Chapter 11 Kaye
KAYE
“I’m telling Mom.”
That voice, high, clear, and full of innocence, rings out of my mouth like a bell.
The hairs prickle at the nape of my neck.
The urge to turn and see who’s there is overwhelming, but I can’t seem to make my body obey.
My eyes dart to take in all they can while being trapped in the prison of my tiny form.
Our old farm house is a two-story structure, clean if a little worn, the exterior painted white with green trim.
Green is my mom’s favorite color, and looking back I think it must have reminded her of “Anne of Green Gables,” her favorite book growing up.
There are five small bedrooms—one for my parents, one for Cooper, a guest room, one converted into a playroom, and the smallest of all for me.
I find myself now in the playroom. Treasure chests of goodies and hand-painted murals lay waiting like a feast for the senses.
Each wall showcases a different scene: hilly farmland with cows and a golden sun.
A cloudless twilight over a mountain with stars beginning to twinkle, a shadowed dragon flying above.
To the right of that, the almost-white firelight of the rising sun lifts away from an ocean of endless blue and green hues, an inky gray pirate ship riding waves as they crest and fall back into the sea.
I used to have nightmares that the captain of that ship would come in the night and steal me away. Later, I would wish for it.
Across from that is a circus scene. The striped Big Top is decorated with glowing strings of electric bulbs.
Cooper, my brother and the current cause of my irritation, huffs in front of it.
His hair is so blond that it’s almost white and much wavier than the curls he sports now.
It will darken significantly over the years to a bronzy sheen, like sunshine.
He doesn’t seem so sunny in this memory with his baby-puffed, eight-year-old cheeks flaming cherry and lips screwed up in a snarl.
A ruthless tug that feels strong enough to pull my tiny arms out of their tiny sockets jerks me forward and I stumble a step. An action figure stretches between our grappling fingers.
Just let go.
“He’s mine, Kitty. Go play with your baby toys.” I had forgotten the old nickname. Hearing it is a jolt, but not as much as the one I get when he shoves me hard.
The doll’s plastic legs slip out of my little hands. My fingers press into the thin carpet as my head hits against the slab floor. Fat tears sprout out of my eyes and down my chubby cheeks.
Cooper observes all this with an expression of cool condescension. “Only babies cry when they don’t get their way.”
The phrase is some piece of toxic masculinity he must have heard from our father or his friends at school, but the heat it evokes is too much for my younger self to contain.
She doesn’t know that the world is cruel and that this phrase must have been used to hurt him too.
She only knows that her brother pushed her, and now he’s being mean.
Not fair. The heat in my chest pulses out to other points in my body.
I get to my feet, legs trembling. One hand snatched out at the doll, clamping around a foot with a painted red boot.
Cooper shrieks again, but he’s lost the element of surprise and I have anger backing me now.
The small, baby-soft fingers of my free hand wrap around his wrist before it can connect with my shoulder.
Pure, raw energy pulses out of the skin there.
No!
His blood-curdling scream shakes even this version of me to my center. My head feels light as the anger drains from my body. I drop his arm like I’m the one being burned, horrified to see a red welt rising from his skin in the shape of a small palm and chubby fingers.
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry!” The words come out in a constant stream. My voice is bird-like in my ears, so much higher-pitched than before and straining with regret. “I didn’t mean to!”
“What is going on here?”
My throat muscles tighten as tears gather in the corners of my eyes.
“Mama,” I gasp as she finishes her race up the stairs and into the room.
Her hair is darker than mine, though pictures show it was the color of corn silk in her youth.
She began dyeing it not long after I was born.
Her eyes are a blue that reminds me of clear summer skies, a trait she passed on to my brother.
Her dress is almost the same color, with gold buttons that fasten from chest to mid-thigh, splitting the seam that extends to just below her knees.
The scent of her perfume cements her firmly in my mind.
She wore the same fragrance every day, applied with a light hand from a gracefully curved bottle emblazoned with the words “Forgotten Moments.” Just breathing in that touch of floral and spice brings me right back to moments held in her arms.
I launch myself into her embrace, and everything about her consumes me. The warmth of her skin. Her heart beating under my ear. The comfort of her strong hands pulling me tight.
My heart breaks knowing I will never feel it again.
“What’s going on in here, you two?” She reaches out to Cooper and he folds himself into her too, sobbing into her stomach and clutching his raw skin.
“K-Kitty hurt me,” he hiccups between breaths.
“I didn’t mean to.” The tears are back, pushing against my temples with rising pressure. “It was an ax-ax…”
“An accident?”
I nod, not caring that she doesn’t see. Her soft green gaze is focused on the burn on Cooper’s arm. “Honey, how did you get that burn?”
He points wordlessly in my direction as tears drip down his cheeks. I pull my hands behind my back, but not before she sees the raw redness decorating my fingers.
“Kitty couldn’t have burned you.” Adult me sees the flick of her eyes, the subtle turn to the corner of her mouth. She’s not so sure.
“Coop was being mean,” I reason. “He wouldn’t share.”
My child’s mind has already forgotten the cruelty, the pushing, not that it would justify what she—what I did.
Mama picks Cooper up, balancing his weight on her hip. “Don’t worry, sweetie. Mommy’s going to take care of this. I want you to wait right here. You can do that for me, can’t you, pumpkin?”
I nod, but my resolve crumbles faster than a sandcastle washed away in high tide.
I trail behind them, a small shadow clinging to doorways.
She sets him carefully on the countertop, turning on the tap and placing his arm under the cool stream.
She digs through drawer after drawer, emerging triumphant with bandages and ointment clutched in her fingers.
Whether from true pain or the attention the situation grants him, fresh tears soon fall orb-like from Cooper’s lashes.
“It’s okay now, Coop. Mommy’s got you.” She wraps her arms around him again, careful to avoid the wound.
“I hate Kitty,” he sobs into her chest.
“Oh honey. No.” Soothing hands brush his hair back from his forehead.
“All siblings fight. Sometimes you hurt each other and no matter how much you wish you could, you can’t take it back.
But you and Kitty need one another. Someday one or both of you will need help, and you’ll know without a doubt that you can count on each other. Right?”
He nods, eyes widening as he watches her apply the bandage. “How did you make it not hurt so much, Mama?”
The scene has changed and I am now in front of Watson Elementary School.
The sun shines down on the yellow brick structure, more than a century old by the time I ever walked its halls.
A brand-new playground waits just to the right of the building, already full of frantic shouts and little bodies running.
It was built just the year before, a gift from the greater families of New Malcolm, and this was supposed to be a draw for parents.
Ignore the lead paint, the asbestos wrapped pipes, the non-functioning fire escapes—we have a new playground!
A light texture tickles the skin below my knees. I’m wearing a bright blue cotton sundress that dances around my legs in the summer breeze. I was happy.
We had moved closer to the city right before I started kindergarten. All of our friends stayed behind in our quiet rural town while Cooper and I left for the alien landscape of downtown New Malcolm.
“Look, the weird girl is here! Weird girl, why are you always so weird all the time?” Anastasia Martin remained a rich, spoiled brat until graduation, using Mommy and Daddy’s money to buy popularity and fear in alternating measures as it suited her whims. She was my personal bully, and the first ‘bad guy’ I ever faced. Her voice grates against my senses.
“I’m not weird.” I keep my voice light, consoling. “You wanna play, Stasia?”
“Stasia!” she mocks, exaggerating to highlight my slower, more relaxed way of speaking. In time, I’ll pick up the fast, impatient way people native to New Malcolm spoke. But not now. Not yet.
Her taunt is a siren, calling the other kids to come from all directions and circle around her prey. I meet each of their eyes in turn and find pity in some, sympathy in others, but most are happy to sample Stasia’s cruelty like a delicacy.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes as helplessness overwhelms me. “Why do you have to be so mean?”
“Mean, mean,” she mimics. “You’re nothing but a whiny baby. Go ahead and cry, weird girl. Cry like a baby.”
Tears fortify themselves just beneath my eyelids, tickling the sensitive line where the inner part of flesh meets outer.
SPLAT.
A glob of mud and green, watery fungus makes an audible squishing noise as it hits, each squelching echoing in my ears as if time had slowed.
I don’t see where the first one flew from, but soon the air is full of them, every classmate’s hands covered in muck, the ground at their feet torn to shreds with their efforts.
A smell akin to manure permeates the air.