Chapter Twelve #3
Dad stalks over to where Mom lies. Crouching down by her head, he snakes his muscled arms under her armpits until his hands lock together across her chest. Her limp body shifts slightly and her head lolls to the side.
"Grab her by the ankles. That's where you'll get the best grip with dead weight." Most fathers teach their sons how to throw a curveball or to change a tire, not the most effective way to move a corpse. "The legs are heavier than you think. You’ll need a firm hold or she'll slip."
I bend down, trying to steady my hands as they hover over her, just above her feet.
Slowly, I wrap a hand around each ankle.
The moment my fingers make contact with her skin, I notice how warm her skin is and bile surges up my throat.
I drop her feet like they've burned me and run to the trash can, violently emptying my stomach.
"Jesus Christ." He spits the words out like they taste bad.
"You should really be thanking me for this.
Your mother did nothing but coddle you. Turned you into a little pussy.
All the bedtime stories and kisses on your boo boos, that shit did nothing but make you weak.
With her out of the way, maybe now your balls will finally fucking drop.
Now get over here and get this shit done.
I only have one to two hours before rigor starts to set in. "
I turn around, wiping my mouth on my sleeve, the acidic taste of vomit still burning my throat.
I've never felt more rage inside of me than I do right now—it’s coursing through my body like a white-hot current of hatred.
I ball my hands into fists so tight my nails dig half-moons into my palms. I focus all that hate on Dad and his smug face, trying not to think about what I'm about to do, or whose body I'm touching.
I take deep breaths trying to calm myself before I crouch down and grab my mom's ankles again. This time I grip them firmly like he instructed. Dad takes her under the arms, and together we carry her body through the house. The short walk feels never ending. The old floorboards beneath the carpet creak under our shuffling feet as we make our way into the bathroom. Her head bounces against Dad’s chest unnaturally as we navigate the doorway, and I have to swallow back another surge of nausea.
We lower her into the bathtub, her upper body landing with a sickening thud when Dad drops her in.
Her limbs fall at awkward angles, nothing like how a person would naturally lie.
I can't tear my eyes away from her face. I’ll never again see the way her face lights up when I walk through the door after school, or feel her cheek pressed against mine when she hugs me goodnight.
I’ll never see her face again after this.
"Get her cleaned up," Dad orders as he looks at himself in the mirror above the bathroom sink, polishing the gold badge on his chest with a hand towel.
"When you're finished, come and get me. I'll do what needs done with her body before I call the boys at the station.
" His eyes sweep over my mom one last time, filled with nothing but cold contempt.
"I'll have to find something to eat for dinner now.
She couldn't even bother to have a hot meal ready for me when I came home.
Good fucking riddance to the ungrateful cunt.
" His fingers linger on the polished metal for a few moments before he tosses the hand towel he was using onto the sink and leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
I kneel beside the tub, my knees pressing painfully into the cold tile floor, looking at my mom.
Her eyes are still open, staring back at me, but they don’t look like my mom’s eyes.
They are just empty and hollow now. I reach up, my fingers shaking so badly I can barely control them and close her eyelids.
When I do, my hand runs over something slimy smeared across her face.
I look around, noticing the same substance on her right hand, crusted under her fingernails and in the creases of her palm.
It's the mayo off the butter knife she had in her hand.
The same one she used to spread the mayo on my sandwich earlier.
I scramble on my hands and knees across the room, my body convulsing with violent, empty heaves into the toilet bowl.
There's nothing left to come up. I already emptied the contents of my stomach earlier.
I grip the cold porcelain, waiting for the spasms to stop.
When they finally subside, I pull myself up on shaky legs using the sink edge.
I splash cold water on my face and rinse my mouth out.
Then I reach into the cabinet beside the tub and pull out a soft, blue washcloth.
I wet it under the faucet, then return to her side, kneeling again beside her.
I begin to clean her face, gently wiping away the mayonnaise smeared across her face.
I'm careful around her eyes, I don’t want to hurt her.
My hand freezes when the realization hits me that it doesn't matter anymore. She can't feel anything—she’s dead.
I notice bits of food tangled in her dark hair, remnants from the dirty dishwater he forced her face into.
One by one, I pick them out, dropping each piece into the small wicker trash can.
Her hair is a mess. I know she wouldn't want anyone to see her like this.
Mom was always so particular about her appearance, even when it was just us at home.
"It's okay, Mom," I whisper. "I'll fix it for you."
I reach for her hairbrush on the counter, the silver one with her initials engraved on the back that Grandma had given her.
Carefully, I begin to work through the wet tangles, starting at the ends just like she did.
Stroke after stroke, I smooth her hair back from her face, arranging it the way she wore it—parted slightly off-center, framing her face.
"I think you'd like how I brushed it, Mom. I hope so, anyway. I tried to make it real pretty like you did." I loop a strand of her hair around my finger a few times. I used to do this when I was little. I loved the feel of the soft strands slipping around my fingers.
I’m not ready to say goodbye. I never will be. I don't want to leave her .
I sit with my back pressed against the bathroom wall, parallel with the porcelain tub.
I intertwine my fingers with hers, noticing that her skin is beginning to grow cool to the touch.
Her wedding ring catches in the light streaming through the blinds, the tiny diamond still sparkling.
I hold her hand like this for what feels like hours but is really only minutes.
I try memorizing every line and crease of her palm.
Then I close my eyes trying to focus on the feel of her hand in mine, hoping to burn the feeling into my memory so I never forget.
"I'm half of you and half of him—half good and half evil," I whisper.
"Like those psychology books you used to read said, nature versus nurture.
When I'm a little older, I'm going to do some things you won't like.
Terrible things. If you're watching over me from wherever you are, you'll probably think I'm a monster for doing them.
Just like him. You'll be right to think that, I will be.
I want you to know I'll be a better man than him because of you.
The parts of you I have in me will make sure of that.
I'll never treat a woman or child the way he's treated us.
I'll never make someone feel small or scared or worthless.
Not unless they deserve it. When I'm bigger, I won't let anyone else do it either.
That's why I have to kill him. It's the only way to make things right—or as right as things can be now. "
I turn my head to look at my mom's face, half-expecting to see her disapproving frown, to hear her remind me that violence isn't the answer.
I wish more than anything that she could still scold me, still guide me away from whatever I feel growing inside of me.
But she can't, and that's exactly why I have to do this.
"I don't know how Dad plans on getting away with this, but we both know he will.
His buddies at the station will help him cover it up, just like they've done with everything else.
They'll probably try to sell this as another tragic accident.
That's why they all have to die too, Mom. Every single one of them who helped him or looked the other way. It's not the evil part of me saying this, Mom. It’s the part of me that knows right from wrong, the part you nurtured knows he has to pay for everything he’s done.
The evil side of me? That's just the tool I'll use to get it done. The monster I'll need to become."
I shift my weight back onto my knees and smooth down her hair one last time.
"I’m sorry I let you down, Mom. I was a coward, too weak to try to protect you when you needed me.
Never again, I’ll make sure he pays for every bruise, every broken bone, every tear.
They all will. They are just as guilty as he is.
I know this isn't what you'd want for me, but it's the only path for me to take. I’m the only person who knows the truth of what happened to you.
I'll never be able to make it right, but I promise I will get justice for you. I'm going to send them all to hell for you. One by one until there isn't anyone left standing but me. Try not to be upset that I'm going to end up in hell with them. It's where I should be. I deserve it."
I grip my mother's hand one more time. "I promise, I'll show him what hell is like before I send him there. What's coming for him is long overdue. I'm coming for all of them."