by Sandi Ward
Ann returned his gaze. “All righty, then. We’ll let you know if we need you again.”
We heard the door shut. Father and I didn’t move from our spots in the living room. There was no need to see these people out, these people who came in uninvited.
After a moment, Father walked into the kitchen. A glass of water rested untouched on the table, and Mother sat silently in her chair. The lighting in the kitchen was eerie and unnatural.
“God help you, if you ever pick up this ax again . . .”
“What? You’ll kill me? You’ll murder me with it?” Mother didn’t sound afraid. She looked right at him. “Go ahead.”
Now, I know something about predator and prey. I have a powerful instinct for self-preservation. I avoid pain and I despise heartbreak. But I have no fear of death, or blood and guts. I have killed two mice that found their way into this old house, and I ate their hearts out.
Father is so much bigger than Mother, I could see that with one or two swift blows of the ax he could kill her. It would be quick, and it would be easy.
But Mother was not afraid of death, I believe, and certainly not by Father’s hand. She had some interesting and strange ideas, but that wasn’t one of them. She was never afraid of Father. On the contrary, he had protected her for many years.
“Jesus Christ,” is all Father said, and he left the kitchen swiftly. I assumed he was going to hide that ax somewhere she couldn’t find it. I jumped up into Mother’s lap. Her touch was light and lovely, as always.
Father came back in a few minutes later, rubbing his eyes. “God give me strength.”
“God give you patience,” Mother corrected him, holding up one finger, echoing what she’d heard him say many times before.
That earned her a little smile from Father. “Yeah. That too. I need that too. By the way, I got you something.” He hunted around in the kitchen, opening cabinet doors and looking on one high shelf and then the next. It was clear to me he bought something for her a long time ago, in case of a situation like this one. Finally he found it. It was a bag of her favorite candy, caramels.
She took the candy from his hand, bewildered. Pinching it in her fingers, she checked to make sure it was soft enough to eat. I had seen her do this before.
“This is good,” she declared. “This is good enough.”
He sat down next to her. “It better be.”
Mother nodded. “God told me you were watching out for me. So I know all about it. I’ve heard a lot about you, and you don’t need to worry, because things could be a lot worse.” She sighed, and whispered, “I know I ruined your life, Tommy, and you don’t need to tell me. You know how sorry I am, and I know that you’d all be better off without me. I wish I could stop it, but I can’t. I told you to call Father Boyle, but you never did. You don’t listen, and that’s the problem with you.”
Father just shook his head. “Please don’t say things like—”
She continued without pause: “There’s a lot of other things that I can’t tell you about, Tommy, because there’s too many and Father Boyle is a very busy man in the order of that he doesn’t have time for me when you walk into the kitchen and my problems other than they told me what to do.”
I knew she was talking nonsense now, but Father still listened as if it all made perfect sense to him. “I know, sweetheart.”
“You haven’t been listening to me.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.” He had one hand on the back of her chair. His voice was softer, the energy sapped out of him. “Carrie.”
Mother looked at him. “You’re just doing your job.”
“I am.” Even now, even after all this, it is hard to describe the look he gave Mother.
He loved her like I did, which is to say: completely.
We both thought it would be forever.
Father pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “I’m so grateful for that sweet little baby upstairs you gave me. He’s such a blessing.”
Mother reached down and scratched between my ears.
“Care, are you listening to me? Thank you for that baby. He’s going to be okay.”
Mother smiled down at me, and I winked back.
“Listen. Carrie,” he tried again. “That baby needs you. I need you. You need to stay home, not go out anywhere, and take care of—”
Mother lifted her head, and her expression changed, turning perfectly cold. “No, you listen. The baby is absolutely not going to be okay. And neither am I, trapped here.” Upstairs, as if on cue, Finn began his shrill newborn scream. Father winced, as if the sound was painful to him, but Mother’s face never changed. We soon heard footsteps on the old floorboards above us, and then we heard Jimmy cooing at Finn. “You wanted that baby. So now you’ve got him. But it’s not going to help. You’re better off without me,” she whispered. “That baby is better off without me. I’m a bad person. I’m not going to be here much longer. I’ll do you a favor and go.”
“Don’t say that. Please. Please don’t say that.”
If we knew she was just a few months away from leaving us, maybe Father and I would’ve paid more attention. But at the time, it just seemed like the sort of thing Mother would say when she was having a very bad day.
“I don’t feel well. Tommy—”
Mother, who had been holding the gold coin this entire time, let it slip from her fingers, and it dropped to the floor. Father jumped forward and caught her as she slumped into him. You see, I think Mother knew something was horribly wrong, and she was fighting it. Father helped her up and carried her into the living room.
He brought Mother to the couch and laid her down with her head propped on a pillow. First Father brought her pills and the glass of water. She took them without question. Then he lay down next to her on the old sagging couch, as if shielding her from the world, even though he could barely fit. He wrapped his arm around her and held her tightly.
Thinking back on it now, I think this was Father’s greatest fault: He didn’t like asking for help. He never spoke with anyone about Mother’s behavior that I knew of. I think he was afraid of losing her forever. Maybe he was afraid that if they came for her, they would not bring her back. Sometimes she would go to the hospital for a night, but he always made sure she came right back home. He wanted her home and nowhere else.
Even after she cut the Xs on Jimmy.
Even when she carried an ax in the house where that newborn baby lay crying in his crib.
He loved her too much, and that was a problem. Without realizing it, perhaps he was stopping her—and everyone else—from getting the help they needed.
I loved her too. I am guilty of the same things. Father and I are very much alike.
While they were sleeping, I paced back and forth, watching them. And then I noticed the gold coin, sitting on the kitchen floor. Unattended.
Maybe, I thought, that coin was the source of the trouble. After all, the voices came from the coin, didn’t they?
I padded into the kitchen and tapped the coin with my paw. It was lightweight. I tried picking it up with my mouth, but it was too difficult. I couldn’t get it to tip up enough to clamp my teeth onto it. So I batted it once, twice, and on the third try it went skidding under the stove.
Success!
The evil coin, the one that brought bad luck to this house, was hidden. I congratulated myself on my efforts. And I hoped Mother would not be too upset.
By the time Mary got home, Mother and Father were both fast asleep on the couch, and Father was snuggled up behind Mother. One of the lamps was still on, and it took Mary a moment to even notice them there. She tiptoed in with a big smile and looked at me. I sat in the armchair, half-asleep myself. “They’re so cute together, aren’t they, Boo?” Mary asked me with a soft laugh. “New parents. Always so tired.”
Mary didn’t know that upstairs Jimmy waited for her, rocking newborn Finn in the dark, keeping the baby quiet. I had heard Jimmy weeping quietly and considered going upstairs to comfort
him, but I didn’t want to leave Mother.
Mary didn’t know that Jimmy waited for her with a scary story. A story about ghosts, and the neighbors, and an ax.
And a woman in blue.
I wait under the stairs, hoping Mahmee returns soon with the baby. My body feels tired and achy, heavy with memories. When Father and Jimmy said Mother is sick, this must be what they meant, that her ability to talk to ghosts is in fact an illness and not a gift.
I don’t care what the humans call it. To me, Mother always seemed wise and magical. Maybe that is how I should choose to think of her, no matter how angry I am. My memories are my own.
25
Empty Closet
Father wakes up early on his day off. He seems full of energy and purpose.
After starting up a pot of coffee, he takes Jasper outside. When he comes back in, he has the newspaper with him. I get a glance of the sky as Father walks in the front door, and it’s barely light out, the sky pink and white. Father isn’t usually up this early, so I think he must have plans for the day.
He skims through the newspaper and then brings his coffee upstairs. He is still wearing flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt, with a ratty old sneaker on the foot that is not in a cast. Once the hot coffee is safely on his dresser, on top of a napkin, he goes back downstairs and right outside to his truck. It takes several trips for him to carry in a bunch of cardboard boxes from the back of his truck and up to his bedroom. He still has his crutches, but sometimes he only uses one, or none at all. I guess his leg is feeling better.
Soon, there are boxes all over the floor. Father leans on his dresser and surveys the room. Finally, he picks up the biggest box and puts it on the bed.
I sit next to the box, with my paws tucked under me. Father keeps a big fan in his bedroom, which he mostly uses in the summer. Even though it’s early spring, he cracks open the windows and turns on the fan, which rests on the floor. A crisp breeze is soon circulating around the room. The blades of the fan turn quickly, in a blur. Sometimes I like to sit right in front of that fan, to feel my whiskers tingling from the wind. The cold air filters right through my thick fur and down to my skin, a cooling sensation.
But today I stay on the bed so I can watch the proceedings.
After opening the middle drawer of Mother’s dresser, he looks inside. Father gently drags his hand through the clothes he finds there. I stand up and stretch my legs for a better view. He picks up a handful of clothing and looks closely. These are Mother’s things. I recognize her blue underwear and a lacy purple bra. I remember her wearing the white socks that he moves aside. Finally he scoops it all up in his arms, brings it over to his box, and dumps it in. It takes three armfuls, but he fills the box.
He doesn’t stop there. The next drawer Father opens is the bottom one. Shirts, shorts, exercise clothes, bathing suits—he gets it all into a second box.
His persistence reminds me a little of the times Mother was working on an important project. He is very focused. Some natural instinct in him has kicked in and seems to be pushing him to get this done today, for some reason.
Finally it is time for the top drawer. This one takes longer. It is full of jewelry. I know Father gave some of it to Mother, because I remember the occasions. At one point he takes out a necklace. It is a little gold bird, and it must mean a lot to him, because he sits on the bed just holding it. The chain is sparkly and snakes around in his palm. I bat at it with my paw. “No,” he says mildly, moving it away from me. “It’s mine.” But he drops it into one of the big cardboard boxes, watching it slip through the pile of clothes and disappear.
Then he pulls out photos and papers. Some of it appears to have been made by Jimmy and Mary. A card that says “To Mom” in scribbled crayon. A picture rendered in colorful markers showing Mommy, Daddy, My Brother, and Me. A pencil drawing of an orange cat that does not appear to be me.
Were there cats before me? I’ve never wondered about it before.
Father places these things into a neat pile and stacks them into a box. He drinks more coffee. Everything seems to be going well. He has slowed down a little in his work, but he has accomplished a lot, and Jimmy and Mary aren’t even awake yet.
He stops to take a shower. I take a quick nap.
Once he is dressed, Father recommences his work. He cleans out the drawers with a wet paper towel.
And then, with a deep breath, he opens the closet.
Shoes go in one box. Shirts in a second box. Then skirts, pants, dresses, belts. Father soon runs out of boxes. A trip downstairs yields large, green bags. He fills up four of these before he is done.
Who knew Mother had so many things stuffed in that closet? I’ve been in there many times. I liked to hide in the darkness, squeezed between shoes, slinking under hanging fabrics.
Father does not open his own closet. Everything in there is his. But now, Mother’s closet stands perfectly vacant. He and I stare into it, the gaping emptiness of it. It’s like a hole in my heart, to see it. But we have to see it. I understand. I know why Father must do this, and why we must look at it and accept it. But it’s terribly hard.
Father fetches Finn, who has started to stir. He lets Finn sit on the rug and chew on a toy. Father sits next to him on the rug and reads a book, waiting for the teenagers to wake up.
Jimmy wanders in, finally awake, hair askew. “What’re you doing?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.
“When you’re ready,” Father explains, “I need you to take all of this to Robert’s house. We’ll load up my truck. Then I need you to drive over there and leave this stuff for your ma. They have to take it. Don’t take no for an answer. If they aren’t home, you have to leave it on the porch.”
Jimmy’s face falls as he looks into Mother’s closet and realizes what is happening. “Oh,” he says quietly, choosing not to say more. Jimmy leaves to go get dressed.
After he has eaten breakfast, Jimmy helps Father load up the truck, carrying many heavy boxes and bags down the steep stairs while Father holds the front door open. They wake up Mary to watch Finn. She holds the baby in her arms to keep him out of the way.
“This is all Mom’s stuff?” she asks repeatedly. “Everything? Her clothes? Her shoes? Her jewelry?”
“Yes,” Father explains. “I can’t keep it here forever. I just can’t. I’m sorry, Mare.”
“But . . . why didn’t you ask me if I wanted some of it?”
“Jesus, Mare,” Jimmy complains. “She’s not dead. Ma needs her stuff.”
Mary’s delicate face crumples. “Sorry. You’re right. Sorry.”
But I know what Mary is feeling. In a way, it does feel like Mother has died. It feels like we should keep a memento. We don’t really know when we’ll see Mother again, or how often we’ll see her. It hasn’t been made clear yet.
Mary wanders upstairs and into the bedroom. I follow. “Wow.” Mary notices the open closet door. “Oh my gosh. Now that it’s empty, that closet looks so big.”
Funny, I thought the opposite. I thought it was amazing that all of Mother’s clothes, a lifetime of items, fit into that small closet.
I go back downstairs to find Father pacing a trail in the living room, waiting for Jimmy to get back from his task. Father walks from the kitchen, to the dining room, to the front hallway, and back. I don’t think he is feeling any pain in his injured foot today. He occasionally looks out the window.
Father is making me nervous. I jump up on the couch, hop back down to the rug, dash under the dining room table, and run back to the couch. I can’t stop my legs from moving.
When Jimmy gets back, he looks tired.
“How’d it go?” Father asks.
Jimmy avoids Father and heads to the kitchen. “Fine,” he says.
“Was she there?”
“Yeah.”
Father stands, looking worried. I think he doesn’t understand why Jimmy won’t tell him more. He just stares as Jimmy grabs the bag of bread and takes out a slice to place into the old toaster. When the
button won’t stay down, and he realizes he can’t make toast, Jimmy gives up and just throws the bread into the trash can with a sigh. He turns and sees his father watching him.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Father frowns.
“Trust me, Pops, you don’t want me to talk about it.”
Father just nods.
Jimmy and Mary go out. Father is restless for a few hours. He is still full of energy but doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. At one point, he sits on his bed and types into his little phone. The machine pings now and again, and he smiles.
I know what that phone is for, and I know he is receiving messages from Charlotte from the look on his face. I enjoy studying human faces lately, because I’ve realized I can learn a lot from watching them. I love the way Mary’s face opens and her mouth gapes when she gazes out her window at the stars at night. Like she is seeing something amazing. Father looks fondly down at his phone, with a small smile, and I can see it provides something that makes him warm from the inside out. I imagine that Charlotte is crafting messages that are just for him.
A loud banging at the front door makes us both jump. Father and I make eye contact quickly, and his face goes pale before reverting to a scowl. We both get up and quickly descend the stairs.
When Father swings the door open, Mother breezes in. She shakes out her long black curls and lifts her chin to look Father in the eye.
“The door wasn’t locked—” he starts.
“Thank you,” she says, “for having Jimmy bring my things over.” Mother puts her hands on her hips and takes a step closer to him. She studies him from head to toe. “You could have warned me you were going to do that.”
Although Father is a head taller than Mother, he flinches and looks down at his feet. “Carrie,” he says quietly. Her effect on him is startling and immediate. I see his chest expand and contract as his breathing gets more rapid, and as I watch I feel my fur bristle along my spine. It’s almost as if I can hear his heart beating faster from my spot on the stairs. Mother glares at Father and gets very close to him.