Kindred (30 page)

I hate that man.

This is the worst it’s ever been. Both of her arms are pockmarked by purple and grayish-blue bruises. There’s still blood in her nose and I wonder if it’s from before, or if she’s having nosebleeds again. The last time Jeff hit her in the face, her nose bled off and on for a week. There’s an IV machine on the other side of the bed, but they must’ve removed it recently because there are no little tubes running from it to her, and I notice the bend of her arm has been taped with gauze and dressing tape.

Her swollen head falls to the side so she can look at me, but she doesn’t make eye contact. She stares toward the wall instead.

“How did this happen, Mom?”

I know how it happened, but I want her to say it. I want her to tell me the truth because if she does, if she can find the courage to admit it, it could mean that she’s finally had enough. And I would do anything to help her. All of my savings, the money I have left on the credit card Aunt Bev gave to me—I would use it all to move her away from Jeff, even if I had to find her a place near me in Maine. And if it came down to it, I would ask Uncle Carl and Aunt Bev to let her stay with us just long enough to get her on her feet.

My mom still can’t look at me.

“Oh, I was bein’ stupid; you know me and the outdoors.”

My heart sinks, but I just go along with it. I don’t want to upset her.

“Well, tell me what happened,” I say softly, feeling as though I’m just lying to myself for the sake of her mental well-being. “Where were you and who were you with?”

She looks fully at me now, letting her face rest against the pillow and I see a faint smile hiding in her eyes, feeling more confident that she has successfully misled me. She tries to smile more noticeably, but her face is so swollen that the slightest lifting of her lips causes discomfort.

“Me and Jeff,” she says, “We went out to Beezo’s place to camp for a few days. You know how them bluffs are, honey. I never did like doin’ that crazy stuff, but Jeff talked me into it. I jumped off the smallest one, but just because it’s small don’t mean nothin’.”

I know she’s lying. I’m used to it.

It takes everything in me to hold back the things I want to say, the things I’ve said to her so many times over the years she’s been with him. But as I look at her, I see nothing but resignation in her eyes, the same kind you see in the eyes of someone who has simply given up. They smile and seem at peace, completely accepting of the death that’ll soon claim them because they have no more fight left in them.

My mother lost her fight long ago. Only now, as I sit next to her and brush her dark, chocolate-colored hair just like mine away from her forehead, do I see it.

And I can’t fight her anymore because…when it comes to this, like her, I have no fight left.

Though my heart is shattered by my mom for the last time, I can’t do anything but let the pain and disappointment run its course.

“Where’s Alexandra?”

I look up at the television mounted on the wall and stare at the six o’clock news, watching the weatherman’s lips move as he points at Fulton County, smiling at the obvious rain-free radar.

I swallow the painful lump in my throat and say, “She’s with her new friends mostly these days.”

“Oh,” she says and her voice trails as if lost in some conflicting thought. “Well, what have
you
been doing? Is Carl treating you good?” I can easily detect how much pain she’s in when every few words the corners of her swollen eyes crinkle and she pauses to let the pain move through her.

“I’ve been great,” I say smiling down at her, hoping that maybe words of my life not being as bad as hers might make her feel better. “And Uncle Carl is wonderful. But he’s in a wheelchair now.”

“Really?” she says and it stings a little that she never  knew about this sooner, that she has given up even her sense of caring and concern for family, for Jeff. “How’d that happen?”

“Car accident. Last November.”

“Oh,” she says again, as if it’s the only word she knows.

A tiny burning pain shoots through my jaw and I notice I’ve been sitting here grinding my teeth as I listen to my mother. Hearing nothing in her words that suggests love, nothing in her eyes screams out to me saying she’s a wounded soul trapped in that battered body. And it’s starting to infuriate me.

Nine months and not one phone call. Not a single one. Pictures of all the times in the past when my mother let Jeff get away with treating her like tossed-out trash moves through my memory. And when he would yell at Alex and me, taking his anger toward us out on the things that meant the most to us. Jeff was why Alex kept her Precious Moments collection from our great-grandmother hidden in that box. Because she knew Jeff would shatter them against the walls. And the few times that Jeff did put his hands on me and my sister, when he thought that we were as weak-minded as our mother and would let him get away with it. I fight back the urge to cry. Not because of Jeff. Not because he’s an abusive bastard that deserves to die a lonely, painful death from an eroded liver. Not because the entire life of my teenage years were stripped from me because of him.

I fight back the urge to cry because my mother let him get away with it all.

Jeff didn’t take my mother away from me.

She let me go.

“How’d you get here anyway?” she says weakly, but I’m not really hearing her.

I look back down at her and try to see if I can remember anything from my childhood, from before the time when things changed. And I do see it. I look past the bruises and the blood crusted in her nostrils. I see far beyond the black eyes and swollen skin and I see the Rhonda Dawson that used to love me. The mother that used to sit with me between her legs while she braided my long hair. When she used to set her old makeup out on the vanity on purpose so that I would be tempted to try it. Because I wanted to be as pretty as her. And she would laugh and snap pictures of my face covered in mascara and lipstick. And I see all the times she drove with me and Alex to the ocean in Savannah. We were strapped in our seatbelts in the back seat with coloring books in our laps, while she tortured us with Patti Smith and The Doors music that we pretended to hate, but secretly loved. Because
she
loved them.

I could never hate my mother, no matter what she’s done, or what she allowed my sister and me to go through. I could never hate her not only because she’s my mother, but because she has abused
herself
all these years and doesn’t know herself anymore. Because like any human being, all she’s ever wanted in her life was love and she did anything for it, even if it wasn’t right. Even if the love she was chasing wasn’t love at all, but something sinister only pretending to be love.

She had it all along. Alex and I loved her more than the world. She had it all along, but she couldn’t see it. She still doesn’t see it and I know now that she never will.

I hear the door open and I breathe in fast to suck back the tears that had been rising to the surface.

I don’t even see Jeff, but I know that it’s him; I can sense him like a dark, loathsome shadow moving along the wall behind me. And I can smell the oil and engine muck lingering on his clothes.

And my mom’s face lights up.

A pained smile covers the entirety of her face, the kind of smile I should’ve seen when
I
walked through that door.

I can’t cry. I’m hurting so much right now that I can’t even cry. This pain is beyond tears.

I stand up from the chair and pull my purse and duffle bag over my left shoulder. I still don’t look at Jeff, but I know he’s standing near the television by the wall.

“I have to go, Mom,” I say, leaning over and hugging her carefully. “I love you. You get better, okay?” But I know my words are hollow.

She strains to hug me back; the smell of rubbing alcohol rises up in my nose as she moves her arm around me and then just as quickly lets it fall away.

“Long time, no see,” Jeff says. “How’ve you been?”

I look over at him. He stands holding a bouquet of flowers next to where his heart is supposed to be. He’s smiling faintly, but it’s so easy to see that right now he’s sober and hopes that either I believe the lie he knows my mom told me or that I’ll leave quietly and not cause a scene; maybe even forgive him. I don’t need to be a Praverian to know what he’s thinking, how he’s rehearsing his lines for my mom about how sorry he is and that he’ll never do it again. And I don’t need to be a psychic to know that my mom is about to tell him that she believes him and that she forgives him.

I walk toward Jeff and his smile gets a little bigger, but underneath it he knows the disingenuous effort is wasted.

Without a word or a single discernible expression on my face, I pull back my fist and bury it in his head. His skinny body collides abrasively against the wall and the flowers tumble tumultuously from his hands, scattering on the floor beneath him like dead promises. Absolute shock freezes his expression in place. He doesn’t speak and neither do I.

Slowly he brings up his hand, wiping the blood from his broken nose, but never takes his stunned eyes off me.

I walk past him and right out the opened door. Two nurses are standing at the counter watching me with big eyes and surprised faces. The one with blond hair, pulled up into a ponytail, passes me an applauding smile and I step inside the nearby elevator.

I don’t see much of anything on my way through the maze-like halls of the hospital as I make my way out. I don’t hear the same housekeeper asking me if I found my way alright as I pass her again now on the first floor. Every sight and sound blends into one another; voices are subdued behind a thick curtain of thoughts swirling around inside my head. But I don’t see any of those, either. It’s like that
one
memory of my mother smiling down at my clown-like face with the camera clasped in her hand has frozen in my mind.

But I force it out and replace it with Beverlee’s face staring down at me with all of the love that my mother gave up.

I push myself down the last long stretch of hallway and I don’t really notice how much it’s moving, how the walls are swaying in and out. The early evening sunlight soon to slip behind the horizon shines dimly out ahead, making the EXIT sign more visible above the tall glass doors.

I make it to them, stepping out and into the Georgia heat. The white concrete seems vast and endless and I feel like I’m standing in an ocean of smooth cement. The thin clouds streaking across the sky appear so close. Everything around me is larger than before: the towering glass walls of the hospital, the landscaping, the blacktop parking lot. I feel so small underneath the sky as it begins to close in all around me from every side.

I hear voices: “Miss? Are you alright?” And feel a hand clutching my elbow.

But the ground seems to pull out from underneath me, sending me crashing to my knees. Cars and people’s legs and rust-colored clay flower pots all spin around in a haze of brisk, chaotic movement.

I lay on my back against the hot concrete as everything goes still, my gaze fixated on the sky, lost in some other place where painful memories are forbidden. Voices are moving all around me, but I see no one, at least not their faces. Their bodies crowd around mine like a mass of fabric and shoes and I just stare up at the sky until my eyelids shut out the world.

22

A DULL AND STEADY
beep
,
beep
,
beep
sounds nearby, constant and slow like dripping water. Something squeezes my arm so tight that for a moment it’s the only part of my body that I can feel. Crushing pressure. It slowly eases, allowing the blood to flow through the rest of my body again. Another series of different beeps chime in my head. It feels like there’s fire in my throat and I try to call out for water, but I don’t think my lips are moving. I smell potent cleaners and body lotion and hospital soap and plastic.

My legs feel bare and exposed, though warm underneath a heavy swath of fabric. My feet are cold and the sheet I’m lying on feels unnatural against my skin; stiff like starched cotton, and it smells new, right out of the package.

Something’s in my arm, like an oblong knot preventing me from bending at the elbow. I feel something similar in the top of my hand; a rubbery tube moving along my vein. Something sticky is pressed over it, pinching my skin into an unnatural fold causing the area around it to itch.

“Miss Lancaster?” I hear a woman’s voice say from somewhere above me. “Liv Lancaster, can you hear me, hon?”

I don’t know who these people are, or why it sounds like they’re talking to me, but as I come around I become more desperate to find out.

“She’s waking up,” the same voice says as if to someone else in the room.

My eyelids are heavy, as though some invisible weight lies over them, but I manage to open them a slit. The overhead light is blinding and I squint them shut quickly and try again with my gaze looking downward this time. The room begins to come together in a series of indistinct objects that take many long seconds to become clear to me.

A black and white clock is mounted on the wall next to the television. I can hear it ticking so loudly in my ears, and the toilet water running in the nearby restroom until it cuts off with a
thu-rump
. There’s a giant window covered by thick, gray curtains, but I can make out that it’s dark on the other side of them, maybe very early morning. At the foot of the hospital bed is a tall rectangular table made to slide perfectly over the bed and my lap. A fat, clear container sits on top of it with a fancy lid and a rigidly-shaped straw poking from the top. The outside of the cup sweats, a pool of water forming underneath it.