Chapter 41 Monroe
MONROE
Five Months Prior to Present Day,
Night of the April Full Moon Ceremony,
Junior Year,
Sigma
Icower in the corner of a familiar home, hidden from sight.
“I’m done, Jeanine,” a male voice shouts. “I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take your manipulation!”
“How convenient for you,” my mom shouts back, “to decide you don’t want to be a father anymore. So, what? You’re just going to leave me? You’re going to leave me with a kid? With nothing?”
The man’s silhouette is hazy in the door and then gone.
I hear my mother’s garbled sobs.
Angry footsteps get louder.
“This is all your fault!” my mom screams into my face, yanking me up by the arm. “If you had been better behaved, your dad wouldn’t have left me!”
I’m dragged through a hallway and shoved inside a room.
“Go to your room, you ungrateful child. You don’t come out until I say you can come out.”
I see myself shouting for my mother to come back. I see myself trying to open the door, but it’s locked. I see myself climb into bed, pull the covers up, and cry myself to sleep.
“Do a good job brushing your hair, Monroe. I need you to look perfect.”
I watch myself standing in front of a mirror as if I’m watching a movie. I’m bouncing with excitement.
“Mommy, how much ice cream can I get? Two scoops?”
“One scoop,” my mom corrects, her expression stern and focused. “I don’t want him thinking I raised a greedy, ungrateful child who has no self-control.”
I sit at a round, white table with my mom and a man I don’t know. My mom smiles at the man, flirtatiously touching his arm with her hand. Under the table, I see her knee touching his.
I straighten my back like my mom taught me, and smile. I take small, lady-like bites of my ice cream, even though I know it will melt before I can eat it all.
My mom and the man look at me, talking to each other, and smile. I smile back in my best little girl way. My mom seems happy. I’m happy. I’ve done well.
I’m back in the familiar house, sitting on the gold carpet, playing with my dolls. I hear my mom on the phone. She’s upset. Fear rises in my throat. The phone call ends. She screams, and I leap to my feet, but she’s faster.
“This is all your fault, Monroe. Mark said he doesn’t want to date someone with a kid, but it’s because you were so embarrassing, eating your ice cream like you’ve never had food before.”
I run to my room. She intercepts me just as I make it across the threshold, grabbing the doorknob.
“No dinner for you tonight or breakfast either. No more food until you learn not to eat like a pig!”
The door slams closed. I hear the lock turn.
I sit on the floor of my room. There is a painful feeling in my stomach. My underwear are wet from where I had an accident. I remember my mom telling me she was going out on a date last night, so she locked me in my room to keep me safe.
I think maybe she forgot about me.
And I tried to hold my pee, but I couldn’t make it.
I start to cry, thinking about how mad she will be when she sees my accident.
I cry harder when I think about how hungry I feel.
I’m in the living room of my childhood home. Life is moving quickly, like I’m in fast-forward. My grandmother is in the kitchen while I play on the floor. I smell the food she is cooking. The front door opens, and it’s my mother, dragging two suitcases and a large purse.
My grandmother comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.
“Well?” she asks. Her voice sounds hopeful.
My mother drops her things and starts crying.
“He doesn’t want to come back. He said I’m an abuser. That I’m a narcissist and he never wants to see me again.”
“But what about Monroe?” my grandmother asks.
I look at my mom, waiting, but she shakes her head.
My grandmother sighs. “What are you going to do? Monroe can come stay with me.”
“No, I need her here. She’s all I’ve got.” My fleeting excitement is dashed.
“Well, you can’t lock her in her room anymore. She’s in kindergarten now. They’ll send Child Protective Services out here if she misses too much school.”
“How am I supposed to meet anyone? I can’t afford a babysitter.”
“At least put a little potty in her room and leave her with some food.”
Betrayal stabs me in the heart. My grandmother... She knew.
I watch myself sitting alone in my room with a large bag of potato chips. I take one at a time, eating slowly, making them last. My dolls are nearly bald from overuse. Braiding their hair, brushing their hair…
I watch myself braid and unbraid. Braid and unbraid.
Braid and unbraid…
I walk through my childhood house, this time as an adult. I walk into my mother’s bedroom, where she sits in front of the vanity, smoking a cigarette while putting on makeup.
I stand behind her. Every painful memory, every hungry night, every time I was blamed, every time I was called ungrateful, downloads into my consciousness, and I remember.
I remember what she put me through, and I see myself now and think about the times I’ve subconsciously thought myself unworthy. I understand now. I remember all that happened, my suffering, my heartbreak. I was just a little girl who wanted to be loved.
But she was never capable of loving me, and I blamed myself for her shortcomings.
My entire life, I’ve blamed myself.
My dad, piece of shit that he is, was right.
I breath in, deeply and profound, raising my arms above my head. I grab all the memories. I pull them down, wadding them up into a ball. I squeeze them between my fingers, crumpling them until it physically hurts.
You don’t own me anymore.
You don’t deserve me. You don’t define me.
I look down, and at the base of my feet is a gaping hole. Metal teeth gnash together, churning, destroying.
I take one last look at my memories, and then I let go.
I don't need to watch them be shredded, because my body feels it, deep within my bones.
“One more thing Monroe,” I hear my grandmother say. Her voice sounds so near; she could be kneeling next to me.
I look up and see I’m in a new place. There are other kids here. I don’t know them, but I hear them playing. I sit crisscross applesauce. The linoleum wood floor is cold and clean. Before me is a coloring book, the cartoon outline half-colored, and crayons.
Standing, I go to find my mother, remembering that I’ve gone with her to a babysitting job.
“What are you doing?” I ask my mom when I find her in a bedroom.
She’s in the closet, twisting a knob. My adult self recognizes the safe, although I know my child-self didn’t comprehend what she was doing at the time.
“Shhh, Monroe. Be quiet,” she hisses. “I’m listening for the clicks.”