A Promise Made

As a child, I often heard my father say, “A promise made is a debt unpaid, in the code of the frozen north.” I never knew what that meant. Even now at the not-so-old age of 44, I’m still not sure I know exactly what he or that phrase meant, and he’s been dead for nearly 20 years, so asking him to clarify the meaning won’t solve the mystery. What I do know, is that he tried to instill in his children that when you make a promise, you keep it, because if you aren’t credible, you aren’t anything. And sometimes your credibility is all you have to carry you.

My parents and I had a challenging time—especially during my adolescence. I was fearless, and I was a hellcat. I had a temper that could bring darkness and misery to our home without warning, and a tongue that could eviscerate anyone in my path. On my bad days, I could make Shakespeare’s shrewish Katherine seem angelic. But, on my good days, I could be gentle, gregarious, charming, and witty.

As horrible as I could be, I wasn’t without a conscience. In fact, I often felt such repulsion and remorse for my violent outbursts that I would sink into a deep depression. Once, my demons persuaded me to ingest every pill in the house. And, countless others, they coaxed me into fantasizing about finally succeeding in my attempts.

As I got older, the distance between my heaven and hell seemed farther, but I still managed to visit them both—whether I wanted to or not.

About six months after my father died, I found out that I was nearly 12 weeks pregnant, which terrified me; a baby was never in my plans. I had a difficult time caring for myself, and I feared that I would be even more incapable of caring for a child. However, I also knew that conscience would not allow me to terminate the pregnancy, and there was no way I could carry a child to term and give it up. For me, there was no other option but to try my best to do right by the life that was growing inside me.

The following six months were horrible. I was often sick, and I spent the last two months of my pregnancy confined to bed, until two weeks before my due date when my doctor induced my labor for fear that I might have further complications that could harm the baby and me.

After more than 22 hours of labor—more than six of which I spent pushing to get what felt like a basketball out of me—my son was born. When the doctor placed him on my abdomen, I looked at him, and in my exhaustion, I thought, “He looks like a purple Yertl the Turtle,” but before I could muster the energy to touch him, a nurse snatched him away. I figured they were taking him to clean him, but then I saw her running for the door. I told his father to follow them. I didn’t want my baby to be mixed up with someone else’s.

I don’t know if it was denial or delirium, but it didn’t register what was going on. It wasn’t until I asked to see him that they told me my baby was in the neonatal intensive care unit. He wasn’t breathing when he was born, and he had an infection and a broken clavicle.

By then, all I wanted was to see and hold my baby, but the nurses said I would have to wait. They couldn’t roll a gurney into ICU, and they said my epidural made it impossible for me to stand and walk to a wheelchair. I insisted that the epidural didn’t work and that I could completely feel my legs. That was a lie. I was so exhausted, and my legs were so numb that it would have been easy for me to believe that I had been born with just a trunk, head, and arms. Yet, I knew that if I wanted to see my baby, I would have to try to make my legs work. As I slowly swung them around and tried to focus on lowering them to the ground, I feared that my legs would snitch me out and reveal me as a fraud. But, they remained ever faithful, and I stood and walked the couple of steps to the wheelchair.

The nurses rolled me into the ICU and showed me my blotchy, puffy-faced, cone-headed baby boy, who was resting under an oxygen tent with more wires and cords attached to him than an old-time telephone switchboard.

I placed my finger in his tiny hand and began to cry. At that moment, I realized that I never knew love—not the kind of love I felt for him, and if he didn’t live, then I had no reason to either.

They kept my baby in the hospital for about a week. In that time, they pumped him full of antibiotics and ran myriad tests on him, and I visited him daily—as soon as I woke, and I stayed until the nurses ordered me to go home to rest.

When the time came for us to bring him home, his doctor assured me that while his broken bone would take some time to heal, he was healthy and would grow to be a hearty boy.

It was the first time my baby and I were alone that I made my promise to him. I cradled him in my left arm and held him close to my chest. I felt so blessed that he had been sent to me, and even more blessed that he was alive and healthy. I looked into his blue eyes, ran my fingers over his soft fuzzy auburn hair, gently kissed him on his fat little cheek, and very softly whispered to him, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone and more than you will ever know, and I promise I will never hurt myself. I will be here for you for as long as I can. I promise.”

Countless times after his birth, my old demons visited me, but I kept my promise. Keeping that promise felt like it often worsened my hell, because in those darkest moments, I felt even more trapped. But, I made a promise, and a promise made is a debt unpaid, in the code of the frozen north. I knew that while death would be an escape, it was not an option for me. Death by my own hand might bring me peace and end my hell, but it would only be a beginning for my child—the beginning of a life of pain, emptiness, and questioning.

Four months after my baby boy celebrated his 13th birthday, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. As I learned more about the disorder, my life began to make sense: the never-ending emotional rollercoaster ride, the suicidal ideation, and the self-defeating actions. I’ve often questioned if I’ve done right by him. I fought like hell to try to present myself as sanely as I could—at least when he was around—and I’ve always tried to keep my promises to him—all of them—but I still wonder if I could have done more or if I could have done it better. At times, I’ve even questioned if he would have been better off without me as his mother.

My baby boy is 17-and-a-half years old now, and he’s starting his senior year in high school. He is an amazing person. Not only is he strikingly handsome at 6’ 2” with chiseled features, but he’s mystical and brilliant. He’s also incredibly compassionate, and he tries hard to keep his own promises. People love him and say he’s a very special person. I agree. It was because of him that I was able to stay as stable as I did before my diagnosis, and it’s because of him that I aggressively sought treatment to be as healthy as I can.

I am grateful for many things, but I’m most grateful for him. If he hadn’t come into my life, I never would have made that promise, and it turns out that life is good—very good—and I’m glad I’m here to see it—with him.

And It Goes a Little Something Like This...

I did not want to get out of bed this morning.  My bed is comfy; I feel like an angel sleeping in a fluffy cloud.  Okay, so maybe I’m not an angel, and I’ve never slept in a fluffy cloud, but it feels the way I imagine it feels to sleep in a fluffy cloud.  

Yet, I forced myself to crawl out of my heavenly place—as I do every day—and almost every day, it goes something like this:

As I walk out of my bedroom, I get slapped by my dopey dog’s gator-like tail and almost trip over her, who by the way pretends she doesn’t understand English commands, but somehow can read English thoughts—if they involve her receiving treats, going for a walk, or going for a ride.  Then I open the door to my 16-year-old son’s room and get smacked across the face with the smell of dirty teenage gym laundry.  I wake the kid and then let the dog out to take care of her business.  I groggily try to jog across the yard to grab her before she jumps the fence—in yet another of her escape attempts.  I drag her back into the house.  I make coffee, and I wake the kid again.  I make breakfast, eat, and pick out my clothes.  And, I wake the kid again.  I walk into the bathroom, trip over the kid’s dirty clothes that he left strewn across the bathroom floor the night before.  I take a shower, brush my teeth, comb my hair, and dream of dumping a bucket of ice water on the kid to wake him.  I decide to be nice and instead yelled at him “WAKE UP!” to which he grouchily responds, “You don’t have to yell.”  I force myself to remember the little boy who used to live with me—the one that this big grump replaced—the little boy who woke the first time I went into his room and who thought I was the greatest thing that ever graced the planet.  I’ve heard rumors that that someday that sweet little boy will return in a man-sized version, but I have a hard time believing it.

Then I go into the kitchen, feed the dog, dream of the day the kid’s grown, out of the house, and has his own teenagers, give the dog water, fix my lunch, and then walk down the hall to remind my now half-dressed son that we need to leave in 15 minutes.  I check my e-mail, pack all items I need for the workday, and threaten to make the kid go to school half-dressed if he isn’t ready in five minutes.  Exactly five minutes later, he saunters down the hall, shoes and unmatched socks in hand, teeth unbrushed, and announces that he is ready to go. 

“Where’s your backpack?  Did you eat something for breakfast?  Did you grab something for lunch?  What about your teeth?  Do you have your gym clothes?  Wallet?  Cell phone?  Did you take your vitamins?”

“Oh, I forgot.”

He just said two of my five least favorite words: “I forgot” and “I don’t know.”  I look at my Houdini dog with a look that says, “And you, with all your escape antics, are the easy one.”  She looks back at me as if to say, “Yeah, I know, so can I have a treat?”

The kid walks back to the bathroom brushes his teeth, and decides he needs to use the restroom.  Five minutes later, he comes out, goes to his room to get the rest of his stuff, returns, and says, “I can’t find my wallet or my phone.” 

“Fine.  Then you will have to walk to my office after school.”

“I’ll just walk to the gym,” he says and walks back down the hallway.  On his return, he says, “I found my wallet and phone.”

“Amazing that you can find things when your freedom is at risk,” I say as I feel my lips purse, my nostrils flare, and my right eyebrow arch.

By now, you’re probably thinking, that I should leave without him.  Well, let me tell you, the thought runs through my mind almost daily.  But, then I remember when I was 16.  I would have thought I won the lottery if my mom left without me on a school day.  What kid wouldn’t want a day to sleep in, talk on the phone, draw, play video games, go wherever he wants, and watch TV?  Nope.  This kid isn’t getting off that easy.  He hates school, so leaving him would be the same treat it would have been for me.  If I need to, I will let him be late, march him into the principal’s office, and make him tell the principal why he’s tardy.

“Let’s go,” I say, and I tell the dog, “Please, no escape attempts today.”

I finally get the kid and his bare, size 15 pedal flappers into the car, where he begins to put on his shoes and socks.

“Son, you are 16.  We have this same challenge every day.  You need to get it together, because I’m not going to be that mom who calls you when you’re 40 and runs through the list with you to make sure you are ready every morning.”

As I finish speaking, I realize that if I didn’t know otherwise, I would think he’s completely deaf and blind and doesn’t know I exist. 

We are two strangers inching our way through rush-hour traffic in near silence—me who knows nothing, and my teenager who knows everything—at least that’s his opinion.  The only noise comes from the radio and the sound that leaks from his iPod earphones. 

I pull up to his school to drop him off.  “Have a good day.  I love you,” I tell him, while thinking to myself, “but the jury’s out on whether or not I like you today.”

“Mmm…hmm,” he grunts as he slams the car door.

I drive away to meet my carpool partner, who also happens to be my friend and my parenting guidance counselor. 

“Good morning, sunshine!”  She says as she pulls up.  “Do you need some coffee?  How is Kut Master Kane?” (Kut Master Kane is my son’s DJ name.  He’s got it all planned; he’s going to be an international success as a DJ, and he doesn’t understand why he needs school to do it.)

I pass on the offer to get coffee.  We drive to the parking lot and meander to the office, where on our walk to and through the building, several smiling faces and hellos greet us. 

I sit down in my quiet cubicle, put on my earphones, turn on my iPod, and escape into the peaceful world of writing, researching, and editing, and I realize that although I wouldn’t trade the kid or the dog for anything in the world, I need breaks from them.  I need to feel a sense of achievement separate from them and that I’m contributing to the greater good, and as a public servant, I can do that.  Home and work offer me the balance I need.

Now why didn’t I want to get out of bed this morning?

Son of Wonder Woman

When I was four, I thought my mother was invincible. I watched her do things I thought only dad could do. After he left, I saw mom change leaky pipes, work on her car, and stand up to guys who disrespected her. Sure, I missed dad, but I always wanted to be strong like mom. Nothing stopped her; she never seemed to sleep. I really thought she might have been wonder woman. And I was her son!

At eight, I realized how much other people loved mom and how beautiful they thought she was. They gravitated to her. We didn’t have a lot of money, but we rarely needed anything, and there was never a shortage of people willing to help. Men were always around the house working on things for my mom. People of all ages and races dropped by for mom’s wisdom and advice. Our weekends were busy attending parties and holidays were insane with obligatory appearances. People basked in my mother’s radiance. I wanted people to love me like they loved my mom.

I was twelve when I learned that people were disposable to my mother. It began with my dad. Dad walked out and mom filed for divorce the next day. She never looked back. Then there was Tim, who lied to my mom about something. She cut him from her life—forever. There were people who seemed like great friends to my mom. They thought the world of her and treated her with total respect, but one day she would say that she just didn’t want to have anything to do with them. We never saw them again. I began to realize that mom could go months without having any contact with people she supposedly loved. If something or someone proved useless to my mom, she saw no reason to keep it around, and it was as if it never existed.

I sat at the kitchen table with my daughter as she practiced writing her name when the phone rang. A man with a thick European accent first apologized then said that my mother’s body had been found in a run-down room. The doctors estimated that she had been dead about a week before anyone found her. He asked me if I wanted to make arrangements to have her body returned home.

No. No, thank you.

I was 42 when I realizes my mother was disposable.

More about Me

I love education and thinking. Expression is sexy. I don't understand the world we live in, and yet I cannot escape the effort to try to make sense of it. I have yet to find what I want to do with my life. Since I am not independently wealthy, I must work, but working does not afford me the time to do what I want to do, which is dance spontaneously with the muses, free of time constraints. I have one child, my son, who is often my muse, or the muse behind the muses. 

I stand at the border of OCD and ADD, dancing and dangling my toes, crossing the lines--sometimes intentionally, sometimes unwillingly. I was born a decade or maybe even three, too late. My obsessions lay with the unconventional, the obscure, and the unknown. If my body were as active as my mind, I would be Ms. Universe. 

A good cup of coffee solves any problem.

Kane's Room

"Boy, if you don't clean that room, I'm going to beat you. Do you understand me?" I try to sound stern, but I think I come across more as defeated. It is already 12 o'clock on a beautiful Sunday afternoon in late September, the kind of afternoon that begs you to come out and play. My five-year-old son, Kane, has been cleaning his room since Friday night, and the really frustrating part is that it isn't even that messy. It should take him all of twenty minutes—that is if he would just go in there and get busy, but he has his mama's ability to entertain himself. This is definitely history reenacted. As I say those words to him, I can hear my mother saying the same thing to me 27 years earlier as I lay on my bedroom floor marveling at the fibers of split-pea-soup-green carpet. I wonder how they twisted all those little hairs together, and how they got those tiny fibers to stick together without moving or falling off—oh, look over there—there’s a little spider. See how he bobs when he walks? I wonder why he does it. Is he doing spider push-ups? I stand up, mimicking the spider, and bounce like I am a little basketball and someone is dribbling me ever so slowly to the hoop. Is it a girl spider or a boy spider?

I am torn. How can I get upset with Kane when he is exactly like me? I understand him. He is me. When other parents see it as being difficult, I see it as the innocent, inquisitiveness of a five-year-old trying to find the answers to everything he sees and finding beauty and intricacy in all the things we take for granted as adults: the way the dust settles on the carpet behind the bed; the chip of paint, missing from the door frame, a chip so small you can't see it unless you are laying on the floor and looking at a 45 degree angle; and all the wonderful zoo animals formed by the texture on the walls when you just sort of stare off and let your eyes go lazy. But, nevertheless, I still need him to learn how to be responsible and clean up the messes he makes.

I walk back into the living room to finish cleaning the house, and decide to put another CD in the stereo. I look through my two hundred plus CDs and can't decide what I want to listen to. I take each one out and read the song lists, searching for a CD that will bring back memories of happy times and that will motivate me. And while I am doing this, I am contemplating my next course of action with Kane if he still hasn't made progress on his bedroom. Should I take his Batman toys away? Maybe I will tell him he will be grounded if he doesn't have it done by 2 o'clock. My mind wanders back and forth between my disciplinarian actions with Kane and the alphabetizing of my CDs. After all, if they are in alphabetical order, they will be easier to find next time.

Before I can go back in and check on Kane's progress, he comes running down the hall shouting in an elated voice, "Mom! Mom! Look! I drew you a picture. Do you want to see it?"

My first inclination is to tell him no, and to go back into his room and finish cleaning, but his grin is as big as a banana, and his eyes have excitement dancing in them as if he has just discovered buried treasure.

"Okay. You can show Mama the picture, but then you need to finish cleaning your room," I say this trying to sound somewhat authoritarian. Kane climbs up on my lap and begins to describe his work of art to me.

"Look, I drew a house. That's our house—that’s the window, that's the door, that's the door knock, (he will argue until he is red with frustration that it is a door knock and not a door knob), and that's the sidewalk. See, there are some birds--five birds because I am five. And that is a flower growing on the top of the roof. That's kinda silly, huh?" He giggles and grins even bigger when he tells me about the flower on the roof. And, I just look at him with amazement and wonder at how I have been blessed with such a wonderful child with such a sweet and beautiful spirit.

“That is the chimney, but I couldn't draw the bricks, so I drew squares. That is smoke, but it isn't real smoke. It's pretend smoke. Those are clouds, but they aren't rain clouds. They are white clouds. That is the grass, and that is the dirt. You have to have the dirt so the grass won't fall down. There is the sun, but I didn't make it yellow because I used a pen, and the pen was only blue, but the sun isn't really blue. Those are train tracks. Mama, I like trains. Do you like trains? And that is you. You are holding a flower because you like flowers. You love flowers, don't you, Mama? See, and you are smiling. You are smiling because you are happy. You are so happy because you have a flower. And that is me. I am doing my Winnie the Pooh puzzle and putting it away."

All I can do is look at his drawing with the same admiration as if I am looking at a Renoir painting. I look at Kane and I look at his masterpiece again. I feel my eyes becoming moist. "Honey, I love it. It is a beautiful picture. Thank you for drawing such a lovely picture for me. You did a great job, and you drew it with so much detail."

"Mom, what does that mean? What is dee-tail?" I explain detail to Kane and then ask him if he has finished cleaning his room.

"Oh, I forgot to clean my room, but I will, Mama. I'll do it right now." I think about it. I have lost almost two days with my beautiful, precious baby. I will have to go to work tomorrow, and I won’t have an opportunity like this again until next weekend. We have the rest of our lives to clean, but only a moment to enjoy the beauty of the world through his five-year-old eyes.

"Tell you what, baby. You go in there and get your shoes on while I look for a frame for this beautiful picture you drew."

"Do I still have to clean my room?"

"You still have to clean your room, but not right now. How about if we go to the park, and when we get home, I will help you clean your room?"

"ALL RIGHT! We're going to the park, Mom?"

"Yes, we are going to the park, and don't think you hornswaggled me, because you didn't." I laugh as I say that to him. I know he indeed hornswaggled me. He pulled a fast one on me whether he meant to or not. But, he also taught me a valuable lesson--the mess will always be there, but the innocence and the excitement he has when he sees the world around him will fade too fast. I may be his mother, but that doesn't give me the right to break his beautiful, inquisitive, and innocent little spirit.

"I love you, my son." Kane looks at me and smiles at me with a huge toothless smile.

"I love you too, Mama."

Pork Chops and Pincushions

Part One

Pork chops. Thick, center-loin pork chops dipped in egg, coated in my breadcrumb-Parmesan mix with my secret blend of spices. The pork chops fry while the small red potatoes and carrots roast in the oven. With fresh salad and French bread, oozing with real butter and gobs of fresh garlic and parsley and Italian seasoning, it is a dinner to make us all fat and happy—except I am cooking this meal for lunch.

Amara and Mike always elect me Queen of the Kitchen. I love to cook, and we all love to eat.

“I need to go to the store. Will you stay here with the girls? I don’t want to wake them from their naps,” Amara asks as I carry dishes to the sink. She and I met at the beginning of the year when we were working for the legislature. Her boyfriend is in jail, and Mike is one of his best friends. When Amara and I aren’t at work, the three of us are inseparable. On this particular day, we are at Amara’s house. She and her boyfriend have two beautiful little girls; the older one is three, and other is still an infant.

“Girl, you know you don’t have to ask. Of course, I’ll stay with them. Besides, I want to finish cleaning the kitchen.” I say as I wrap leftovers. “What’d you think of those pork chops?”

“They were awesome—like always. I probably gained twelve pounds!” She says chuckling. “I’ll be back in a little bit. I just want to get some diapers and pay the phone bill. You sure you don’t mind staying?”

“I don’t mind at all. Go. Don’t worry.” I reassure her. “We’ll be fine.”

“Okay then, I’m gonna go. I’ll be back in a bit.” She says, picking up her keys. Mike decides he wants to go with her. As they walk out the door, I walk into the hall, peek into the girls’ room to make sure they are still asleep, and return to my post in front of the sink to wash the dishes and clean the kitchen. The soapsuds tickle my skin while the warm water caresses my hands. An occasional cool breeze, uncommon for an early August afternoon, dances through the window, bringing a cleansing and invigorating life to the entire house.

Amara and Mike are only gone minutes when from the kitchen window I see a man about my age, whom I don’t recognize. He walks up to the front door, and without knocking, walks in. It flabbergasts me that he feels comfortable enough to enter a home he doesn’t live in. I turn as he enters the kitchen and casually asks me, “I’m looking for Amara and Mike. Are they here?”

Perturbed by his lack of manners and failure to introduce himself, my response is assertive and business-like, “No. They went to the store. They should be back in a while. I can tell them you stopped by. Who are you?”

“Oh, they know who I am. I’m a friend.”

“Well I don’t know who you are, and Amara isn’t here, so I think you need to leave. I’ll have her call you when she gets back.”

I’m not sure if he doesn’t hear me or if he’s ignoring me, because he continues to walk, across the floor, toward the hallway perpendicular to the kitchen. “I need to use the restroom.”

“No. You need to leave.” His presence in the house is unsettling. My heart pumps harder, faster. I am apprehensive about him going into the same hallway as the girls’ bedroom. As I come closer to him, his dirty smell overwhelms the freshness of the breeze meandering through the house.

“I just need to use the restroom and then I will leave.”

My irritation shifts to terror, as a sense of urgency overcomes me. My body becomes defensive, my stance uncompromising. I move to block his entrance to the hallway as I say in an overwrought voice that escalates to a shout, “No. You aren’t going in there. You need to leave now!”

“Damn! Quit trippin’! I am just going to the bathroom.” Not taking my rejection serious, he tries to push me to the side. Resisting each other’s efforts, he tries to get into the hallway, and I try to keep him out. Realizing that I am unable to overpower him, and that he does not intend to leave, I hurry to the sink. Surprised by my sudden abandonment of our struggle, he turns to see what I am doing. Before he can comprehend that my hand has found a large chef’s knife, with fierce determination, I drive it into his abdomen. Leave. Those. Babies. Alone. I won’t let you hurt them.

His skin provides some initial resistance, but it quickly yields to the force of the weapon. Once it penetrates the surface, it goes in effortlessly. It continues to go in. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! Each pierce of the glistening blade becomes easier. The knife enters his body rapidly, as if he were a pincushion. In and out. In and out. My motions, automatic. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! My hand, a fist around the handle of the blade, pummels his chest…again and again and again, the same way I chop parsley and garlic—quickly, mechanically. I have no idea of how many times the knife pierces him, or how long it takes his body to wilt. Time means nothing to me; it is nonexistent. Although I am here, I have also left. Both present and absent.

My awareness returns as I look down on the punctured, shredded, and motionless body of a man I have never met, a man whose name I don’t know, but whose blood journeys across the kitchen linoleum. It forms branches and creates rivers and streams of deep, rich crimson from a larger lake whose floodgates have opened—like fingers reaching out for me, calling me to it, trying to grab me—chasing me. Come here...

I won’t touch him. I don’t need to. I already know he’s dead. I just killed him. Oh my god! He’s dead, and I killed him! Why…why…why? He didn’t give me any reason to hurt him. The pools and lines of blood rapidly grow in size, and come closer and closer to me, trying to capture me. What am I going to do? How am I going to explain this? I know he wasn’t going to go into the bathroom. He was going into the girl’s room to get them. The police won’t believe me. He didn’t even make it into the hallway, let alone their bedroom. Did he have any weapons on him? He wanted to hurt them. I couldn’t let him damage those precious babies! What am I going to do? My gaaaawd… what am I going to do?!”

I think of prison—my entire life—and as horrible as it feels, I feel triumphant. I protected the girls—protected them from him.

Part Two

My eyes snap open. Sweat seeps from my skin as I lay trembling and unable to breathe. It feels like a huge cork has been wedged into the dryness of my throat. I want to cry, but I’m unable to release tears or sound. My chest aches as it works strenuously, feebly, to suck air into my cast-iron lungs. The harder I try to breathe, the more suffocated I feel. My heart is a fist—punching its way out of its confinement. Blankets that cover me are now binds holding me captive; I am a paralyzed prisoner. The whole episode was vividly real. The sound of the water running as I filled the sink to wash dishes. The feel of the warm water and soapsuds on my hands. The smell and feel of the breeze on my face and in my nose. And…the feel of the knife penetrating him, the satisfying feeling of penetration, the rich color of his blood, and his dirty smell—so authentic in fact, that after all my questioning, I’m still uncertain.

Was it really a nightmare? Is there any chance I might have killed someone? I replay the scene. Again and again and again. I realize that although I was at Amara’s house in the dream, in reality the house belonged to my uncle.

I begin to feel thankful for the awareness that I didn’t commit murder, but I’m still distressed by the fact that I could think such morbid, realistic thoughts. Do I, somewhere deep inside myself, have secret desires of killing? Am I really a psychopath? How could I so easily kill another person—even in a dream? I must to be crazy. What if I really killed someone? What if I open my door and there he is, lying dead and savagely destroyed outside of this room? I stay in the darkness of my room, confined to my bed. I know that no person of any level of sanity would dream such a horrible thing, and yet be so comfortable with slaughter the way I was, satisfied, as if it were perfectly natural, second nature—expected.

Part 3

Dreams of death and dying. Stabbing. Sword impaling. Impaling. Impaling. Impaling. In and out. In and out. In and out and…in. Mangled bloody body. Second-hand flesh. Cold, limp, lifeless form, hurting no more. Free. Free. Free...

Help me! Someone help me… pleeeeease! He’s going to hurt me! Please, someone… anyone! Screams try to escape me. My icy body trembles with terror. The harder I attempt to scream, the more silent I became. My mind hears the shrieks and cries, but my ears hear nothing. My mouth is sealed shut, unable to move. My throat is unable to create sound. Open your mouth! Work damnit! Scream! No one is going to hear you if you don’t make some noise. The rest of my body follows the lead of my mouth—rigid, cold, petrified. I want to run. I want to hide. I want to beg for help, but all I can do is sit—sit motionless and wait—wait for him—for him to come and get me. I stay, cemented to the big chair in the living room, heavy and immobilized by the weight of the concrete that has been poured into my body.

“The kitchen window is open too,” I tell Megan as she walks through the house shutting and locking widows.

“Well get your ass up and close it. Damn! Why do I have to close all of them? Your legs aren’t broken!” She says with a blend of humor and annoyance. Please don’t make me get up. Please. If I just sit here quiet, maybe he won’t know I’m here. Shhh…be quiet. Shhh…shhh…

Somehow, I manage to release myself from the hold of this invisible perpetrator. I make my way, zombie like, to the kitchen window, close it and lock it, and move away as quickly as I can—just to be safe. Megan, my roommate, and I were watching television, on this warm, sultry August evening, just before midnight, when the house unexpectedly filled with blackness. Logic reassures me that there is no reason to be alarmed. From our living room window, we see that the lights are out on the entire block.

“Someone must have hit a power pole,” Megan says, “but we should shut and lock the house just to be safe.” Although rationally I know it’s nothing more than a power outage, something inside me tells me he’s coming to get me—to hurt me. Boogey Man’s gonna get you… I don’t feel like he wants to kill me, and I didn’t know who he is. I only knew that this predator is a man who desires to hurt me somehow, someway.

“Well since we don’t have any electricity, I am going to bed.” Megan says matter-of-factly. Isn’t she afraid of him?

“No! I know! Let’s pretend we’re having a slumber party. You know, we can take flashlights and tell stories—just like we did when we were kids and we were supposed to be sleeping. Ah, come on! It’ll be fun!” Act normal. Act normal. Normal? I’m not afraid. I’m not. I’m…not....

“Are we going to tell ghost stories too?” Megan asks with tired cynicism.

He’s not a ghost—he’s the Boogey Man! “I guess we could, but what if we get ourselves too scared?” I force a chuckle that only I know is fake. “Besides, what if there’s some weirdo running around? Please, whatever you do, don’t let him get me. You know, there’s strength in numbers.” You have to convince her to stay with you, or he’s gonna get you. Boogey man gonna get you! “Just think, if we go to sleep some psycho ax-killer might come in and hack us into tiny, unidentifiable pieces just like in those horror movies.” I force myself to laugh and make it sound like a silly, far-fetched idea—a sales pitch to stay awake—especially since I rarely sleep before dawn, but I know the truth. “Anyway, you know there is no way I am going to be able to sleep this early, and with no light or electricity for me to read or watch TV, I’ll be harassing you to wake when I’m bored and can’t sleep.” Keep going. She’s almost convinced, but do not, under any circumstances tell her the secret. “Come on…It’ll be like when we were kids.” I can’t tell her what was really going on with me. She’ll certainly know that I’m crazy—that I’ve crossed the border into complete madness.

Megan and I grew up next door to each other, like family. We fight and curse each other, and yet we have an unbreakable loyalty to each other. I am the sister Megan never had, and she is the sister that I wish my sister could be.

“Okay, I will stay up for a while, and then I am going to bed.”

“It will be fun!” Still shaken and terrified, I am soothed by the knowledge that Megan will stay up with me. I know he won’t prey on me with someone else around. I’m safe as long as I’m not alone.

I have no idea how long the power remained out. I can’t recall what Megan and I talked about during the darkness, but I can remember I found security in the distraction and my fear passed by the time the electricity returned.

Megan and I said good night, and I went into my room and fell asleep.

Part Four

Greasy, jet-black, baby-oiled hair. Hamm’s beer, old and nauseating. Smell of stale cigars enveloping, choking. Buried alive beneath weight unbearable. No air to breathe. Small, coarse, curly black wires. Purple-headed, spitting snake, slithering, slithering—strike! Be still! Shhhh…be still. Fly away, fly away…little watcher from the sky.

Mere days separated my dream killing and my fear of falling prey to my unknown predator, but there had been countless other dreams and nightmares. Sometimes, terror would visit me in the middle of the day, sometimes in a public place, and always without warning. The demons that lived in my mind would seize me and hold me hostage. I would become stiff, and rendered powerless by a smell or a sensation, and once again I would be unable to breathe—numb—lifeless, my body torpid, with not a lone tear able to find an escape.

I had always felt my mental stability was anything but stable, and at times, even as a small child, I wondered if one day I would go completely crazy. It seemed that lunacy was finally making its appearance—at the young age of 24. I spent every day waiting, just as I had waited for him. Waiting for the day that I would truly go over the edge—to become one of “them”—the crazies who were damned to institutions, the walking dead. I carefully presented myself to the world as every bit a person of sound mind. It would only complicate matters if people really knew what was going on in my head, my own prison, my very own hell—all mine. All mine…

Part Five

Prince of Death, take me from this hell. Prince of Death, liberate me from these demons so they can harm me no more. Rescue me. Rescue me. Rescue me…

I had one friend I could share my secret with. One friend who I could tell about the prison riots of my own mind. One friend who made me feel better. Made me forget the pain. Reassured me of my sanity. Al. Al and I spent countless nights together. Sometimes we hung out alone. Frequently we hung out with some of my friends, but he never, ever, told anyone my secrets. Shhh…it’s a secret. Our secret. You can’t tell anyone. Promise? He never mentioned the murder or madness. He never spoke of the pain or my predator. My secrets were safe with him—until one night, that night. We partied with friends after work from 7 o’clock in the evening until we decided to head home at 5:15 in the morning.

Driving home, I see the flashing illumination of red and blue. The siren shrieks. I pull over. The officers approach my vehicle. They see me; they don’t see Al. They only smell him.

“Ma’am, have you been drinking?”

“I had a couple.” I learned from my first time to never admit the exact amount.

“We need you to step out of the car please.”

On the side of the freeway, cars race by. Zoom…Zoom…Zoom..Zoom. Zoom. I can jump into the lane. If I time it right, they won’t be able to stop me. This will all end. I’ll make sure I do it right this time. I’ll defeat them! No more madness. Do it! Do it! Do it! Now! Jump, jump, jump … jump …….. jump ……… jump ……… ……..what are ‘ya…chicken?

“Ma’am, we would like you to stand on one foot, bend your other leg at the knee, put your arms out like this, and tilt your head back” says Officer Goode.

“Did you take her license?” Officer Mau asks. I recognize him. He’s one of them. I can see the evil behind his eyes. He’s a demon too, but he’s disguised. I know. I’ve seen demons before. I can smell you. He hurts people, but I won’t let him hurt me.

“Yes. She already gave me her license.”

“We’re taking her in, right?”

Officer Goode places the cuffs on me as gently as he can, and guides me to the center of the back seat in the patrol car. He gets in after me and sits to my right and begins questioning me. Officer Mau makes degrading, humiliating, comments to me from the driver seat. One, two, three. Three people in a police car. He doesn’t realize that I knew who he is. Even though I have never seen him before, I know him. He’s one of them.my time to strike, “Hey, Asshole,” my stare solidifies. My demons are geared up for battle. Through the rear-view mirror, Mau and I make eye contact. Our gazes lock. It’s

“You think you’re a tough guy, don’t you. I know you. I know who you are. I know your secret. You get off on little girls, don’t you. They make you feel soooo good, huh? They make you feel strong, don’t they? I bet they make you feel in control.” Suddenly he’s silent, refusing to look at me. His silence confirms what I know. “Do you like sticking your big man dick into little tiny girl holes? Does that make you feel good? Do you tell them that if they tell anyone, they’ll have to go to jail? What do you tell them? Do you have a daughter? Do you and she have a secret—just between the two of you? What’s the matter, tough guy? You sure are quiet now. Talk your shit now. Say something, fucker. Say something! Say something, dammit!!! What, you’re not such a tough guy? Are you scared? Did I just tell your big secret? Say something.” From the depths of my stomach I bellow, “Talk, bitch!” Mau doesn’t take his eyes off the road. As quickly as my roar came, my cool demeanor returns. I finish my interrogation with, “Or are you scared because I just hit the nail on the head?” My eyes remain locked on him, while my mouth forms a smirk of cocky victory.

Officer Goode, with his calm patience gently repeats, “I know you’re upset. Calm down. Just settle down. Settle down.”

I spend the night at the newly built main jail. Unlike my last visit, I have a private room, no prostitutes or dope fiends. There are no bars, only glass and concrete. I sit in my temporary dwelling—alone. I sporadically slam my head into the glass and the concrete walls. Maybe I am angry because I didn’t have “Mama,” the old street walker, to watch over me like she did last time. Maybe it is because I felt that Al had let me down. After all, it is just as much his fault. He promised me I would be okay. He told me he would take care of everything. He promised. He had penetrated me— at a level of 0.18, albeit his invasion was by my invitation.

My visit in the tank is a little longer than it was in the past. Maybe it is because I let Officer Mau know that I know who he is. Maybe it was because they know I am a lunatic. Am I? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know…

I am finally released on my own recognizance. When I walk out into the daylight, Amara is parked in front of the jail.

Part Six

Lonely child with pinpricked and poked flesh…carved covering…sliced skin. Demons be gone! De-part! I will control the pain. Hear me! I will control the pain. I will…I will…I will…

Amara and I exchange few words while she drives me to my house. I’m exhausted, physically sick, and emotionally beaten.

As I walked in the door, Megan comes out of her bedroom, still in her pajamas, and asks, “How are you? Are you all right?”

“I wish I was dead. I’m probably going to lose my job over this.” The legislative session just ended, and I’m off work until the new session starts in January. I’ll deal with work then.

She looks at me. I can tell she’s hesitant to speak. “Um…you’re mom called last night…”

“Fuck her. I have nothing to say to that bitch.” My mother is the last thing I want to deal with. I tried to reach out to her a couple months ago, when everything was starting to spiral out of control. I called to ask her to meet me for coffee, but she was too busy with work. I still don’t know how she couldn’t hear the quivering and panic in my voice when I spoke. She remained light and giddy when she asked me what I wanted to talk about. She trivialized my feelings. She trivialized me. I didn’t want her to do anything she didn’t want to do. “Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal” I told her just before I hung up the phone. I haven’t talked to my mother since.

“She wants you to call her. She said she got your letter.” Yeah, the letter that I wrote the last day I spoke to her. Every bit of my fear, anger, madness and hatred came out in that letter. The penmanship looked as if someone with an 800-pound hand wrote it. My tears left warped spots on the paper, stinging salt signatures. That letter contained all the pain, rejection, and revulsion that she had given me for so many years, and I decided to return to its rightful owner.

“Why does she suddenly want to talk to me now? Did you tell her where I was last night?” Now she wants to talk to me? What about when I sent the letter—almost two months ago? What about before that when I tried to talk to her?

Megan responds with a nervous, “yes.” Her eyes try desperately to understand the bitter, angry, disheveled woman standing in front of her.

“Thanks for the message. I’m going to bed.” As I walk into my room, I lock the door. Dropping onto the bed as if my legs were kicked out from under me, I curl into a tight ball and pull the covers over my head. I don’t cry. I pray that I never wake up. I’m already dead. Long ago I died emotionally and spiritually. What remains is only the casing of a human.

Just as I began to drift to sleep, I hear them laughing. They know they’re defeating me. The demons are having a celebratory party.

Part Seven

It’s early in the evening when I wake up. I drag my damaged, cumbersome body into the kitchen, look for something to saturate Al’s residue—the reminders of our time together last night. Megan, bless her heart, tries to be sympathetic. She tries to talk to me, but I don’t want to talk to anyone. I’m pissed that I’m still alive.

I sit at the table eating when I hear a knock at the door. Megan gets up from the big living room chair and answers the call. It’s my mother. As she walks in, Megan disappears into another room.

“I got your letter,” she says, towering over me as I sit at the kitchen table.

“Oh.” I continue to eat without looking at her.

“What the hell is going on?”

“What do you think?” I respond aggravated. That’s a stupid question. I already know she talked to Megan. “I fucking got arrested. I spent the night in jail, and I’m probably going to lose my job. That’s what’s going on. Fuck.” I won’t look at her. I don’t want her here.

“Look at me please.”

“No. Say what you have to say so you can leave.”

“I want to talk to you about your letter.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Just forget I ever sent it.”

“I’m not going to forget it. Will you talk to me?” My mother is different. I’ve never seen her like this, so calm.

“There’s nothing to talk about. I said all I had to say in that letter.”

“Let’s go have coffee.”

“I don’t want to. I’m going to finish eating, and then I’m going to go back to bed.”

“If I come back in a few hours, will you go have coffee with me?” Is this really my mother? She actually seems like she’s trying. My mother? She isn’t yelling at me. She isn’t screaming at me like she did all those times I did something she didn’t like.

She won’t leave until I either talk to her or agree to meet with her. I do what I need to so I can go back to the safety of my room. “Fine. I don’t care. Whatever.” I say without ever taking my eyes off my plate.

Part Eight

In the nearly vacant pancake diner, my mother sits on one side of the booth, I on the other. The lack of customers makes it feel like they closed the place just for us. We linger, awkward, silently debating what to order, both knowing that it is only a matter of time before we address the real reason for our meeting. Either it’s all gonna come out, or we’re gonna fight. Either way, I don’t care. I stare at the etched glass dividing the booths. I look at the hanging silk ferns. One, two, three. One, two, three. I turn so I can see them all. One, two, three…one, two. Three, six, nine, plus two equals eleven. Eleven hanging plants. I read the signs for special, limited-time-only pancakes. I stare at the empty tables. I look at everything except my mother. I notice the stark contrast of the dark night sky outside the window, and the bright lights inside. I look at the decanters of syrup: pecan, blueberry, boysenberry, and strawberry—the color of blood, thick and sticky. My fingers run over the shapes of the smooth glass containers, the sporadic rough edges on the plastic handles. One, two, three…plus one. Three plus one equals four. Four jars of syrup. Suddenly, without looking up, I said in a low, angry, confrontational tone, “You never comforted me. You never hugged me. You never made me feel safe.”

As she starts to speak, I raise my head to look at her. My eyes shoot darts into the centers of her eyes. “You wouldn’t let me. I tried, but you wouldn’t let anyone near you. You never let anyone touch you.” She looks scared, nervous. Is she hiding something, or is she afraid? Ear, eye, nostril. Nostril, eye, ear. Mouth. One, two, three. One, two, three. One. Three plus three plus one equals seven. Seven holes in a person’s head.

“Did you ever wonder why?” My voice becomes tense. I’m ready to brawl. “I’ll tell you why. Because someone hurt me. That’s why. Someone did things to me that he only should have done with his wife.” I begin to cry. All those tears that for so long were unable to escape have finally found their way out, and they begin to flee in hoards. And, I notice that my mother begins to weep.

“Who? Who hurt you?”

With no hesitation, I blurt out “Your father.” I’m now sobbing. My tears have finally found the voice that has been lost for so long.

My mother’s gaze shifts from me to somewhere unknown. Her head shakes faintly from side to side as she exhales a quick disgusted puff before her eyes return back to mine. “My god. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry.” She begins to cry harder. “I thought you were safe. I really did. Her hands shake as they nervously squeeze her napkin into what looks like a piece of chewed gum. “My earliest memory of him doing it to me was when I was ten.” She looks down at her hands, then she looks back at me. “I thought that I got you out of that house in time.” Suddenly, we are allies. “I thought that by getting you out at three you would be safe.” For the first time, I notice that my mother had beautiful brown eyes that hold their own stories. We are both fighting the same demon. “It all makes sense now,” she says, as if she has just been blessed with an epiphany, “all the behaviors. At times I wondered, but when I tried to hint around about it, you avoided the subject.”

“I blocked a lot of it out.” I say. I find myself surprisingly more comfortable than I was only moments ago. “This summer it started to come back to me. His black hair was oily. He smelled of stale beer and cigars and cheap after shave. I remember the wiry, coarse, curly black hair on his belly, below his navel, and on his legs near his groin. He had scars on his abdomen.”

“Yes.” She looks like she wants to vomit. “Yes…he did...” She can see him too.

“I remember. I remember his body vividly.” We both sit silently, possessed by the memories that haunt us. I break the silence. “I always thought you hated me, that I was a burden, and I hated you for that. I hated that you ever had me. I wondered why you kept me, because I always felt that you didn’t want me.”

My mother looks shocked, but her face becomes confident as she looks into my eyes. “I love you. I have always loved you. I kept you because I wanted you. I tried to get you to let me in, but you were so guarded.” Her hand reaches across the table and rests on my hand. I remember. I remember seeing pictures of my mother and me when I was an infant and a small child. She was holding me and playing with me. She looked proud, so doting, so…happy.

We continue to talk, and I cry, for that little girl who is finally telling her secret. For the girl who has spent so many years alone in her private hell. I cry because I finally have the mother I never felt I had. All my hatred for my mother begins to fade.

I cry for my mother. She has been a pincushion too. Only I learn that he was more violent with her. He raped her until she was eighteen, when she left the house. I learn that in an effort to escape him, she moved away from her parents’ home immediately after high school graduation. She was on her own only a few months when the man she was dating raped her. My father. He is my father—not my dad—my biological father. I have never known him. My mother never knew him either. She found out that everything he presented to her was a façade—his name, address—everything. Finding herself with child and with no means to feed another mouth, she moved back to the only place she could, her parents’ house. We lived there until I was three.

My mother cries with me. We cry because the pain is no longer alone. It has found a way out. We finally understand each other.

“Have you told your grandmother?”

“No. I’ve only told you. I can’t tell her. It’ll kill her. He was her husband. What woman wants to hear that about her husband? Especially when he has been dead for fourteen years.”

“I think she would want to know. I also think that it will make her understand what you’ve been through and why you’ve done the things you have. She loves you very much.”

It’s true that my grandmother loves me. Of her nine grandchildren, I am her favorite. She has been my maternal figure all the years that I have felt no maternal bond with my own mother. She is always there for me. She always let me know that no matter what I do, she loves me. “Would you feel better if I told her? If you want me to, I will.” As painful as the conversation is, it’s also cleansing. My scabs are slowly being picked away allowing the puss to ooze out. Although removing the scabs is painful, the pressure is diminishing with the release of the poison. The pain is dissipating. I am receiving what I have longed for all those years—a mother—my mother—who is nurturing me and caring for me, her scared and hurt baby girl.

Part Nine

Come here little girl. I won’t let him hurt you anymore. I’ll protect you. I love you.

The following day, my mother comes to my house again. Unlike the last time she visited, I am happy to see her. She came to check on me and to just be with me. She also tells me that she called my grandmother.

“What did she say? How did she handle it?”

“She cried. She’s angry at him. She said she’ll never take flowers to his grave again. She also thinks you don’t want to ever talk to her again.”

“Why?”

“Because she was married to him. She blames herself. She thinks she should have known. You really should call her when you get the chance.”

I love you, Mommy.

My mother and I spend the rest of the afternoon together talking and watching television. While I nap, she stays near me. I feel better having her there. I feel safe. Protected. I felt more at peace than I have ever felt in my life.

Part Ten

The Boogey man isn’t real. Besides, if you see him, just tell your mom. He’ll say he’s gonna hurt you if you tell, but really, if you tell, it takes all his power away.

After my mother leaves, I call my grandmother. I am emotionally drained and physically exhausted, more than I ever felt before, but it is a good feeling. I feel that I just engaged in an extensive battle, but that I had walked away victorious. I realize that demons live where snails live—in the dark, in the cold, and in the dirty. They are secretive, and they feed off flowers in bloom. And like snails, you rarely see one’s demons; you only see the trails of devastation they cause.

“Hi, Nana.”

I can tell she’s trying not to cry. “Hi, sweetie.”

“I know my mom talked to you and told you everything. How are you?”

Don’t worry about me. How are you? I hear her fear, her sympathy, and her anger.

“I’m great.”

“How can you be great? She sounds irritated, as if she doesn’t believe what I am saying.

“I’m great because of this. This is good news.”

“How the hell can it be good news? That son of a bitch hurt you. He hurt an innocent child.”

“Exactly. That is the good part. All these years, all my life, I felt crazy. Insane. I thought my madness would kill me, and I wanted to die. Now, I realize that I wasn’t crazy, but rather I was reacting to something someone did to me when I was too small to fight, to afraid to tell. I thought I had a terminal diagnosis. Now I know I don’t. It’s the difference between a malignant tumor and a benign tumor. My tumor is benign. It’s going to take a lot of work to remove it, and there will probably be some scarring, but I can still lead a normal, healthy life.”

“I guess I never looked at it that way, but okay. I’m still pissed at him, and I swear I will never take flowers to his grave again. That bastard!” She cannot conceal the disgust she is feeling. She has no concern for proper language when she is upset. Not only did he betray her, but he hurt me. She asked me, “What are you doing tomorrow?

“Nothing really. Why?”

“I’m going to make pork chops for dinner. Why don’t you come over tomorrow and we’ll have dinner.” I can tell that as much as I need to know she believes me and still loves me, she needs to know I don’t blame her and that I still love her.

Eating isn’t particularly interesting to me at this point, but I know it’s important for her to see me. “Nana, you know I can’t resist your pork chops. What time do you want me to come over?”

“How about five or six?”

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

“Do you need anything?” She asks affectionately. “Are you going to be okay? Do you need me to bring you something, or do you want me to come over?” She asks.

“Thank you, Nana, but I just want to go to bed. All of this has exhausted me. I’m drained, and I want to go to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay. Goodnight.”

“Good night, Nana.”

Later, as I lay awake, drifting off to sleep, I think about everything that is going on. I am throwing away all the pins as I removed them from my cushion. I am also letting the stuffing out so that it no longer holds pins. Yet, I realize you never really get rid of pins. Sometimes they aren’t visible to the naked eye, and you don’t know they are there until you or someone you know is pricked, but they always find a pincushion somewhere to poke themselves into.

Part Eleven

Demons, be gone! You are ordered to leave. You will not haunt this child any longer!

The next day, I go to my grandmother’s house for dinner. As always her pork chops are delectable. After dinner, we watch television. Neither of us mentions her husband. We don’t need to. If I need to talk about it, she will listen, but I also know that with this new knowledge, she is experiencing her own emotional turmoil toward him. We find peace simply being with each other.

As it grows later in the night, I tell my grandmother that I am going to go home. I am tired. We say good-bye, and I walk to my car. I stop, hardly conscious I have done so. I survey the dark and deserted street. I smell an all too familiar odor. Someone is smoking a cigar.

I stand motionless for an instant, before I draw the cool, moist night air into my lungs.

~fin~