Poppy didn’t mean it. Open the door.”
I sit on my bed, listening. She keeps knocking and talking sweetly. Finally, Poppy comes to the door.
“Ava, I’m sorry. Your mommy was my little girl, like you were her little girl, and I’m just upset. You can understand, can’t you?”
I understand, but say nothing. I’m certain that it is my father’s fault, and I hate him. I have hated him since I can remember. I hate the way he looks, the way he smells, the way he talks, the way he eats, the way he breathes, and I have wished for his death for years. This is my punishment for my awful thoughts and my mother has been taken from me.
I hear Poppy and Aunt Sela leave my door. Light filters through the window as I watch the sun rise. The sight is beautiful, almost as radiant as my mother was. I try not to cry as tears once again fill my eyes. I’ve got to be strong now that I am alone. My mother was the only one who understood me. She was the only one who truly knew me and loved me. Me. For everything good and bad, she loved me.
I’m sweating profusely and my pajamas are sticking to my back. I get up and look for a shirt. I find an old shirt that belonged to my mother. It says UNCG Alumni and it still smells faintly of her. I hold it to my nose and inhale deeply. “Mommy,” slips from my lips and I don’t know why I say that. I haven’t called her Mommy in years. I long for the days she held me in her lap and read stories to me, kissed me goodnight, tickled me, played piggy with my toes.
I shed my damp pajamas, letting them fall to the floor. As I pull the shirt over my head, I catch my reflection in the mirror and stop. I have my mother’s eyes, her mouth, the shape of her face, but I can’t see her when I look at myself.
What am I going to do without her?
I think about living alone with my father and I can’t bear the thought of it. I imagine what happened after the party. He drank too much and my mother begged him for the keys. He told her he was fine and to get in the car. She said no, he cursed her, and then she got in. He was swerving down the road, and she begged him to pull over. He told her to shut her mouth. She cried. He hit her. She screamed because he wasn’t looking at the road while he was hitting her. He tried to recover, but it was too late. They wrecked. He lived. She died.
I remember how he liked to hit her. He only hit me once. Well actually, he didn’t hit me; he jerked me. I was in the living room drawing, and he told me to go to bed. I was trying to pick up my stuff; I had drawn Mommy a picture of her and me in Paris, and I wasn’t finished coloring it.
He said, “I told you to go to bed.”
“I’m going,” I said, trying to scoop up my coloring pencils.
He stomped over, grabbed the pencils, and ripped half the picture out of my hand, tearing off the Eiffel tower. It took a long time to draw that, and I was mad. I shouted, “Daddy, stop!” I reached for the piece of the paper he held crumpled in his hand. He grabbed my arm and jerked me up like a ragdoll. There was a loud pop and I screamed. I felt my arm come out of the socket as soon as he yanked me up. Mommy took me to the emergency room while he watched Game of Thrones. I hate him with everything that I am.
Later, Aunt Sela takes me to the hospital to see him. He is in serious condition. He has some broken ribs and a collapsed lung. I stand at the side of his bed, watching him until he wakes up. He sees me. His hand with bruised and scratched knuckles inches toward my hand. I move it away, just out of reach. His eyes plead with me.
The nurse comes in and shoots something into a tube taped on the top of his hand. He fights the effects of the drug, but eventually falls asleep. I think of my mother’s sweet face and terrified eyes, as he would swing at her. I remember the bruises on her forearms from trying to block the blows.
I lean over my father. He doesn’t look so mean now. He looks helpless. He is helpless. I pull the stretchy bands from around his ears and pull the mask from his face. I use one hand to cover his mouth and the other to pinch his nose. After several seconds, he opens his eyes. They are wild and filled with fear. He struggles with my hands fru
itlessly as he tries to breathe. With all my strength, I hold his nose and press his mouth. For my mother, for every time he hit her, and for the life that she lost because of him.
I watch him die.
I put the mask back on his face and leave the room. I don’t look back. I will find Aunt Sela and go home, wherever that is now.
I look to the clock on the clean white wall as the minute hand propels itself to the next number. It is 3:40.
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About the author:
Anne lives in Winston-Salem with her family, three dogs, and demonic cat. She is the author of several short stories and one novel awaiting publication. She is currently working on her second novel, a psychological young-adult.
Other works by the author:
Short Stories
The End
The Cornfield
Connect with Anne
Website: https://annenowlin.com
Blog: https://annenowlin.com/blog
Twitter: https://twitter.com/annenowlin
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Anne.Nowlin.Writer
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/AnneNowlin
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