by CeeCee James
“Is there anything I can do to help you?”
She shook her head no.
“I’m going to go pray, Mama. I’m going to go pray for you right now!”
I ran to my porch bedroom and once again fell to my knees with my head against the side of my mattress. “You’ve done this before. I need you again. Please make Mama better. She can’t be sick. Oh God, please help her!”
I was watching for the heat this time when I prayed. I couldn’t help but wonder if it would come again. At the same time, fear told me that Mama was not going to be okay. Not this time. I muffled a sob against my arm.
Tears poured from my eyes when the thick wave of heat rolled over me, so heavy I relaxed against the bed. Every breath felt like I was breathing in a tangible peace that instantly cut off my fear. I lay with my cheek against the bed for at least fifteen minutes, and didn’t want to move.
Mama retook the medical test a few days later, and a week after that the phone rang with the good news that it was negative. All was well.
And just like that, it was time to move again. We were going to another rental. I still had boxes packed in the corner of my room.
We moved to the new house in time to start my first year in high school. Because the district was so crowded, they started high school here at tenth grade. I walked down to my new school bus stop with a heavy back pack slung over my shoulder. Chin up, chest out! I told myself, as I walked up to the other waiting teenagers. This is your year!
My favorite class was the yearbook development. I made a friend named Samantha, and we signed up to be on the advertising team together. We spent most of the semester designing the slots and fonts to use when we sold the space.
Finally in late October, Samantha and I along with two other girls were able to skip class and go to town to drum up ads. Hoping to crack my friends up, I dipped my head at the owner of an auto mechanic shop and said, “Ahh Top o' the marnin ter yer dare. Can oi interest yer in buyin' an ad oyt av our auld yearbook?”
Samantha covered her snort of laughter with a cough. The owner blinked, and cocked an eyebrow at me. He shrugged. “Sure.”
We ran laughing back to school clutching our checks and advertisement sheets.
When I came home that night, Mama met me at the door. She had a smile on her face. I hesitated, my eyes darted both from the floor to her face and back again. “Here!” Mama said, and thrust a box of instant soup in my hand. I nearly dropped it, before looking back at her, then back at the floor.
“It’s for you.”
“Thank you Mama!” A huge smile broke across my face. She nodded and walked back to the living room, where her crafts lay strewn across the table.
The rest of the food still stayed locked up with a huge silver lock on the pantry door, but the box of soup stayed out on the counter waiting for me each afternoon.
I couldn’t wait to get home the next day to make my soup. There was no snow yet, so I brought my typewriter out by the pond, and sipped my soup as I wrote the stories about the siblings that I had carried in my heart from when I was a little girl.
A flat rock overlooked the shallow pond. When I was done, I lay down on it and gazed into the muddy water. Little tracks decorated the bottom, crisscrossing over the top of each other, made by pill bug larvae dragging their rolled bark tubes. I scooped one out, and its ugly front legs wiggled at me. Yuck! I shuddered and tossed it back in to the water, causing a circle of ripples to expand out across the pond’s surface.
The calm continued through Christmas. That year Mama bought me new sheets and a quilt for my Christmas presents. I spent the day lying on top of my bed made with the clean sheets and quilt, and listened to old time Christmas stories on the radio. I twirled a candy cane around in my mouth and wiggled my feet.
God gave me that year as a gift. I was about to enter the biggest trial in my life. The one person that I had always relied on was about to fail me. Myself.
Chapter 19
~Falling Down~
Just as tenth grade ended, my stepdad was offered a job in Idaho. They rented a moving truck and we moved two days later, continuing to shadow Mama’s parents across the United States. I had to leave most of my belongings behind, including my red typewriter. Mama found a new house in another small, country town. This time my bedroom was in the little addition off of the garage.
As I carried a box off of the moving truck, I bumped into Mama in the kitchen. She twirled a padlock around her finger. Smiling at me, she slid the metallic loop through the pantry cupboard handles and clicked the padlock closed.
“Sneaky girl,” she said, wagging her finger under my nose.
Like steam evaporating off a hot road, the lock made the magic from my special summer drift away. Along with it went the last of my desire to please Mama. The hollow spot gave its first booming echo in a long time, its center glowing in a red haze of anger. It fumed out of my mouth, and I answered back. “I’m not sneaky!”
She raised the back of her hand and cracked me across the face. I ran to my room. Mama followed me to the washer and dryer outside my door. I overheard her muttering as she threw the laundry in the machine, “I wish I’d never had her.”
From my bed I called, the red haze still driving me, “What Mama?”
She slammed the washing machine lid down. “You just think you’re so big and bad. I should have beaten you more when you were younger.” The red haze shielded me from caring about her cruel words.
I stood up and headed back to the truck. On my way back through the kitchen I slid a cigarette from a pack sitting open on the counter. I hurried behind the garage and lit it, amazed at how the quick drags filled my body with surges of power.
From then on, I snuck cigarettes whenever possible; trying to catch that same feeling the little rebellious act gave me. Adam caught me one day, when he walked around the corner where I was taking furtive drags off of a long butt I’d found. But, he thought it was funny, so I smoked even more.
Now that I was sixteen I didn’t stay outside when my parents were gone on the weekends. I didn’t know or care if they checked anymore on me, and ran through the back door as soon as the car left the driveway. I ate frozen cool whip out of the freezer and danced to the Bangles in my bedroom, my hands thrusting out in an attempt to walk like an Egyptian across the floor. When the car returned, I casually slipped back out the garage door.
I needed money to buy cigarettes and new clothes, so I got a job at the local fast food restaurant. Mama drove me a few times before we got into an argument about something stupid. She ended the argument by saying, “You think you’re such a tough girl? Find your own way to work and back. And don’t you bother other people for rides. Figure it out by yourself.”
So I walked. It was a little over eight miles there, but independence coursed through me with every step. Finally, I felt in control of my destiny.
One dark morning, my friend’s dad pulled up beside me on his way to work and rolled down the window.
“What are you doing out here? Get in the car.” He shifted the car in gear. “Your parents are okay with you walking all this way in the dark?” He didn’t respond when I nodded.
I became friends with the retired next door neighbor, Mr. Kent. His house was shielded from my parents by a huge hedge of trees. I’d sneak over there after school when Mama told me to go outside. He told me stories from his time in the military while I twirled in a battered swivel chair, eating out of a can of mixed nuts.
One day, out of the blue, he said with exaggerated casualness, “I have this bike just sitting out there, never use it.” And he gestured with his pipe out the front door. “It’s an old thing, maybe you want to use it back and forth to work?”
I went to the door, arching my eyebrow back at him when I saw the brand new black ten-speed leaning against the wall. Mr. Kent gave a puff on his pipe and stared back at me, daring me to comment.
I laughed. “Thanks. I’ll use it when I can.” I had to be careful not to be caught
by my parents on the bike.
I borrowed it without a hitch for a few weeks. One afternoon, when I was over there to return the bike, Mr. Kent met me at the door.
“Well young lady, care to take a little drive with me while I drop this off at my friend’s?” He held a heavy bag of canned food. I didn’t have anything better to do, so I nodded. We drove up to his friend’s house in the next town over.
She was also retired and lived in a run-down trailer. The driveway was filled with tall grass that hadn’t held a parked car in years. He pulled up into the driveway, flattening the grass out before the front of the car, and then pulled the emergency brake.
After clearing his throat, he said in a low voice, “I know things are rough for you at home. Just so you know, if you ever need a place to stay, you can stay here, with my friend. She’s a good egg.”
I was shocked that he suspected how terrible my home-life was. I couldn’t even nod to let him know that I had heard him. We climbed out of the car without looking at each other and walked to the trailer. His friend welcomed me with a big hug, as though she had always known me.
The walls in her house were lined with boxes, stacks of magazines and newspapers, with the living room chairs and a couch squeezed in among them. There were teapots, fishing poles and baskets hanging from hooks in the ceiling, and glass figurines and dried flowers lining the tops of the cupboards. We sat in the chairs, and I tried to smile through the claustrophobia of being buried under her towering piles.
That night, in my bedroom, I considered the offer. She was a nice lady, although a little eccentric, but I couldn’t imagine living there. Besides, she lived too far away from the school and my job down town. But in my heart, I knew I was too afraid to make that break from my parents.
In February, I overheard Mama and Adam plan another visit to her parents. A few hours later, I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants and walked up to Mama in the kitchen. She briskly stirred spaghetti sauce in a pot and gave me a quick glance, before adding some seasoning out of a jar.
I cleared my throat and then the words tumbled out with a rush. “Could you please take me to a counselor? I need to work some things out.”
Mama’s back stiffened. She held the spoon still for a moment, before giving me the briefest of nods.
She took me to the counselor twice. I appreciate that she did that for me. Both of the days I went it was raining. Mama dropped me off in front of the place, and I’d run in with my hands over my head, finally sitting in the counselors office with my hair dripping down my face.
I didn’t go into a lot of detail with the counselor. Instead I focused on my intent to confront my grandfather. The counselor was a brusque, no-nonsense woman.
“Is that what you want to do?” she asked.
I couldn’t describe to her how this one thought dominated everything else, as though it were trying to birth itself into reality beyond my choice. I daydreamed about it all the time.
“I have to do it.”
She leaned back in her chair with her fingers entwined behind her head and nodded.
During the eight hour drive down to my grandparent’s house I flipped through my book to distract myself. My heart rate sped up the closer we got. I could feel my pulse pounding in my neck and wondered if Mama could tell what I planned to do.
We pulled into the driveway. My hands were shaking when I got out of the car so I jammed them into my pockets. My grandparents came out to say hello. I couldn’t look at him. After a few minutes I hid in the back bedroom.
The next morning, Mama, Adam, and Grandma left together and abandoned me alone with Grandpa.
I hid in the bedroom, pacing, and tried to work up the courage to say what I planned to say. The words jumbled in my head like buzzing white noise. I tried to swallow. This is a bad idea! Don’t say anything. What if he freaks out and everyone finds out I said something? Mama will kill me.
There was a noise in the hallway, slow footsteps. With a whispery sound, he snuck around the corner of the door to my room. As soon as I saw his face, his long nose, and beady eyes, my body started to tremble with adrenaline. Every word that I had prepared vanished from my mind.
He stared at me. Time stopped, as I wavered on the brink of keeping silent forever.
I heard a voice, and it took me a second to realize it was mine. “I can’t believe you would do that to me. All those years.”
It came out in a shaky burst and wasn’t what I planned to say. Still, he was shocked. His hands clenched in front of him while he stuttered excuses that it was no big deal.
“LIAR!” I screamed, and then softer, as the tears started to fall, “You almost destroyed me.”
He hung his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He stumbled out of the room, banging into the wall as he left.
The rest of the visit was very awkward. Grandpa and I stayed in rooms separate from one another, as though physically repelled by an invisible boundary. When he was called into the kitchen by Grandma, I shifted to the living room. When the family joined me in the living room, I escaped out the back door. The other three adults were tireless in their joking and storytelling, their voices and laughter louder than normal. Grandpa and I remained silent. Hearing them act jovial weighed me down.
I wanted to go home.
We left at the end of the week. I looked out the window at the rain falling, and wondered if it was over. Did I do enough to make the pain go away?
It wasn’t the last time I would see him. When Easter came that year, it brought more rain, mud slides, and my grandparents. Mama, Adam, and Grandma left for lunch, and Grandpa again stayed behind with me. Once more, he tried to slink back into the bedroom where I was. This time I was stronger. This time, the red haze carried me.
As soon as I saw him I screamed, “What do you think you are doing? You’re a disgusting old man! You will never, ever, ever touch me again! I’ll scratch your eyes out if you try to touch me! Get away from me! I don’t ever want to see you again!”
His face turned beet red and backed out of the room.
Sending him away with his tail between his legs should have empowered me. Instead, as the red haze faded, it left behind the echo that was booming. I felt trapped, and crushed.
I craved control. I started not eating, even when I had the opportunity. If I had to eat, guilt rushed me to the bathroom to purge. The eating disorder soon ruled me, to the point that I even drank water after I purged, to rinse my stomach, and then purged that too.
Mama found out.
It happened one night as we were at a restaurant with my stepdad’s family, celebrating my step-grandpa’s birthday. I had excused myself to use the bathroom. When I came out of the stall, she was standing there.
“You sick?” she asked.
My heart gave a squeeze. She cares! I wanted to run into her arms and have her hold me. Choking on my tears, I said, “Mama, I have a problem. I can’t stop.”
She backed away and rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m certainly not going to provide food for you to throw up. You’re on your own, kiddo.”
She pushed the door open and left. I turned to the mirror. You are such an idiot. Leaning close to the mirror, I tried to clean up the mascara from under my eyes. I fanned my face for a moment, and then walked out.
From that day on, I bought my own groceries. She wouldn’t drive me, so the plastic loops of the bag made white creases in my fingers on the two mile trek back home.
About a month later, I came home from the bus stop with a friend. She was complaining about her boyfriend as we walked through the back door. I stopped short with a sharp exhale, and my friend bumped into my back. All of my belongings were piled up to the ceiling against the interior garage wall.
My clothes were knotted around my shoes, papers wrinkled and piled under books, and speaker wires tangled in blankets. All of my art work and posters had been torn down and piled in with dirty laundry. The drawers from my dresser were dumped and thrown against the wall, my shirts tumbling i
nto the cat box on the floor.
All that was left inside my room was my bed and the skeleton of the dresser. It was sterilized of my existence, a bare prison cell. Mama had even taken my beautiful comforter that she had given me for Christmas and sewed gaudy material over the top.
Mama walked briskly around the corner when she heard the back door open. The smile on her face melted when she saw my friend standing next to me.
Her face was white. “Oh, well, this was a surprise for you. I cleaned your room.”
My friend patted me on the shoulder. “Umm, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
I didn’t notice when she left.
All I could see was my beautiful artwork that I had worked so hard on, now lying torn and bedraggled. Bile rose in my throat, and I almost threw up. Mama had stripped away the identity that I was just learning to express.
I leaned down to pick up one of my cassettes and eyeshadow out of the cat box.
“What? I thought you’d be happy? Your room is always such a pig sty, I couldn’t take it anymore!” Mama whirled away with a huff.
The black pit inside of me was breaking apart and spewing its putrid contents. The red haze, panic, grief; all the ugly emotions uncoiled and lashed out with strangling arms. Screaming, I ran into my sterilized room and slammed the door.
I had to stop the pain.
I sat on my bare mattress with heaving gasps and tried to control my breathing. I looked at the wall, the corners of my pictures still taped there from where she had ripped them down. By the door I saw a pink safety razor and lunged for it. There was no hesitation. I sliced my body over and over until railroad tracks ran up my arms and legs. With each bit of violence to my physical body, my mental body became more controlled.
The razor gave me power. I was in control over how much it hurt.
The next day the scabs cracked and oozed whenever I moved my arms or legs. The sharp burns reminded me that I owned this pain.
That night, I skipped my bus after school and went home with a friend. Mama called the police to report me as a runaway. The police showed up at my friend’s house, where I hid in their back yard.