Chapter 25
Mireya
Past
Play - Forwards beckon rebound by Adrienne Lenker
Look at how you made me
Mama left a month ago. Dad said that she was weak and didn’t want us enough to stay alive. He never tried to lie about her. He just told me that she killed herself and I didn’t understand at first.
How could someone kill themselves?
I just asked him to call her, but he laughed before opening a new bottle saying, “She’s fucking dead, Reya. She committed suicide.”
Suicide.
I didn’t know what that meant. I thought about it for days.
It sounded too big and strange, so at first I thought it was a place.
I thought maybe if I drew a map that shows the way home and left it on the table, maybe she would find it and come back.
I tried to leave the heart I made her to help her find her way back to me, like she promised.
Then I asked Miss Edna at school, and she just hugged me and cried.
She said that suicide was a word adults use when someone decides to stop living, that her body stopped working on purpose and that she won’t come back. She said she was sorry.
I asked her if I made her do it, if I made her sad enough for her to stop wanting to be here forever. But she explained to me that grown ups can feel like they can’t handle things anymore so they make that choice.
Miss Edna told me that kids don’t make parents decide that.
But I wanted to know if it hurt her and she just told me she was already hurting inside and no matter what it wasn’t my fault.
I’m hurt inside too. I have a lot of bruises now that Mom is gone, more than before because Dad started drinking more and he’s getting angrier.
Maybe I could stop too, stop everything and see if Mom is happier now that she’s dead.
Milo hiccuped against my chest, one of his sticky fingers reached out to touch my skin and I smiled. Who would tuck Milo in? Who would give him food and play with him if I’m not here anymore?
He’s falling asleep in my arms and I feel bad for my thoughts.
If I left, Milo would wake up and cry, he would reach for my shirt with his tiny fist and nothing would be there. Dad would shout and his face would scare him, he’d probably slam something or even hurt Milo.
I press my cheek against his head and I’m angry at myself. I’m small, I’m still little, and I can’t fix Dad’s face but I can keep Milo from hurting.
The front door cracks open and Dad walks in. He stayed here all week because he didn’t have to go to work. My heart starts beating hard for no reason. It feels funny, like when you’re not sleeping entirely because you’re scared of something that doesn't even exist.
I squeeze Milo like he's a stuffed animal that might fly away. His little face is warm under my chin. I hugged him so tight my arms hurt.
Dad asks, "You okay?" and I want to tell him I don't know why I feel weird, but I say "Yeah" because my voice sounds small in my chest.
He goes to the sink and rinses his hands. I keep holding Milo because holding him feels safe and right and I don't know what else to do.
There’s a bowl on the counter and Dad picks it up before turning toward me. “What the fuck is that?”
I don’t know what to answer because it seems clear that it’s Milo’s food. But dad doesn't like it when I don’t reply. He throws the bowl on the table, food splatters against the walls, the ceramic pieces of the bowl crash to the ground and Milo wakes suddenly with a big cry.
“Shh, calm down, Mils,” I whisper to him. I know Dad hates it when he’s crying.
“YOU WOKE HIM UP BECAUSE YOU’RE SHAKING!” he screams at me, and I don’t know what to do. Milo is a baby; he gets scared when Dad screams or breaks things.
He’s just a baby.
“Dad… Please, h-he gets scared when it’s loud.”
He looks right at me, but his eyes aren’t soft. They never seemed soft. He looks tired and angry. “I don’t give a fuck. Look at this mess,” he says, but it’s not just about the bowl; he points at Milo’s toys and my little notebook where I draw.
He grabs my cheeks and squeezes, his fingers feel rough sitting on top of my skin. It hurts, but I don’t know why, I just want to cry. So I squeeze my lips together and hold Milo tighter.
“You’re fucking disgusting.”
It’s okay. I just have an angry dad, it’s okay.
“You'd better clean this mess,” he says releasing me, then he stomps out and drives away. I don't even know where he's going.
I try to stop the tears and breathe as Miss Edna taught me in class. In for 4 seconds, then out for 6 seconds.
In, then out.
In, then out…
I stand up with Milo in my arms, but it always hurts to hold him for too long. He’s growing up. I walk slowly because if I go too fast I will drop him and it will be worse than dad's yelling.
In my room I pull off his socks and tuck his toes under the blanket. I kiss his cheek because that's what I always do and because kissing fixes small things even if it can't fix big things. I kiss his forehead too and a hot tear drop falls down my face and I don't wipe it.
Milo makes a little snort and his eyes close.
“Sleep, baby,” I whisper. “You're safe with me.”
I creep to the bathroom and shut it so Milo can’t hear me. The light’s too bright, so I turn it low and sit on the cold toilet. My hands are shaking and I press them to my face until they’re wet. I cry loud at first, then little hiccups. I don’t know why I’m crying.
Maybe I’m just like mom. Sad. I am sad.
“Mom… Mom… Dad is still angry even now that you left.”
No one answers me.
“Mom?”
I know she won't answer. I open my eyes again and look up. Her makeup bag sits on the sink. I've never moved it because I always think she'll come back and need it.
It's blue, my favorite color.
I get up and open it. Her lipstick is there, and there's a small star-shaped box.
I open it and see blades, new ones. I've already caught Mom using them, after she's had too much to drink or Dad has hurt her. The first time I saw her use them was when Dad's friend came out of my room and my pajamas were ripped and my pants were bleeding.
She had cut herself on the back of her arms.
I never understood why she did it, but if it hurt before and she smiled afterward, maybe that would help me too?
I take one and try to do it on a hidden part of my body; I don't want Dad to see them, even though he wouldn't care. I try it first on the tip of my finger and it stings; it turns red and I see my blood flowing down my skin. It doesn’t hurt.
What will happen if I do this? Would it help?
I pull my shorts up a little and start on my thigh.
One line, then a second.
And I breathe, I concentrate on what it feels like. It helps, strangely enough, it helps. The bad feeling is stopping, and I don't cry anymore, everything is slow. I do it again on the other thigh, and I close my eyes.
I shouldn't tell anyone, not even Hayzel.
This is a secret.
I don't know how bad this is, I only know the noise stopped, for the first time, it's quiet.
“Now I understand Mom…” I whisper to no one. “It does make you feel happier.”