by K. Webster
“Sidney, you are a very dirty little girl. When you went to the library today, you were exposed to some nasty things. I can practically seem them crawling on you. Momma needs to wash you clean.”
This time, the tears fall on their own accord, and I slowly inch myself away from her. Even though we are nearly evenly matched with our height and weight, she has just enough crazy in her that I will never be able to fight her. Breaking my vow of silence, I finally succumb to begging.
“Momma, please,” I begin in a whimper, “I was so careful not to get dirty. I wore clothing to cover my arms and legs. Plus, I remembered to wear my gloves.” I didn’t really, but I threw it in for good measure, hoping it might work this time.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk…”
I gulp, once again trying to push down the rising bile in my throat. There is no way around this. And since I’ve spoken, it will be brutal.
“Get into the bathroom right away and undress. I’ll get my supplies.”
When I don’t make any moves toward the bathroom, she picks up one of her many switches that are scattered about the house from the end table and cracks it across my upper arm with surprising force for a woman of her size. I howl in pain and pull away from her, hurrying into the bathroom. The last thing I need is a bunch of open lashes while I endure my punishment. My arm stings, and without looking, I know she’s broken the skin.
Not wanting to push her any further, I quickly strip out of my clothes as I wait for her. I know the drill. She will bathe me as if I’m a child. Problem is, she will do it in such a sadistic manner that it will take me days to recover. Again, I feel like puking.
I can sense her presence before I see or hear her and step out of her way as she comes into the bathroom. She’s in her ‘uniform,’ as she calls it, donning long yellow rubber gloves and goggles. Heaven forbid she gets any bleach on her precious skin. Spinning around so fast that I yelp out in surprise, she glares at me. The woman can sense, even in my mind, when I have the smallest inkling of defiance rolling through me. Her look is enough for me to wash it away immediately.
Stalking over to the tub, she draws what I know from experience is a scalding-hot bath. I’m already whimpering as I mentally prepare myself for what’s to come. As it fills, she adds the entire bottle of bleach into the tub. It instantly burns my eyes and nose as it fills the air, mixing with the steam. I try not to choke and take shallow breaths as not to inhale it all and send myself into a coughing fit. Clean Momma is bad, visiting frequently, but Nurse Momma is the worst. A cough would bring her out in a flash, and I simply can’t deal with Nurse Momma.
“Dirty child, get into the tub. We need to wash the filth from your body. Momma needs to make you clean again.”
I blink the tears from my eyes, which are now a mixture of fear and chemical irritation, and approach the tub hesitantly. Because I must be going too slowly, I am immediately attacked with the switch again across my bottom, and I wail out in surprise. This, too, has broken the skin, and I curse myself for making things worse on me.
Raising my foot over the top of the tub, I try to ease my toes in, testing the temperature of the water. Of course it is beyond scorching, and I whine as I force my foot into the blistering abyss. Escaping to the mental holes in my mind, I think about anything but the pain that is slowly rising up my leg as I fully submerge it. Once my toes graze the bottom of the tub, I get my footing under control before I pull the other foot into the tub.
Momma calmly watches as I lower myself down, grabbing ahold of either side of the tub. This part always hurts the worst. If I don’t do it in a manner that she views is quick enough, she’ll help me along. I do not like it when she helps me along.
Biting down on my lip, praying to distract myself from the pain, I lower my bottom. I feel the heat on my sensitive flesh between my legs before it even touches the scorching water. When I hesitate just a fraction of a second, I know I’ve made the worst possible mistake.
Momma slams her hands onto my shoulders and pushes me into the piping-hot water. My screams are otherworldly as the liquid fire lashes at my flesh. Tears roll down along with snot as I try not to move a muscle, hoping not to inflict any more pain on untouched skin.
My breaths are coming out shallow and ragged as I throw all of my willpower into not hyperventilating. I still have a death grip on the edge of the tub so that she doesn’t fully submerge me if I am caught off guard. Every muscle in my body is tight as I brace myself for what she has plans for next.
From the corner of my eye, I watch with bated breath as she pulls out a bristly scrub brush. Thankfully this one only has plastic bristles. If they ever ran out of the plastic ones at the grocery store, she was in no way opposed to buying metal scouring pads. Momma has her own business as a cleaning lady with many affluent clients and I often wonder if she cleans their bathtubs like she cleans her daughter—very thoroughly. Carefully, she pours a little bleach over the scrub brush and turns to me. Clenching my eyes closed, I hold my breath as she begins her relentless scrubbing.
She burnishes my skin, meticulous in removing every single perceived contaminant. My skin burns as the bleach and slowly cooling water irritates the raw places. Every single place she can reach, she does her ritualistic cleansing. Momma never goes above my neck.
“I think we managed to take care of your dirty little problem. Now I suggest you finish up in here and get off to bed. Momma’s tired from all of this hard work,” she says without any indication that what she has done to me is wrong. No, Momma doesn’t see anything unusual about her behavior, which only solidifies how sick in the head she is.
“Yes, Momma,” I agree softly, not looking at her.
“Very well then. Goodnight, love.”
Her words are just that—words. She may call me “love” or “baby,” but they are empty. There is absolutely no feeling behind them. Momma has deep-rooted psychological problems for which she’s never received any type of professional help. In my many trips to the library, I have read through tons of books looking for her disease. There isn’t anything in those books about cleaning your child in bleach because of imagined germs—at least not as far as I could find.
After she exits the bathroom with her supplies, I drain the water and stand up. The cool air washes over my skin, much to my delight. Once the last bit of water disappears, I turn on the shower to the coldest setting I can handle. The spray of icy water cools my burning flesh and rinses away the bleach, finally making it easier for me to breathe.
There has to be a way I can escape her sick abuse, but I don’t know how. Everything was fine until Daddy left us a few years ago when I was ten. The moment he left, without a word of goodbye, I watched my momma slowly morph into a monster. In the beginning, she just started using the switch on me frequently. Whenever she was upset about missing Daddy or had a bad day at work, she would punish me by beating the stew out of me with her switches. My body is littered with scars over scars from those painful lashings.
The summer after sixth grade is when she upped her level of crazy. A client accused her of stealing and fired her. At dinner that night, she snapped and decided that I was dirty. That first bleach bath was horrifying. Now that I am used to them, they are at least not surprising. I eventually learned her patterns and triggers over the next few years, always attempting to stay two steps ahead of her. However, trying to understand a mentally ill person is a fruitless endeavor, and I still, like tonight, landed on her radar.
It made me sick the day she told me that I would no longer be going to school, that she would take care of my schooling from home. Until that point, it had been my escape. I still remember crying so hard that I vomited. That was when I met Nurse Momma. The shudder that courses through me brings me back to the present.
Washing my hair, I wince as the shampoo burns my raw skin when it runs down my shoulders and back and quickly rinse it away. I turn off the water and locate the towel on the hook. Ever so softly, I dab the water from by skin. After making my way to the mi
rror, I swipe it to see my reflection. My blue eyes seem hollow and vacant. Dark circles ring them, an indication of the stressful life I lead. Pouty lips, which look much like Momma’s, frown back at me.
Carefully, I pull the hairbrush through my shoulder-length chocolate-colored hair. When I accidentally graze the shoulder of the injured arm, I yelp in pain. I place the hairbrush back down and exit the bathroom, the towel wrapped loosely around me. After glancing nervously down the hallway, I dart into my room and quietly close the door behind me.
My fan is humming above me, and my body shivers delightfully as the air chills my stinging skin. I drop the towel and open the window to let more cool air inside. Because of her punishments, I am developing my own obsessive tendencies, much to my dismay. For one, the fan always has to be on and the window open, no matter the temperature. Two, I absolutely will not sleep with anything but a simple sheet draped over my skin. And finally, I sleep naked, which is unusual for a fifteen-year-old girl.
Up until the bleach baths, I was every bit the normal girl who got occasional beatings from her mother. Since the baths started, my skin screams for relief. It’s absolutely necessary for me not only to heal from them this way, but also to have the control over my body that I don’t have when Momma is around.
Sliding in between the sheets, I finally relax in my safe haven. If I knew where to go or if I had money, I would just leave in the middle of the night out the open window that begs to release me to my own devices. But I am scared. Momma rules the only world I know. Until I can figure out a way to seek help or manage a life on my own, I am tethered to her in ways I wish I weren’t. I absolutely hate her and this life I’ve been dealt.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the dispatcher on the other line calmly asks.
I’m shaking as I stare at Momma’s lifeless form on the floor. The woman on the line repeats herself and I am brought back from my trance.
“Uh, yeah,” I begin, voice trembling, “I think my mother is dead.”
“Stay calm, ma’am. Can you help me out? I need you to check for a pulse. Do you think you can help me with that?”
I gulp as I hesitantly make my way toward her. Kneeling, I pull her over to her back.
“What do I do? How do I check for a pulse?” I question the woman. Momma’s eyes are open and unblinking. I’m suddenly feeling nauseated.
The woman proceeds to tell me how to check for a pulse, but once I tell her about the temperature of her skin, the stiffness of her body, and her open eyes, she eventually ends up just staying on the line with me until the medical responders arrive.
Upon entrance, one of the two men pulls me to the side.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” he asks gently, and I feel his gaze fall to my bare arms.
When I got up this morning to eat breakfast, I tossed on a tank top along with some shorts, not expecting to find Momma dead on the kitchen floor. Immediately, I squirm under his gaze as he blatantly notices my scars and sores.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I say shortly, hoping to divert his attention elsewhere.
“Ma’am, I would like to take a closer look at those lacerations. May I?” he questions in an easy manner, much like the way you would coax over a scared puppy. When he reaches for me, I flinch and take several steps away from him.
“I said I’m fine. Please,” I beg, wanting him to just leave me alone.
He sighs and frowns over at me before turning back to handling my deceased mother. The other fellow speaks up and I listen attentively. My mind is racing about how scared and happy I am at the same time. The two warring emotions are making me dizzy.
“It would appear that your mother had a heart attack. Of course we won’t know for certain until after an autopsy, should you decide to proceed with one. I’m so sorry for your loss. Is there anyone we can call?” the younger EMT asks me.
I blink rapidly as I try to conjure up anyone I could call. We aren’t close to any family. My father left us long ago. The only friend I have is the librarian, and that would be a stretch.
“No. I don’t have anyone.”
He, too, frowns at me and gives his partner a look I wasn’t meant to interpret. I’m going crazy wondering what they are silently saying about me. I just want them to leave and soon.
“Ma’am, we’re going to call a counselor. It might be best if you could talk to someone. I know her really well. Her name’s Tina Caldwell. Can I call her for you?” the younger one asks. They are being so gentle with me, as if I might bolt out the door at any second. I’m seriously considering it.
“Um, is that customary with this sort of thing?” I question, nervous at the idea of these people suddenly injecting themselves into my life.
“In your case, I think it would be very beneficial. She can help guide you on what to do now that your mother has passed on. It would appear that you live with her. Am I correct? You seem a little young, so I thought maybe you could use some advice.” His words are calm, but I can tell that he isn’t revealing everything to me.
“I’m twenty-one,” I tell him defiantly, as if that makes me suddenly capable for handling such situations.
He smiles at me and stands from his position on the floor. When he approaches me, I once again shrink away from him. Thankfully he stops and withdraws a phone from his pocket.
“Tina, it’s Joey. I really need you to help me with something. I’ll text you the address and some information, but we could really use you right now.” His emphasis on the word ‘really’ causes me to shiver nervously as if I’ve done something wrong. I also note that this probably isn’t customary considering his informal nature with her. I suspect he could be a friend or boyfriend of Tina. “Thanks. I’ll talk to you later,” Joey says gratefully before hanging up the phone. Yes, definitely more than acquaintances.
“We’re going to finish up here. Tina will be over after her last appointment, probably around three. Will you be okay until then?” he questions, concern lacing his voice.
I nod emphatically, hoping to drive home the point that I will be fine. For once in my godforsaken life, I will be fine. He watches me for a little longer than I am comfortable with, and I feel myself squirming again, much to my dismay.
“Okay then.”
The knock on the door pulls me from my daze. I have been sitting in the same spot in a kitchen chair, watching the area on the floor where Momma died. The reality hasn’t set in yet. I’m not really sure what to do with myself once it does.
I stand up, stretching my aching legs, and make my way to the door. Peeking through the peephole, I see a pretty blond woman close to my own age. She reminds me of the women on the covers of the romance novels I love to read. Her hair is long and straight, not a strand out of place. It makes me self-conscious about my simple brown hair.
Swallowing the anxiety that is encouraging bile to rise, I slowly open the door and slip my head through the crack.
“Can I help you?” I squeak at her.
She smiles, revealing perfect white teeth, and I find myself studying her shiny, pink lips. I’m pretty sure she has lip gloss on. Lips aren’t that shiny naturally.
“I’m Tina Caldwell. Joey said that you might like someone to talk to,” she informs me as she grins, and it feels infectious. Returning her smile feels foreign, but I can’t help myself. When I do, her green eyes glitter with happiness. She seems so joyful.
“Oh, yes. Please, uh, come in,” I say nervously, opening the door and gesturing her inside.
When she walks past me, I smell a lovely floral scent that makes tears spring to my eyes. The tears are ones of sadness and loss. Tina appears to be every bit of a normal woman my age, and it only solidifies that I am not.
I lead her over to the sofa and motion for her to sit down while I take a seat in the armchair. We're both quiet as we study one another. I’m completely captivated by her. She looks professional yet approachable in her grey suit and pink camisole. The fact that she wears bright pink matching heels makes me think she is a fun p
erson—as if I would know about that sort of thing.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” she begins softly, watching my reaction carefully. I feel like I am a specimen under a microscope. My skin begins to crawl, and I feel like sending her away so I can go shower.
“Well, me too, I guess,” I reply. I didn’t mean to slip out the last part, but it happened. Something about Tina makes me want to tell her things.
“You guess?” she queries.
Yeah, this woman doesn’t miss a thing.
My eyes begin to dart around the room as I try to determine how to back myself out of that one. Finally, I sigh and meet her eyes.
“She wasn’t exactly nice to me. It’s sad, but I almost feel relieved.” There, I said it. After living eleven years with a mother who abused me, I suddenly feel happy to have said the words.
Tina looks at me sympathetically and nods her head. The gesture is one that sparks something inside me. Like maybe it’s okay for me to feel this way?
“Sweetie, what’s your name?” she asks me.
“Sidney. Sidney Hunter.”
Her smile at my answer has me beaming once again in response. What is it about her that makes me do that?
“Well, Sidney, it is very natural for someone to feel that way if they have been in an abusive relationship. Do you feel that you were abused by your mother?”
Here is the moment of truth. Admitting what I knew all along. My mother was terribly abusive—not just physically, but mentally as well. From what I read in the library books and on the Internet, I was the recipient of abuse. No brainer there. Problem was, I always had trouble figuring out what to do about it.
“Yes. I know that I was abused by her. I’m glad she’s gone. I don’t feel terrible about it either. In fact, I can’t wait to start my life,” I rush out quickly before I lose my nerve.
Her face is sad and full of compassion as she regards me. I’m not used to seeing someone look at me in such a way. Momma was the only one who ever really looked at me, and it was definitely on the opposite end of the spectrum.