The Goat Children

by Jordan Elizabeth

  “Look what I taught Phebe how to do,” I’d called over, which made the baby fuss. The trick had been having Phebe grab my finger, something silly most babies do, but I’d been thrilled. My sister is the smartest baby in the world.

  “Hello, Keziah.” Oma had looked only at me. It hurt me to see Phebe treated like that. I remembered the time Oma had spent with me when I was a child, her love and care, her willingness to drop everything to make sure I was happy. One time, she drove out in a blizzard to buy me garlic knots because I was home sick.

  Cruelty to Phebe must have been one of the first signs of dementia. All this time, poor Oma had suffered alone. My heart ached, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

  I left Phebe asleep, curled around a worn-out stuffed pig. The hardwood floor chilled my bare feet as I plodded into the hallway. I nudged my parents’ bedroom door open with my shoulder.

  The bed creaked as I sat on the end. Mama slept, lost in the throes of unconsciousness, dragged down by heartache mirroring mine.

  Dad sat up, rubbing the corner of his eye. “What’s the matter, hon?”

  I shook Mama’s leg. “Mama, I’ll go move in with Oma.”

  ****

  “I’m fine,” Oma yelled over the phone. “I don’t need anyone living with me. How dare you even suggest such an outrageous thing?”

  I didn’t know how to tell Oma she needed me. If I wasn’t around, she’d go in a nursing home. Those words sounded too final, and they dried on my tongue.

  Mama cleared her throat. “The city’s a bad influence on Keziah, so we think it best if we send her away for a little while.” A lie from us for Oma’s betterment, to ease the pain.

  That earned a nasty, “I told you so. The city is no place to raise a child.”

  I winced, and Mama pursed her lips.

  Phebe wept as she clung to me. “It’s not fair! You can’t go.”

  I held her tighter, willing my tears not to come. As the oldest, I had to be stronger.

  I stayed home with my sister while our parents worked, and in the afternoons, we were home schooled. Even though Mama taught in the district, she didn’t want us attending public schools where metal detectors were used to keep out weapons.

  “I don’t want my girls growing up to think they’re better than everyone else,” Mama had said when Dad brought up the option of private schools.

  I only had one friend to say goodbye to, and Tiffany shrugged it away.

  She lifted one brow, so waxed it seemed to be nothing more than a pencil line. “You’ll be back. It’s all farms and cows upstate.”

  I’d show her. I’d prosper. Yet, I knew I’d miss her, the bowling parties, late night sleep overs, and yelling at her for rolling quarters to the homeless just to watch them scurry for money.

  I stood on the street in front of our condominium, the blur of faces passing by. The people lived on my street, yet I' never knew their names or remembered what they looked like on a day-to-day basis. Pigeons pecked at garbage strewn across the sidewalk. One swooped away with a scrap of moldy bread.

  Dad hugged me goodbye in the ornate entranceway to our building. “Be good. I hope public school isn’t too awful. If things don’t work out within two months, you’ll have to come back, and we’ll look into nursing home options.”

  I nodded, unable to answer without crying. Bye, Dad. I’ll miss you more than I can say.

  He nudged Phebe forward, but she hugged her stuffed pig and stared straight ahead. I kissed her anyway, and she ducked behind Dad’s legs. He rested his hand on her head.

  “Farewell, my little love,” I said. Life was unfair to split us up. Phebe should come help with Oma too. They could finally bond.

  The bus took me away as my stomach churned with trepidation. This wasn’t a vacation with a deadline. I couldn’t back out. Oma needed me, just as I’d once needed Oma.

  Usually when we took the Greyhound bus to visit Oma, Mama and I played games along the ride. Mama brought game books, or we made them up spur of the moment. Sometimes, we told each other fantastic stories, taking turns telling bits and pieces.

  This time, neither of us spoke.

  Mama sat in the plush seat, her teeth clenched and hands clasped in her lap.

  “At least the air feels good. Circulating. We won’t catch other people’s germs,” I rambled.

  Mama shrugged and handed me a sandwich from her canvas tote.

  “Thanks, this is really going to help.”

  I took out my iPod and slipped on the earphones to listen to Lacuna Coil. The bus seat had never felt so uncomfortable. I fidgeted, sweat from my nerves breaking out across my brow. People didn’t get better from dementia. The medicine didn’t cure it, just slowed the progression, and Uncle Jan said Oma wouldn’t go to the doctor anyway.

  When will I get to return to the city?

  The man behind me leaned against the back of my seat. “Good morning, ladies. Where are you heading?”

  Mama smiled. I wondered how she could appear so calm. My teeth chattered from those stupid nerves, so I let her answer.

  “New Winchester for a vacation,” Mama said.

  Vacation, yeah. I stared at a diner out the window. The bus’s air conditioning caressed my face, and I removed a miniature notebook from my purse and scribbled observations to use up time. This four-hour bus ride equals torture.

  ****

  I peered through the dirty window of Uncle Jan’s white car while he spoke to a man at the bus station. Ew. What looked like chocolate pudding streaked the window. The back seat contained a plastic bucket, filled with moist leaves and twigs, as well as newspapers, magazines, and a dog’s leash.

  “Where are we supposed to sit?” I glanced at our bags. “Or put our stuff?”

  Mama twirled her watch. “He always finds room for us.”

  “It’s never this messy.” Please don’t let this be a sign of worse things to come. My stomach knotted.

  “Hey, sorry about that.” Uncle Jan swaggered over, waving the car keys. “I used to work with him. A great guy, really feel sorry for him. His wife left, took the kids, got a restraining order, and all that stuff. Got really messed up, was homeless for a while, and then he met this other girl. He got back to work, and then she ran off with all his money.” Uncle Jan slid the key into the lock, turning it, and opened the driver’s door. He nodded at the backseat. “Here, I’ll clean this off for you.”

  He grabbed a pile of magazines and tossed them to the other side of the backseat, where they slid against the newspapers. Two of the magazines plopped into the bucket of wet leaves. They sloshed as he pulled them out and threw them onto the floor.

  “Don’t worry, you can step on those.”

  I dug my fingernails into my palms to stop a grimace, and shuddered at the blue material, streaked with mud and gum. Holding my breath, I slid in while Uncle Jan popped the trunk.

  “Well,” he said, “guess we’ll have to be moving some stuff around back here.”

  I shut the door and gagged. The leaves and twigs reeked of mold. Mama squished into the front passenger seat. “Kez, your face is bright red. Are you okay?”

  Okay didn’t begin to describe how I felt. “It smells worse than the city in the summer.”

  “Put down the windows,” she suggested as Uncle Jan jumped in, slamming his door. The whole car shook.

  As he pulled into traffic, I realized I couldn’t find the seatbelt, so I sank into the stiff cushion that stuck to the back of my t-shirt. I swear this car is a deathtrap on wheels.

  “This is real nice, what you’re doing.” Uncle Jan snuffled.

  Who wouldn’t have allergies in a dump like this?

  “How bad is Oma?” Mama asked. “She was fine last time we were here. She forgot things, sure, but she’s almost ninety. Forgetting things is natural at her age.”

  “Her eyesight’s gotten bad.” He rambled.

  I should’ve listened so I’d know what I was getting into, but I didn’t want to. Oma needed to be as I remembered
. I could bring her back to that state. Couldn’t I?

  Sometimes, Mama would look through the photo album of New Winchester and sigh. “Too bad you were too young to remember,” she would say to Phebe. “New Winchester put on the best events, like a spring ice cream social.”

  Would Oma remember who we were? Sure, Mama spoke to Oma every day, but on the phone, Oma pulled it together. According to an Internet site, that was something a dementia sufferer could do. I shuddered, fighting back tears.

  I needed Oma to be as she’d always been, smiling and laughing. We’d sit on the big living room chair and eat potato chips while watching cartoons. Years ago, we’d tied dolls to the rocking chair to see who could knock them off the fastest by rocking it harder.

  The world of New Winchester sputtered by outside the window. A pudgy girl rode her scooter with a calico cat following. The big houses had small front yards, and siding in white and blue, a few greens, and a purple. Everything was so different from the brick and concrete buildings of New York City.

  I saw front porches, trees, and garages. Tiffany might think everything upstate was farmland, but there weren’t any farms in New Winchester. I’d never even been to a farm.

  Uncle Jan swerved into a driveway and slammed on the brakes. Without a seatbelt on, I crashed into his seat, a stench of rotten banana peels assailing my nostrils. Filth rained over my lap. I bit back a retort aimed at Uncle Jan as I peeled myself off the cushion.

  Don’t make him mad. You need him on your side.

  Outside the window, Oma’s house loomed above us. The roof was black trimmed in metal to avoid ice buildup, and the siding was blue, framed in white. The wooden front porch spread from the front door to the garage, and a magnolia tree sprawled in front of the bedroom window.

  The home looked the same, and a sudden bitter taste of hatred welled in my mouth. It should look different. If Oma wasn’t okay, the house shouldn’t pretend to be.

  A truck in John Deere green drove by. Maybe Tiffany wasn’t all wrong about the farms. She’d throw a fit if I ever showed up at a party with a farmer on my arm.

  Mama took the luggage from the trunk while I stared at the house. A cement walkway led to the porch, lined in rose bushes, the weeds among them the only odd thing. Oma never allowed weeds to grow amongst her roses.

  “Call me if you need anything.” Uncle Jan patted me on the shoulder before hopping into his car.

  He waved as he drove away, so Mama waved back, but I couldn’t move.

  “Get your suitcase,” Mama said.

  Weeds grew underneath the magnolia tree, and we had to duck beneath branches to get to the porch. Moss spread over the creaking porch slats.

  Mama pressed the doorbell and frowned. “Did you hear it ring?”

  “No.” My stomach flip-flopped. I dragged my gaze away from a blue jay perched in the tree.

  Mama opened the screen. It whooshed and creaked. I listened to the rapping of knuckles on the stained glass panes of the door, depicting trees and reindeers, a project Mama had done a few summers before.

  “Go knock on the bedroom window. Maybe she’s sleeping.” Mama kept rapping her knuckles to beat out a tune.

  Where’s Oma? Is she injured and unable to get up and come to the door? Has she fallen?

  I climbed over the porch railing to avoid stepping on the rosebushes and tapped on the bedroom window. Behind the glass, the curtains were drawn. I didn’t see any shapes, so I knocked harder.

  “Come on back.” Mama searched through her purse for the key. Usually Oma opened the door on one of the first knocks.

  Mama fiddled with the lock and stepped inside. I grabbed the screen door, the luggage left on the porch.

  “Hello?” Mama called.

  Is Oma lying somewhere?

  ****

  I am four years old. Oma buys me a kitchen set and keeps it in her living room.

  “This way, she will have something to do at my house,” she tells Mama.

  I set up my dolls on the carpet. “What do you want to eat?” They don’t answer, but I pretend they request pancakes. I spread out the plastic food and dishes, but the set doesn’t include pancakes.

  Oma sits with me on the floor. “What are you making?”

  “I was going to make pancakes, but there aren’t any.” I set a plastic chicken leg on a plate and hand it to my stuffed monkey.

  The next day when I return to play more, Oma surprises me with new food. She crocheted pancakes, eggs, candies, and cakes.

  “Let me know what else you want,” she says as we sit on the floor to play.

  “Hmm.” I think for a minute, considering foods Oma enjoys. “Ice cream cones.”

  She makes those for me, too.

  Chapter 3

  “What?” Oma snapped as the bathroom door banged against the towel rack. “What’s all that screaming for?”

  I closed my eyes, silently saying a prayer of thanks that Oma was all right. The phrase ‘don’t scare me like that’ flashed through my mind as my heartbeat raced.

  Mama grasped the wall, knuckles turning white. “We didn’t know where you were.”

  “Where’d you think I was? You think I’d go out shopping?”

  “I called and asked you to leave the door open.”

  Oma snorted. “Why would I leave the door unlocked? Somebody could come marching in.”

  Mama yanked her hand away from the wall as if afraid she’d crack the plaster. “That was the idea. We needed to come marching in.”

  Oma harrumphed and stormed past us into the kitchen. I blinked. My grandmother looked the same as ever, pale with dark circles under her eyes. Her nose was more of a beak, with a tiny wart on the end, giving her a Halloween witch look. Mama had been after Oma to get that taken care of, but Oma believed in castor oil treatments, which still hadn’t worked. She’d looked that way for as long as my memory served.

  She wore a thin blue shirt and black sweatpants. That was a little different. Before, she’d tended to wear ankle-long dresses.

  “Keziah, get the bags.” Mama followed Oma into the kitchen.

  The air smelled of burnt toast. The hardwood floor had a gray rug spread over it, caked with mud, and deep gouges covered the floor. The walls had once been pink, but had faded to peach, and some of the paint peeled to reveal white underneath. The original shade still vibrant was only around the doorframes.

  I dragged the luggage into the living room, and curls slipped free of the single braid to tickle my cheeks. The living room walls were the same faded pink, with a huge dark square over the fireplace where a portrait had once hung. My blood warmed with a sense of home.

  Beside the spot were two sconces, postcards from my cousins on the mantle. I stepped over an assortment of birdseed bags and newspapers to sit on the familiar cushion of the rocking chair, the creak of its metal a soothing rhythm. I braced my legs to start rocking.

  The chair moaned, and the back pounded against the wall. The jolt sent my teeth into my tongue, and I swore.

  “You okay?” Mama called. “What was that bang?”

  “Sorry, the chair hit the wall.” When I stood, the rocking chair smashed against the wall again. I winced from the ringing thud before hurrying into the kitchen.

  Mama closed the refrigerator door, and Oma held her cup to her lips, taking a sip.

  “I guess the chair’s broken.” How were we going to sit in it together and watch cartoons?

  Oma lowered the cup. “Yeah, that’s cute. Real cute.”

  My heart thudded at Oma’s bitterness. “What?”

  “What’s the matter?” Mama asked.

  Oma pushed past us for the hallway. Mama rolled her eyes. Oma had always been moody, but was this dementia? Before, I would’ve assumed Oma was having a bad day.

  We followed Oma into the bedroom. She sat on the end of her bed, cradling the cup of water in her lap and glaring at the window. In the glass, I noticed the hole from a toy BB gun Uncle Jan had once owned.

  Mama touched th
e foot of the bed. “Oma?”

  Great, what’s wrong? I folded my arms to suppress a shudder.

  “Go take her side on the matter.” Oma’s knee bumped the bedside table and knocked a pair of tweezers onto the floor.

  “Oma.”

  “No, go. You aren’t needed.” Oma swung her gaze to me. “What did she do? Get on drugs or steal?”

  Mama frowned. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Why else would she be coming here? I told you the city’s a bad place.”

  My stomach cramped. “I don’t do drugs!” I could say I’d never touched the stuff thanks to Oma. Whenever Tiffany had offered me pot, I’d pictured Oma’s frown and refused.

  Oma took a tissue from her pocket and rubbed her nose. When she put it back, the Kleenex missed her pants and fell onto the carpet.

  Mama picked it up. “It isn’t like that. You know Keziah’s a good girl.”

  “Right,” Oma snapped.

  “Oma …” I began, but my grandmother stiffened.

  “Just go away. No one wants you here.”

  “Go back into the living room, Keziah,” Mama whispered.

  I looked from their faces, one stoic and the other crumpling in tears, before I retreated with a spinning mind.

  This house had once felt like my own. The rooms had been familiar, with memories of laughter, but now they seemed cold and empty. She didn’t want me. What if Oma stayed mad? What if I had to go back to the city? Oma would still be alone.

  I rubbed my hand over my face. Pressure built behind my nose. For a distraction, I crossed to the fireplace to pick up one of the postcards—a picture of the Eiffel Tower that said ‘Paris’ in the corner. I turned it over to decipher my cousin’s handwriting. The first line might’ve said, “Dear Grandma,” except it looked more like, “Face Burning.”

  “Kez?”

  I jumped, turning to find Mama in the doorway.

  “I think I calmed her down. You know she doesn’t mean it. She’s just stressed out and frustrated. She knows she can’t live alone anymore. How do you think that makes her feel? Let’s go get something to eat. It’s almost lunchtime.”