Don't Call Me Mother

by Linda Joy Myers

  I watched her walk back and forth across the floor. The seams in her hose were crooked. Mommy never had crooked seams. I sat on the floor, my stomach in a knot, while I traced the patterns in the Oriental rug. I wanted to get lost in those swirls, like in a dark forest in the fairy tales. I could get lost and never be found again.

  So here we are, waiting for the train. My chest is tight; there is darkness and ice all the way though me. I am shivering. How can she leave? She knows I don’t want her to go. My mother stands apart from me and from Gram, far enough to show that she is the one leaving, the one who will go alone on the train. I dread the train that’s about to take her away. All around me everyone acts normal. People bustle around getting ready, the train men push luggage carts, kids jump up and down. Words that I cannot say gather in my mouth, fill my whole body. Every muscle wants to run to her, grab at her and scream, “Please don’t go,” but I know that she and Gram don’t want me to do this. I don’t want to make them mad; I don’t want them to look at me with those dark eyes of disapproval. I couldn’t stand it. So I pretend.

  The wind blows through me, whirling my dress. Then the sound of the whistle cries out, as if in pain. A deep sorrow lurches through me. I hold my breath to keep myself from crying. The light appears at the far end of the tracks and gets bigger. I can’t stop any of this. The huge train tears into the station, rumbling the earth beneath my feet, kicking up my hair with the blast of wind. A scream comes out of my mouth, but no one hears me. The locomotive is too huge, too powerful and frightening, and it is coming to take my mother away.

  Mommy and I are wrapped in invisible gauze, wrapped tight so it can’t break, but as she touches me softly with her fingertips, and leans over to give Gram a kiss, I can feel the fabric unwrapping, unwinding us until just a thin piece is left. She hugs me lightly, as if she’s afraid I’ll cling to her. Her musky smell clings to me. She click-clacks toward the train on her high heels, almost as if she’s glad to get away. Her seams are straight, and she is so beautiful with the sun on her face as she climbs into the train car.

  Mommy, Mommy, I chant silently, putting my fingers to my nose to inhale her memory, her scent on my skin.

  How I want to be on the train, to cuddle up with Mommy the way we did before. But when Gram looks at me with such sadness in her eyes, I know that I need to stay with her. It’s funny that she was so mad before, but now I can tell she is sad, though she doesn’t say it in words. I take her hand and stand with her as we watch the train disappear down the track in a puff of smoke.

  The train whistle cries its lonely song, lingering in the wind that crosses the plains. It will call for me all my life, in my dreams and while I am awake. The train song, the train’s power and promise, are etched deep in my soul from this day forward.

  There Be Dragons

  At the edge of the world, there be dragons.

  —Fourteenth-century cartographer

  I have no idea how long my mother has been gone because each day stretches out forever, with prunes in the morning, songs on the radio, and The Shadow and The Lone Ranger, too. Gram is nice and sweet, as if she feels sorry for me. Today she bustles around, vacuuming and dusting, and tells me to make my bed because we’re having company. Gram always dresses up for company, so she puts on a silk dresss, powders her face, and slicks on her red lipstick.

  I hear a knock and rush to the door. Two very tall people look down at me—a thin-faced woman who smiles with big teeth, and a skinny man whose lips are zipped in a tight grin. A small girl and three skinny boys with sharp noses and glinty eyes bounce around behind them.

  “Vera, Charlie, come on in.” Gram is gracious as she leads them into our living room. She serves iced tea and perches at the edge of her chair, acting her company self, her good manners like frosting on a cake. She is passionate about good manners. This morning, she kneeled down and told me, “Remember to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ Call them ‘mister’ and ‘ma’am.’” She tells me that all the time. I told her I would. Gram gives me a wonderful smile when I do what she wants.

  The boys swoop into the living room, a noisy bunch of lip-snapping, finger-popping kids. The adults tell us kids to go outside. I want to stay in and play with my dolls in my bedroom, but Gram obviously has adult business to attend to and sweeps us all outside. The boys scuffle; the largest one seems really tall and maybe is in high school. The middle one fights back at him with punches in the arm. The one close to my age has a gap between his teeth and smiles at me, as if to apologize for his brothers. The little girl whines and bangs on the door for her mother after the middle one pulls her pigtail.

  “Boys—come here this instant.” The mother stamps her foot. “Be nice to your sister.” I want to come in, but Vera tells me to stay out. Why is this lady I don’t even know telling me what to do?

  I look at Gram, but she seems to be on Vera’s side. Adults stick together, I know, but Gram is acting peculiar. I put a smile on my face and shuffle back out the door. I don’t much take to boys. Most are noisy and rough, and this crew is full of mischief. They are wrestling on the grass and pummeling each other.

  “What’s your names?”

  “She wants to know our names. Shall we tell her?”

  “Tell her? Why should we talk to her?” They point at me and laugh, then announce that the oldest one is Bruce. Then comes Terry. Ernest is the youngest boy.

  “Betsy, my name is Betsy,” says the little girl with her thumb in her mouth.

  Charlie comes out to tell the boys to play marbles and to include the girls. I don’t know how to play marbles, but they are nice and show me how. They let me take my turn and even let Betsy try. Ernest is especially nice. Shadows are long on the grass when the adults come to the door and tell the kids to get in the car. I am tired from all the activity and the bossy, rowdy kids. When the Ford pulls away, I figure that this is the last we’ll ever see of them.

  Two weeks later Gram goes into housecleaning action again, moving the couch and vacuuming under it. She washes the living room windows and gets dressed in another shimmery silk dress.

  “Linda Joy, put on your pink dress and socks. We’re having company.”

  I ask who, and she tells me Vera and Charlie. I’ll have to put up with those boys again. I ask her why they’re coming again so soon, and she just shakes her head. She’s hiding something, but I can’t figure out what. When the car drives up, everyone spills out like ants.

  The boys bark and jump around on the grass. Vera plants a kiss on my cheek. I turn my head to wipe it off so she won’t see. Her toothy smile scares me. To my horror, the kids thunder into my room and begin to tear it apart, looking through my books, dolls, and toys, tossing them to the floor. Finally Gram and Vera come to the door, urging us outside. I ask Gram if I can stay and clean up my room, but she says no.

  “Children should be seen and not heard, and today we don’t even want to see you,” Vera says.

  The boys play hide and seek. They cheat. Betsy cries. I hate them. I don’t like being shut out of my own house and forced to be with these wild kids. Gram comes to the door, her dark eyes looking disturbed. “Sugar Pie, are you all right?” I tell her I am, but cringe at her use of that affectionate name in front of strangers.

  Sure enough, it gives them a reason to tease me in their singsong cadence: “Sugar Pie, Sugar Pie. Eat it and you’ll die. Sissy, sissy.”

  I sit on the porch, waiting for them to just leave. Clouds blow across the sun; raindrops splash on our Nash Rambler. The boys use the drops to make drawings with their fingers, creating muddy puddles on our shiny car. Vera comes out and puts her hands on my shoulders. My skin starts burning. She leaves her hands on me and says, “We’ll see you soon.” Charlie pats my head. I shrink away from both of them, and slip in the front door as soon as I can. Gram tells them goodbye, then turns to see the trails of dirty finger marks on her car. She wipes them with the palm of her hand and then leans against the car, burying her head in her arms. Her shoulders shake.
I’ve never seen her so upset.

  My stomach starts to hurt. “Gram, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s just adult stuff. Don’t worry.” Her eyes tell me she is lying. She kneels down to fold her arms around me. I can feel her breath against my neck, the flutter of her fingers on my back. “Oh, my Sugar Pie, my sweet little Sugar Pie,” she croons with so much sorrow that I feel broken. Something is terribly wrong. When I ask again what it is, she shakes her head. For the rest of the day she moves around woodenly, fixing lunch, washing dishes. I straighten up the mess in my room, putting my dolls nicely on the bed. I line up my story books in a row, a heavy feeling on my shoulders where Vera’s hands had rested.

  After I go to bed, Gram makes a long phone call to my mother, pleading with her, “No, it’s wrong. I don’t trust them.” Her voice travels the scale from high to low, from sharp anger to quiet sorrow. I shake in my bed. I know this conversation has to be about me. Gram is acting too funny, and she doesn’t look at me in the same way. I lie there, trying to figure out what is happening, but I can’t. The veil of sleep finally falls on me in spite of my tense body and tumbling thoughts.

  The next morning the sun splashes patterns on the wooden floor by my bed. When I shuffle out to breakfast, the look on Gram’s face gives everything away. She kneels before me, tears running down her face, her arms grabbing me tight. I hold my breath. I know there’s bad news about me.

  “Honey, I have to tell you…” Her fingers trickle along my arms that are hanging heavy from their sockets. “Your mother and father… they think you should live with Vera and Charlie and the kids.”

  Those sharp-faced children? Vera and her bossiness? My insides shrink away from my skin. I don’t know what to say. I stare at her, trying to understand why she wants me to go away. How bad have I been?

  “I’m so sorry, but they think this is best for you.”

  “I don’t want to live with them. Why can’t I stay with you?”

  “They think you should have kids to play with. I’m just your old Gram, you know.” She shrugs her shoulders and smiles sadly.

  I notice there are two parts to me. One part sees how she is trying to joke about this, to help me take the news lightly. The other part of me stands alone in a field under a gray sky, the wind blowing against me, sucking out the marrow of my bones. My lips try to form words, but for a few minutes I can’t find them.

  I already know that what adults decide is what will be, but I protest anyway. “I don’t like them. I don’t want to go. Can’t I stay with you, Gram? Please don’t send me away.” Gram breaks down and sobs.

  I bargain with her. “Call Mommy and Daddy. Tell them I don’t want to go. I’ll be good, I’ll eat my prunes, I’ll have good manners. I promise!”

  These words make Gram cry even harder. I can hear her in the bathroom, sobbing and blowing her nose. I watch elm trees swaying in the wind outside the living room window, and I feel my world loosening, beginning to come apart.

  Gram does call my mother. I hear another round of fighting, which I know is my fault. I go to bed to the sounds of her pleading, her tears and her rage my lullaby. Finally, a blessed silence as I fall asleep.

  The next morning is even worse. Gram’s eyes look haunted. In a trying-to-be-cheerful voice she says, “Good morning, Sugar Pie.” I steel myself to do without this sweet greeting, a sob threatening to break loose.

  She pours her coffee and my milk. Her hand shakes as she spoons coffee into my glass. I ask her what Mother said, already knowing the answer.

  Gram’s eyes are pools of grief. “I’m so sorry, honey, but Vera and Charlie are coming for you tonight.”

  So soon? I don’t know what to do, how to feel. I am a piece of flotsam bobbing along at the whim of the adults. My stomach swims in despair. Every time I look at Gram, we both start crying.

  Gram gets out the suitcase and opens it on the bed. She sorts through my clothes, washes my underwear and socks, and hangs them to dry on the clothesline next to the morning glories. I go out to look at the brilliant blue flowers, which comfort me somehow with their pretty faces and bobbing heads. I walk through the house, fingering my pink bedspread and hugging my bear. I decide to leave it with Gram rather than risk the boys killing it. She packs my satin ribbons, one for each dress, and tells me to put on my new shorts outfit. As she ties the matching ribbon in my hair she stifles her tears.

  The June day is endless, yet too short. The sun has made long shadows on the grass when the green Ford pulls into the driveway. The kids pile out and gather in a jittery herd, as if they’ve been told to behave or else. Vera comes in wearing her wide white smile, and plants an onion-breath kiss on my cheek, surrounding me in a cape of possession. Gram’s face is crumpled like a Kleenex. She hands Charlie the suitcase, then leans on the counter clutching her side. A fluttery panic rises in my chest and I feel the urge to run, but the adult forces are stronger than I am. I paste a smile on my face, knowing that it will help Gram. She stands at the front door, holding a Kleenex and waving.

  Vera takes my arm and leads me to the car, like the witch leading Hansel and Gretel to her cage. The boys and I are stuffed into the backseat, Betsy up front with her parents. As we drive away from Gram’s house, a black curtain comes down over the sky, making for a very dark night. Bruce and Terry fall asleep, their heads lolling against my shoulders, their elbows poking my ribs. The moon spills its light on the lonely ribbon of road leading to Wheatland and my new home.

  That night, Vera shows me to my room—a huge upstairs bedroom around the corner from the boys’ rooms. I lay awake for a long time, listening to each creak in the boards, worried that the boys will sneak up on me.

  Bright sun pouring in a large window awakens me. The boys’ feet pound on the floor on the way to breakfast. Downstairs I find out that there are a lot of rules: Eat everything on your plate; no snacking without permission. The boys tease and throw food when Vera leaves the room. Betsy whines. Charlie leaves early for work, wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. The house is so large there’s an echo. The roomy kitchen has linoleum floors and a gray Formica table, a pantry, a back porch, a basement at the bottom of a rickety wooden staircase. After breakfast, Vera and the kids show me a rabbit in a cage in the backyard. Everyone is nice, playing and joking around. I begin to think that things might be all right.

  That first evening cicadas are murmuring. Soft evening light filters through the sycamores and elms lining a street made of brick. Vera tells me to come to the front porch so she can talk to me alone. She hands me a brown paper bag containing blue jeans and a toothbrush. I like the way the jeans smell and the orange stitching on the legs.

  She nods, “The clothes your grandmother gave us are too fancy. We all wear jeans. We have rules here, and you must obey them. Every night we brush our teeth. Every night, mind you. I will treat you as I treat the other children.”

  I mumble and say thank you, but there’s something in her speech that chills me.

  “You must remember—brush your teeth every night. Repeat it after me.”

  “Brush my teeth every night.”

  She nods, a hank of hair falls out of her bobby pin. Her eyes shine in a ghostly way. She leans back on her heels and crosses her arms. “Another thing. Now that you live here, I am your mother. You must call me Mother. Say it.”

  I stare at her. Teeth and eyes swirl into an out-of-focus jumble.

  “Say it now. Linda, call me Mother.”

  My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. My heart pounds. I can’t call this woman Mother. She looks to me now like the wicked stepmother in Snow White, with her straight black hair, her narrowing eyes.

  “Say it—call me Mother. Come on.” Her voice is hard in her throat.

  The sound of a train whistle in the distance makes me yearn for my real mother. I can see her lovely face and tender eyes in my mind. Sycamore trees rustle in the evening breeze. Fireflies flicker on and off, suspended in the liquid green dusk. A dog barks next door. Vera’s eyes
seem to glow. My body aches.

  “If you call me Mother, you can go in. Come on, say it.” She gestures for me to hurry up.

  She folds her arms over her chest and plops in a wicker rocking chair. “You are going to stand there until you call me Mother. I can wait all night, if that’s what you want.” The porch creaks as she rocks back and forth, back and forth for a long time. Only the porch speaks; there’s no sound from me. One thought darts in and out of my mind—what would Mommy say to this? The trees sink into invisibility. The streetlights are glowing orbs hanging in darkness. A baby cries down the street; children play noisily next door. Vera’s eyes are gleaming slits in the thick darkness. Another dog barks; a screen door slams.

  “Say it. Say it now!”

  My mother’s face hovers in my mind, beautiful with her dark wavy hair, her brown eyes soft and sweet, the way they are when she tucks me in. She’d be so hurt by this, but I sink under the weight of Vera’s will. I know that she’ll never let me go to bed if I don’t give in.

  I say the word.

  It’s just a word, but words create whole worlds, and I know this, even at five. My old world ends that very moment.

  The next morning Vera leads me down the basement stairs. There are spider webs everywhere. A small twin bed sits under a window, a ping-pong table with paddles in another room. Vera thrusts a paddle toward me. “Feel this.”

  I stare at her, starting to shiver.

  “I said to feel it.” She mashes my fingers over the bumps on the paddle. “This is what I’ll use when you don’t mind me.”

  I squeeze my arms against my ribs, trying not to let her see my fear.

  “If you don’t obey, I’ll use this on you. You’re expected to follow our rules. I’ll treat you like the other kids, understand?”

  Gram and Mommy hardly ever swatted me. The basement grows dark, as if the sun has fallen from the sky.

  A week after I start kindergarten, Vera makes good her promise. I go to kindergarten in the morning. The school is a few blocks from the house. Crayons, chalk, and books are cheerful smells to me. The kids are nice and the teacher is patient, showing us how to write and draw. Vera told me to come home right after school, so I obey, shuffling along, kicking leaves, watching a squirrel scamper up a tree. The scent of fresh grass and earth make me feel pretty good compared to what I find at Vera’s. Vera stands sentry by the back door. As soon as she sees me, she shouts, “What took you so long? Do you know what time it is?”