Chapter 38
“Moreover, my father, see the skirt of thy robe in my hand: for in that I cut off the skirt of thy robe, and killed thee not, know thou and see that there is neither evil nor transgression in mine hand, and I have not sinned against thee; yet thou huntest my soul to take it. The LORD judge between me and thee, and the LORD avenge me of thee: but mine hand shall not be upon thee. As saith the proverb of the ancients, Wickedness proceedeth from the wicked: but mine hand shall not be upon thee.”
I finish the Bible verse and close the old book as my mother hums quietly in her rocking chair. The repetitive motion lulls me into a state of calmness.
“I like when you read that story, Stefan, David is my favorite. ”
I squeeze my eyes shut when she says my name.
It’s been a long time since I heard her call me that.
The memories of long before she met my stepfather and our lives became tangled in chaos and death.
The times when she would read stories to me about King David, a shepherd boy and musician who became a powerful warrior, conquering the enemies and uniting tribes, but also a man who committed significant sins.
Images of me curled up in my bed with her sitting on the edge, our Bible open on her lap, rereading the story of David, convincing me that one day I could be like him. Faithful, a warrior, a servant to the religion she clung to in the wake of my father’s untimely death.
Little does she know that, like David, I’ve sinned.
I remember the tales of him killing 200 men.
The shocking horror I felt as a small boy learning that David cut off the foreskins of his enemies to present to his potential father-in-law.
My mother would certainly not be pleased to know that while I’m no faithful servant to god, I ended up having a lot in common with David.
I, too, have killed and removed skin, more like the entire genitals of my enemies, but not to offer up as a bride-price.
My sins are committed in the name of the only god I serve. Revenge.
I reopen the book and continue reading, enjoying the smile on her face. Usually, she looks at me in confusion, in horror. Most days, there is zero recognition on her face that her son visits her every week.
But today is a good day for her. Despite her early onset of Dementia, she has moments of lucidity, and memories of her past bubble out of her mouth.
Moments where no time has passed. Her daughter is still an innocent 12-year-old.
My father is still alive. We still attend church, dressed in our finest. She recognized me immediately when I arrived, smiling at me, asking how my day at school was.
To her, I’m still in high school, on the cusp of manhood, desperate to save money to find a way for us to leave the man who held us hostage.
Her Dementia started not long after Mikey was killed.
The memory loss made simple tasks harder for her.
She couldn’t remember her shifts. She left the stove on multiple times, causing small fires in our minuscule kitchen.
Eventually, she lost her job and seemed to withdraw into herself.
But the worst was when she started leaving the house, unable to find her way home, wandering our neighborhood until a neighbor or one of the gang members found her.
It was Ivory who called me the day she drove into a tree.
Called me crying that our mother was in the hospital.
I paid people to take care of her, but soon she became too aggressive, and I had to put her in a home.
My options were limited to facilities. Many lacked the necessary equipment to address her needs.
I set the Bible back on the bedside table, next to her glasses. A rush of nostalgia hits me. They are similar to the ones she always wore when I was growing up. I look around, at peace that she’s here. Clean and well-maintained by experts who ensure she’s safe.
I sit on her bed and pick up the stuffed animal.
A horse called Tubby because of its rotund tummy.
It belonged to Ivory. I won it for her at a local carnival when she was only four years old.
We both looked forward to the carnival that came to our neighborhood of Washington Park every fall, which would park in the abandoned parking lot of a closed-down strip mall.
It was run by the local church. The rides were garbage, old and rusted, but the games and food were decent.
Every fall, I took Ivory until the fall of her 13th birthday, when I tried to get her to leave her room.
She refused, staying locked away. I can still hear her broken voice, whispering. “I’m not a kid anymore, Stef.”
I turn the stuffed toy in my hands. Ivory used to play with it all the time as a child.
I touch the damage. One of its yellow plastic eyes is missing.
Some of the stuffing in one leg is long gone.
Lifting it, I wonder if I can catch the smell of my sister.
The Bath and Body Works spray and lotion she begged me to buy every time we went to the mall.
It’s ridiculous to think it would still smell like my 12-year-old sister.
After her assault, she rarely played with it.
The night she screamed angry words to my mother and me, Come back, vicious in their clarity. We’d been eating dinner. My stepfather had been gone for weeks. Unbeknownst to my mother, he hadn’t abandoned her like she thought. He was rotting in a deep grave. His head and hands burned.
It was my mother who found Tubby abandoned in the garbage. When she asked Ivory about it, Ivory angrily told her that stuffed animals were for babies, that it was time to grow up.
The slam of her bedroom door in my mind was like it was yesterday.
“What happened?”
My mother turned to me, and I refused to look her in the eye. “Nothing. She doesn’t want the toy anymore. It’s not a big deal.”
“No. It’s something else. Tell me, Stefan. I know something happened. Where is Mikey?”
“Gone,” I grunt. Gone like the piece of garbage that he is, I whisper to myself.
“What do you mean, gone?” Her body started to shake, and she rubbed her hands.
“I mean he’s never coming back!” I shout, standing. “I made sure of it.”
“Did you hurt him, Stefan?”
I continue to eat my spaghetti, not giving her an answer.
“Stefan? Tell me.”
“I didn’t do anything he didn’t have coming.”
“Oh my god. Did he hurt Ivory?”
I refused to answer her then and gripped my fork harder, my 17-year-old body vibrating with rage and guilt.
Yes, Mikey hurt her. He raped her, repeatedly.
He destroyed her. He made a twelve-year-old wait in terror that her period would come, that she wouldn’t be pregnant by her mother’s husband.
When Ivory finally told me she wasn’t pregnant, I held her as she cried in relief.
The memory of me praying that he didn’t give her some awful STD still haunts me.
My mind goes back to watching my overworked and tired mother, realizing that her daughter had been hurt by the man she had married.
“Is she okay?”
I wanted to comfort her, but there was anger in me, too. Disgust at her for her choices.
Finally, I looked at my mother and stood up, feeling decades older than a teenager. “No, mom. She’s not, and she probably never will be again.” I walked out, leaving her slumped in her chair, hugging Ivory’s stuffed animal.
“Ivory used to love this thing,” I say absently, pushing the terrible memories of the day my mother finally accepted the monster she inadvertently brought into our lives.
I run my rough palms along the matted fur, my calloused, weathered skin catching on the fibers.
I wonder if my mother sleeps with it at night.
“What are you doing!”
The shout has me looking up at my mother. Her face is no longer serene, mottled red in rage. She moves back to the wall, cowering when I step forward, holding out my hand.
“Put it down! It’s mine!”
“Okay, okay. See? I put it back.” I rest Tubby back on her bed and try to keep my voice calm. “It’s okay. It’s me, Stefan, remember? Your son. I won’t hurt you.”
She shakes her head, her eyes wide. “No. No! No! Mikey! You look like him! Stay back!” I grind my teeth, remembering the tattoos on my stepfather’s arms. “I don’t know you. I don’t know you! Get out!”
“Ma, please.”
“No! No! Get out! I don’t know you!” She jerkily moves to her dresser, throwing things in my direction. A bottle of lotion, her deodorant, her body shaking. “Don’t come near me! I’m tired of you hitting me. Sick and tired, you hear me!?”
My chest feels tight. She’s having a hallucination induced by a memory.
Memories of her husband hurting her. Fuck.
I back away, keeping my distance like I was instructed to do by her doctors.
Her face contorts into pure fear; she’s looking at me like I’m a wild animal when just minutes before, she was calm, smiling, listening to Bible verses.
Now she looks at me as if she wasn’t just holding the daisies I bought her, smelling them and smiling.
The recognition of me as her son is gone.
Moving to the door, I press the help button on the wall.
Seconds later, two nurses and an orderly come in.
I watch as they take over, using calm voices, trying to distract her with other things to help lower her anxiety.
I watch helplessly, knowing there isn’t much I can do. They are the experts in this.
When she doesn’t relax and continues crying and shaking her head, one of the nurses turns to me. “I’m sorry, Dr. Hayes, but you may have to leave. Something is triggering her and it may take a while for her to calm down.”
Me. I’m what’s triggering her.
“Maybe we can try again next week. I’ll have the doctor reach out to you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I murmur. The last time she got this bad was months ago. I thought I was making headway with her. Getting her to accept my presence is tricky. Her Dementia is unpredictable, a seesaw of aggression, irritability, and withdrawal.
Walking out, the weight of the world on my shoulders, I head to the exit when the nurse and receptionist named Judy stops me.
“Thank you, Dr. Hayes. You made our day. The pastries were great.”
My body freezes. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I process what the nurse said. “I’m glad you enjoyed them. Sorry, I didn’t bring them in with me,” I lie.
“No worries. We know how it can be with your mom. Do you want to take the rest with you? You got us way too many.” When she hands me the pastry box from across the street, rage flows through my body.
Nodding to them, I keep my face impassive, hoping the fury doesn’t show.
I walk outside along the street until I find a garbage can, dumping the rest of the donuts in the trash.
The pastry shop is right across the street, in full view of my bike.
It’s not my real bike, thankfully. When I come to visit my mother, I try to be as nondescript and unobtrusive as possible.
But it seems like I may have missed being followed.
The pastries feel intentional. More evidence that I’m being tracked. Days after someone was poking around my cabin, a random gift was sent to my mother’s residence. I don’t like it. Someone knows. Someone knows about her, and that’s the last thing I wanted.