Mother/Sister
by Marianne Renn
Why me? At twenty-six, I am the keeper of the heart, the holder of the
ties that bind us together. I didn't ask, I inherited the task from Mom. And
just like her, I wouldn't refuse.
Help. I am in a hospital for the criminally
insane. Cindy's dead and the baby is with her grandmother. I don't
know what's happening.
Scott
The world is spinning and the children
have to be fed, four mouths constantly open — He is ranting. — driven to
school, homework drills. — He
will stand trial when his mind clears. Washing,
ironing and wondering what I will do.
They have taken away my pictures, I have no pictures. Do
you hate me? I don't have pictures of Cindy and the baby. I don't know what's
happening. Can you help me?
Scott
I spoke to Scott. He is really whacked out. I'm glad
Mom didn't live to see this. Don't go up there. Wait until the trial. He might
need someone then. They should execute him for what he's done. It's probably
all the drugs he took. He's still getting the LSD flashbacks. He's better off
dead.
David
What should I do? How can I help? Where is his baby?
Curtains billow in warm winds, blow dust through the
screen and shift the blank sheet of paper I am trying to fill with the right
words. Mom is dead. Why isn't she here to do this, instead of me? Sage from
the hills flavors the breeze, brings sweet memories of my brother as he creates
for my sister and me the story of the little girl who lives in the
cake. Every night, before we sleep we beg him for more. He is nine and his
patience is endless. – The pretty yellow flowers of my curtain shimmer in
their white polyester field, flutter up and then down.
The baby is up here in the hands of the Religious
Right who will raise her to know what an evil, corrupt man her father was—is.
Her grandmother
His blood runs in her veins. Will she hate herself? Hate
that part of her that is him? How will she grow in hate? Will she know the
good person he used to be? Before the drugs. – I have to cook dinner and the laundry waits.
Row on row of white cloth flutters, dries in
the hot sun, the ultra-violet germ killer. It burns the microscopic
violators of my children's skin. It warms my arms and hair, so I sit and soak
up the magic rays until they burn little patterns in red patches on my open
arms. I retreat inside, to hide.
How do I feel? What is stirring inside? Push it
down. Everyone is looking to me to be the glue. I can't run away from this. (Where
is my sister? Twenty-three and married three years, she could help. Why always
me, and she gets to ride free?)
Don't come to the trial. I am ashamed and I don't want
anyone there. I don't know what it will be like. It's a little
town deep in the forest. It may be dangerous. The townspeople might turn
on you. Don't come; I'll be fine.
Can you take the baby?
Scott
How do I feel? He can't be Not Guilty by Reason of
Insanity. What does that mean? He did it; he's guilty. How can I comfort him
when he has done such a horrible thing?
The heavy pen moves slowly across the paper, stumbles
on the perfect raised flower, on the plastic tablecloth underneath. I trace
around and around it, but I can't find the words. I must find the words. He is
waiting for me to tell him I forgive him, but how can I forgive him? Can
someone else write this for me? But I mustn't let down. Start again. Fight the feeling.
Don't look around, just straight ahead.
I feel so bad. I am better off dead. The rest of
my life I will remember what I did. I will never escape. I want them
to kill me.
Scott
Details. The details. I can't know the details. I'm
afraid of the words that will switch on the anger. – Math drills, reading drills, and Mommy and
Me preschool class. –The rifle was so small. Only to kill
rabbits. – Not yet three, my
daughter's small pudgy arms encircle and comfort her twin brother, who cries. She
is strong and waits to hand him off to me then runs to play. I dry
his tears, stand near, and tell him one day he will be brave,
like her. – How could she die from one small bullet? – I have to feed the children
and wash all the sheets. They all wet the bed last night. – How
could this happen? To us.
I hope they keep him in for the rest of his life.
There is no way he should ever get out. He took a person's life. That's
unforgivable.
David
We will go to court to fight for the baby. She needs
protection from the memories, the gossip, the bias. Don't tell the children. Not yet. Just
wash them and feed them and drive them to school, and keep up the drills.
What do I feel? Thy will be done. Thy will? My will? His
will? Why will I have to take on this burden? Why won't my sister? She
is riding on me. Will David? No, David will disinfect his hands, wash his
conscience clean. No help with the lawyer's fees, I will work at night, then
get up and feed the children, and drive them to school, and do the laundry,
and cook the meals, and pick them up, and go back to work. Why me? Let
this cup pass from me. Thy will be done. No one offers to help. They let
me. I will be strong and will be strong. They will let me be strong.
Raindrops pour down the windshield as I wait in the
parking lot after work, in the middle of the night, for the squall to blow
over so I can go home to sleep. Large, round, wet, insistent, they pound the
shell around me, and I wait, hoping they will go away. But the weariness
is stronger, and I drive, slowly, with wipers whipping back and forth, showing
me a small opening in the storm, and I head through it and hope it will lead me
home.
When you pick up the baby can you bring her to see me?
I haven't seen her since I turned myself in and gave her to the police to
take to her grandmother. What does she look like? I would really love to see
her.
Scott
The baby. Her huge green eyes stare at me, and the
long dark lashes flutter down then up. His blood, my blood, Mom's and Dad's. And
the blood of her dead mother. All of us in one small being. She is in my arms,
warm and soft and beautiful. Eyes wide, trusting me to provide, and the love
pours unbidden like milk from my breast. And
from that moment she is mine. We fly
away and she doesn't cry. She looks happy and curious. But I worry she will
scream, "Who are you? You aren't my mother!" And will she know Scott?
And will she remember that day? She wasn't there. She has nothing to remember.
The building is red brick and the doors are locked so
we knock. We knock to get in. The others shuffle, they mumble, they stare, on
meds. I hold the baby tight. But Scott looks normal and happy to see his baby. She
has nothing to remember, but he tells me at six months she screamed, and he
smacked and smacked her bottom until she emptied her bowels in temper. At that
moment I hate him. But I mustn't. I am the glue who holds us together — the keeper
of the heart, the holder of the ties. I will be strong. Will be strong.
So I smile at him but pull her close, and vow he will
never, ever hurt her again.
* * * * *
Marianne
Renn lives in southern California and enjoys reading, writing, traveling, and
her family. After teaching writing to college students for twenty years, she’s
finally enjoying the freedom to explore her own work.
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