by A. M. Irvin
I listened.
Nothing.
Only endless, patient silence.
I hit the glass with the heel of my hand. Hard and loud. I smacked it with all my might. Then I began to pound with my fists. I tried to see through the dirty smudges. I prayed I’d see movement indicating that someone had heard me. That someone was out there and would rescue me.
I kept pounding and smacking my hand against the glass.
Someone!
Anyone!
Help!
I banged on the window until my skin split and my bones rattled.
“No one sees you, Nora, because no one cares enough to look.”
I should give up, but I couldn’t let go of the chance that I would be heard.
“I’m here,” I whispered, when finally, I dropped my hand in exhaustion and pressed my forehead against the glass.
“I’m here,” I murmured, my throat dry and my stomach rolling.
I ran my fingers along the sill, not flinching as slivers of wood embedded themselves under my skin. I went over the cracks and edges of the window, looking for a way to open it.
Using my fingernails, I chipped away at the paint. Knowing I was mere feet away from freedom but couldn’t get there was absolute torture. I could almost see it. I could almost feel the fresh air. But I just. Couldn’t. Reach it.
“Please,” I moaned, frantically sweeping my fingers along the crevices. “Please!” I keened, scrapping, ripping. Paint fell in flakes onto the dirty floor.
“Someone help me!” I cried and was almost relieved to feel the wet tears on my cheeks. Their salty trails washed away some of the blood and grime. They were cleansing.
A release.
The only kind I could have.
I let myself cry, and I continued to pry at the window, desperate for the air. Frantic for the sun.
“Please!”
Silence. Empty, loaded silence.
“Please, let me go!”
My fingers brushed against something hard and cold in the corner of the ledge. I could see the glint of metal in the hazy sunlight, and my heart thumped, thumped in my chest.
I tried to pick it up, but my grasp was weak. Instead I swept it to the edge and let it fall. It hit the ground with a clang. My breath caught in my throat. The tears dried up.
I knelt down and scooped the small object into my palm. I held it close to my face so that I could see it.
Constant looping designs etched in silver . . .
The setting sun gave me just enough light to see. I walked along the sidewalk with anticipation fluttering wildly in my gut.
I smiled.
I giggled.
I laughed and laughed.
I pushed my hair off my face and refused to hide. Not anymore.
I wanted to show her me. All of me.
Tonight would be the beginning . . .
I ran my fingers over the thin, silver band on my thumb. Too large for my other fingers because it hadn’t been made for me.
My tongue glided over my teeth as I felt the engraved symbols on the delicate piece of jewelry.
It was mine.
It was so much nicer than my paper ring. It felt right on my hand.
I almost had everything . . .
I slipped the ring onto my thumb, where I knew it belonged.
Rosie’s ring.
My ring.
How did it get here, stuck in the cracks of the window?
I turned back to the glass and pressed my palms against the smooth surface.
“I’m here,” I whispered to no one.
Because no one could hear me.
The Past
Five Months Earlier
The house was silent.
The sun had set hours ago, and I should have been asleep but rest evaded me.
The only sound was that of my breathing. Ragged. Painful. In and out.
Sometimes I went to bed hoping that tomorrow wouldn’t be so bad. I’d think to myself that perhaps, when I woke up in the morning, I could be just another twenty-year-old girl with normal twenty-year-old problems. Maybe I could agonize over my hair and giggle with friends on the phone about a boy I liked.
I’d get this excited flutter in my belly that felt almost like possibility.
I loved those nights.
Nights when I could dream and be someone else.
Tonight wasn’t one of those nights.
I had come home from college, happy to see that my mother’s car was gone. She worked three days a week at a daycare center.
She had been working there since I was a little girl. I had been upset, being still young enough to miss my mother, even though I had no reason to.
It didn’t take long for me to be thankful for the hours when she was away.
Mother loved her job for reasons that hurt the young girl I had been and would always be. She’d come home later and tell me about Chelsea with her lovely red hair and adorable face. Or she’d talk about Douglas with his cherub cheeks and infectious smile.
Pretty children.
Perfect children.
She loved each and every one of them.
She made sure that I knew that.
But for those few hours before she came home, I could wander through the house and make as much noise as I wanted to. I’d turn on the TV and watch General Hospital at full volume just because I could. I’d eat bar-b-que potato chips and drink milk from the carton.
Simple things that wouldn’t matter to most people. But for me they were moments of bliss that I treasured.
I had been smiling when I walked inside.
“Get your hair out of your face, Nora!”
I had jumped and dropped my bag on the floor. My mother was standing in the living room, straightening books on the shelf.
“Mother. I didn’t know you were here. Your car wasn’t out front,” I said, pushing my hair back. Wanting to curl into a ball and fade away.
“Rosie’s borrowing it. Her Volvo is being inspected.” Clipped. Harsh. She spoke with no love. No joy. “It’s Thursday. You need to get changed. I laid your clothes out on your bed.” She never looked at me. Her back was all I could see of her.
It was Thursday.
I shivered.
“But Rosie’s borrowing the car,” I pointed out. Then wished I hadn’t said anything. I knew better than to question Mother. I knew better than to talk too much lest she focus on the things I wished she wouldn’t. I invited her criticism and ire when I spoke.
I needed to remain invisible.
Unseen.
“She’s going to drive us to the church. She wanted to come this week. Isn’t that nice? She’s such a God fearing young woman. Beautiful on the inside as well as the outside. We’re lucky to have her in our lives.”
Lucky.
So very, very lucky.
I turned to go upstairs and stopped. Mother was watching me with a strange look in her eyes. It wasn’t her normal anger. She looked thoughtful. Pensive.
“There should have been more. This house should have been full of voices and tiny laughter. It’s what we wanted.”
I held my breath. It was almost as if she forgot I was there. Her eyes were far away and lost. Something about her expression almost made me feel bad for her. She seemed . . . sad.
I thought, for a brief moment, about reaching out to her. My fingers twitched, and I wanted to touch Mother. I wanted to hug her and to have her hug me back. I imagined what it would feel like to have her hold me after all this time.
But then her eyes cleared and her face hardened. Her lips curled in derision as she looked away from me. “But you made sure that didn’t happen, didn’t you, Nora? You ruined it all.”
I had no idea what she was talking about, and I didn’t dare ask. I wanted to. Because I knew that whatever her words meant, they were the roots of her hatred.
Though I was terrified to know the truth. I was scared of her honesty. Yet I felt an irrational guilt that this miserable life that we both endur
ed was entirely my fault.
I stared at my hands clasped in front of me, hating the fine tremors that I could never seem to control. “I’ll go change,” I said quietly. Retreating. Far away from her hateful words and even more hateful gaze.
I all but ran up the stairs and closed myself in my room.
It was Thursday.
I hated Thursdays.
I looked out my bedroom window at the thick branches of the elm tree just beyond the glass and wished I were rebellious. I wished I were impulsive. If I were then I’d lift the sash and climb out onto the window ledge. I’d hook my leg around the closest branch and hoist my body onto the sturdy trunk.
Then I’d climb all the way down to the ground. And once my feet were on the grass, I’d run.
I’d run far away and never look back.
But I wasn’t rebellious. I wasn’t impulsive. I was Nora Gilbert.
Ugly, dutiful Nora Gilbert.
And right now I had to get dressed in the outfit my mother had chosen for me to wear.
A few minutes later, I met my mother in the hallway wearing a long blue skirt and white blouse. I wanted to tell her that I had been capable of picking out my own clothes since I was five, but I didn’t dare. I knew better than to argue. I knew better than to pick unnecessary arguments. My feelings about anything were inconsequential. I had stopped trying to make myself heard a long time ago.
“I hope I’m not late,” Rosie said, letting herself inside. As though she lived here. As if she belonged.
“Of course not! You’re right on time,” Mother beamed. “Come on, Nora. Don’t forget the scarf,” she reminded me.
With my head down, I tried to ignore the sound of Rosie and Mother’s pleasantries. I picked the scrap of fabric up from the table just beside the door. I wrapped the yellow patterned scarf around my hand, so tight it cut off the blood flow to my fingers. I enjoyed the numbness.
I followed the two women out to the car. Neither spoke to me the entire way to the church. I was fine with that. I hadn’t wanted to talk anyway. I was too busy dreading what lay ahead of me.
Rosie pulled into the parking lot of the small, whitewashed building and cut the engine. I didn’t get out right away. I knew I would be reprimanded, but I couldn’t make myself open the door.
Mother banged her hand on the window, startling me. Her face was thunderous, and I hurried out of the car before she could forcibly remove me.
Rosie stood off to the side, her eyes sparkling.
We went into the church, bile rising in the back of my throat.
“It looks just as I remember it,” Rosie cooed, looking around the small space. During the few short months she had lived with us, she had been the dutiful child, attending services every Sunday with my family. Mother loved to see her dressed up in frilly clothes, her hair curled and lovely. Rosie was given the special spot between Mother and Dad. I sat on Dad’s other side trying not to care that I was an outsider in my own family.
After Rosie went back into the system, Mother hadn’t gone to church for months. I had been happy for the reprieve. I never liked the rapturous sermons and messages of fear and obedience preached from the pulpit.
But when we returned, Mother was lit from within by a new purpose. A renewed vengeance. And I had been the focus.
I looked up at the giant stained-glass window that took up most of the far wall. It was the only beautiful thing about the place. Looking at it, I could almost ignore the horrible twist I felt in my stomach every time we came.
It was a small, country church with a congregation of only fifty members. And Reverend Miller reigned over his sheep with the fiery vehemence of the fervently fanatic.
Mother patted Rosie’s shoulder and walked past her, down the aisle towards the door to the side of the pulpit. I was expected to follow. And I did.
I left the sanctuary, closing the door behind me.
I wasn’t there to pray.
I was there to be healed.
Mother too had her illusions.
Mother had latched onto faith healing in those dark days after Rosie left and father died. She had become convinced that God would turn me into the daughter she wanted me to be.
When that had failed, she had turned to medicine. Despite just having the reconstructive surgery, Mother still insisted I attend the healing session. Because it was obvious that in her eyes, and in the eyes of every single person who looked at me, I still wasn’t good enough.
We entered a large office just beyond the sanctuary. A tall, balding man sat behind a desk, hands folded, head bent low.
He looked non-threatening at first, but when he opened his mouth he could bring anyone to their knees. He plagued on people’s worries, their fears. He molded and manipulated them to meet his own agenda. I hated him.
Mother loved him in a manner that was almost idolatrous. Though she would never acknowledge that particular sin. Or any other.
We waited until the reverend was finished with his prayer. We would never interrupt him by making a noise. I had accidentally stepped on a creaking floorboard once and was rewarded with a nasty pinch on my underarm. The bruise had lasted for almost two weeks.
Finally Reverend Miller looked up, giving us his non-verbal consent to enter the room. We walked to our usual spots. Mother and Rosie sat on the sofa, and I took a place on the floor beneath a large wooden cross on the wall. I tucked my legs beneath me and smoothed my skirt. I felt sick and shaky.
Reverend Miller smiled and greeted us. I barely heard him. My head was full with other things.
“Remove your shirt, Nora,” Reverend Miller instructed. I was only ten years old, but I knew what was he asking me to do wasn’t right. Mother stood off to the side, her hands folded in prayer, her eyes closed, her lips moving in silent supplication.
I hesitated and Reverend Miller noticed. He smiled and it seemed so kind, so understanding that I instantly relaxed. “You can turn around so I just see your back,” he offered softly, and I sagged in relief.
Not questioning, I removed my shirt and held it over my developing chest. I turned so that I was facing the wall. I was tense. Unsure of what was about to happen.
“You must be purged of your sin. To purge the sin, you must feel the pain of Christ’s sacrifice. Do you understand, Nora?” Reverend Miller asked.
I didn’t want to anger Mother by saying that I had no idea what he was talking about. So I nodded.
And then he hit me.
I opened my mouth in a scream, but no sound came out. Then he hit me again. Over and over with a thin, wooden cane he kept in the corner of the room. I had noticed it before but hadn’t paid it any mind.
I noticed now.
The pain was indescribable. The agony was intense. I cried and cried while Mother prayed and prayed.
Prayed for me to be beautiful as I was left broken and bleeding . . .
I didn’t acknowledge Reverend Miller when he approached me. I didn’t say a word when he told me to get to my feet.
I didn’t move as he wrapped the pale, yellow scarf around my face. Covering me up. Hiding me away.
I swallowed the loathing and the fear as Reverend Miller pressed cold, clammy fingers to my lip. I could feel him all too clearly through the material of the scarf.
“Dear Heavenly Father, take this child into your arms. Bless her with your love. Show compassion to her struggling mother, who tries to find a way to love such an abomination. Heal this child and this family. Purge the evil from Nora Gilbert and wash away her sin. Cleanse her soul so that it is reflected on her skin.”
His voice rose and rose, and I shrunk away from his fingers, but his hands held firm. I couldn’t move. Not until he was finished.
Then my mother’s voice joined the Reverend’s. Rosie soon followed.
“Cleanse the abomination. Purge the sin. Wash away the heinous blight. Lead her along the path of righteousness and embrace her in your glory! Help her mother love a child of wickedness. Help Nora turn away her dark nature.”
Then the scarf was gone and my shirt was removed. I turned to face the wall, ready for what was to come.
“You must be purged of your sin. To purge the sin, you must feel the pain of Christ’s sacrifice,” Reverend Miller intoned darkly.
“You must be purged of your sin. To purge the sin, you must feel the pain of Christ’s sacrifice,” Mother and Rosie repeated.
I felt the bite of the cane. I felt the blood dripping down my skin. But I didn’t cry anymore. I didn’t scream.
I just waited for it to be over.
The pain wouldn’t cure me. I was past healing.
Mother was a fool.
I stared up at the ceiling, trying to blank my mind. When I had gotten home I had gone to my room and lay across my bed on my stomach. My routine was ingrained. After a few minutes I carefully wiped antibiotic cream on the open wounds, the ones I could reach. Then I wet a towel and clumsily draped it across my back, lying down again.
I stayed that way the rest of the evening and into the night. After a few hours I was able to get changed into my pjs and waited until Mother had gone to bed before I went into the kitchen to get something to eat. My mother hadn’t bothered to bring me anything. She never did.
Afterwards, I returned to my room and got into bed, making sure to lie on my side.
I didn’t want to think about Reverend Miller. I didn’t want to think about his hands touching my face. I didn’t want to think about the hot lick of pain shooting up my back every time I moved. And I definitely didn’t want to think about my mother’s fevered fanaticism as she prayed to her God to make her daughter pretty. Medical science had failed her. All she had left was her Lord.
“My life would be so much better if you were gone.”
I didn’t want to think about my mother putting her arm around Rosie’s shoulders and walking out with her to the car as I hobbled behind them, barely able to move. And of course neither commented on the red spots that had bled through my shirt.
“Nora.”
I startled at the intrusion, having been consumed by pain and horrible thoughts. I sat up in bed, the covers falling to my waist. I fumbled around on my bedside table until I found my glasses. I put them on and quickly switched on the lamp.