Her eyes are fiery and her teeth seem sharp and pointy. Vera drags me into the kitchen and points to the clock. “See. What took you so long? What did you do all this time?”
“I was just walking.” I stare at the clock hands, confused. I don’t know how to tell time yet.
“It doesn’t take anyone that long to walk home. Where did you go? What were you doing?”
What’s wrong? I was just enjoying my walk with the squirrels, the crackly leaves, the autumn day. I just look at her, not knowing what to say.
“Get in here.” She yanks me by the arm to the closet. She takes out a ping-pong paddle. I catch my breath. “I didn’t do anything, honest. I just walked home.”
“You’re a liar. Now pull down your pants.”
I don’t move. She can’t mean it, it doesn’t make any sense.
“Mind me! I told you to pull down your pants.”
I can’t fight her. The other night on the porch I learned that she’ll always win. My body throbs with shame as I slip down my underpants. She bends me over and at first hits me lightly. The sound of slaps on bare skin echo in the room. I figure that I should muster up a cry so she’ll stop. By the end of the spanking, my tears are real, and I hate myself for giving in and crying. She stands me upright. My tears make the room and Vera’s face look blurry. I am burning from the pain and from embarrassment. No one has ever humiliated me like that.
“That’ll teach you to come home on time and not lie to me. I can tell, you know, when kids lie.” She waves the paddle. “This is what you’ll get for it every time.”
Triumphant, she turns her attention to pie making. Betsy peeks out from behind the dining room door and giggles.
A bare light bulb hangs over the kitchen table. Charlie is at work; the boys are having a food fight. Vera is in another room with Betsy. Bacon and eggs wait on a platter for me. Gram never made me eat eggs once she found out that I was allergic to them. Just looking at the runny whites makes me feel like throwing up. Vera comes in and tells me to eat the eggs. I ask for cereal instead, and even say please. Furious, she stands over me. “What do I have to do to get you to eat your eggs—pound it into you?” She taps my head with her fists.
I realize that, again, she has to win. I dip a small piece of toast into the eggs. The boys turn their curious eyes toward me. I stop chewing in mid-bite, feeling sick. Vera leaves the room again. Terry and Bruce come over to pound their fists on my head, chanting, “Bacon and eggs, bacon and eggs, you’ve got to eat your bacon and eggs.” I sink down, trying to escape, but they keep it up, cackling and making fun of me. I manage to keep from crying.
When she comes back, Vera tells them to sit down. “Get busy and eat those eggs. We can sit here all day.” She spoons the eggs in front of me.
“Open your mouth. Hurry up.”
She sticks the spoon in my mouth. My throat closes and I start to gag.
“Don’t you dare throw that up! I’ll whale you a good one.”
I think of Gram’s face, her smile, how she called me “Sugar Pie.” Somehow the food goes down.
At school a few weeks later, the room swims in a cottony fog. I blink to clear the fog, trying to stay upright. Suddenly the teacher’s face is a few inches away, and she insists that I come with her to the nurse’s office to take my temperature. The office seems far away in a mist. The nurse takes my temperature, tells me I have a fever and have to go home. If I go home early, Vera will kill me. I’d be ruining her routine. These smiling ladies would never believe what goes on in that house, or that my “mother” would be angry at me for being sick. I decide that if I walk very slowly, I’ll get home close to the time that school gets out, and she’ll never know I left early. The nice teacher and nurse put a stop to my fantasy of making it work out for myself by offering me a ride. I keep saying no, but they rush me into my coat and send me out to the car.
Each step brings me closer to Vera and her rage. She does not like outsiders. I know these ladies are trying to be nice, but they have no idea how much trouble they are getting me into. The nurse knocks on the door. Vera acts nice and friendly, smiles her thanks. No one would ever guess what she’s really like.
When the car’s gone, she hisses. “So, you managed to come home early, did you? I had a little surprise planned for you and Betsy—riding sleds and making a snowman, but no, you have to get sick. Go to your room and stay there. You won’t be coming with us.” She looks triumphant for some reason, with a glint of pleasure in her eyes.
I’d rather play and have fun, but the world is fuzzy and I’m so tired. I look out my bedroom window to see Vera and Betsy playing in the snow. My breath frosts the window glass. Gram would have made me soup and tucked me into bed. Where are the people who care for me? Do they remember me?
Everyone plays the happy-face game when company comes for parties. Being with other people in a normal way cheers me up. One family has a sixteen-year-old boy named Freddie. He’s always paying attention to me, reading and playing games. He’s nicer than the boys I live with. After hamburgers, when the adults are playing card games, he kneels down and says, “Hey, show me the ping-pong table in the basement. Let’s go!”
He’s big and leads me protectively into the murky basement. He tells me that we’re going to play the tickle game, and that I should get on the bed. I am not sure about this, but I lie down and he lies beside me. He says to close my eyes. I feel his fingers moving along my ribs, and I break into a giggle. Then I feel a brush of air on my leg. I open my eyes and yank down my dress.
“This game is about the alphabet letters on your underpants.” He grins as he pulls up my dress again. “This is part of the game; it won’t hurt. Just let me see them. Oh, they’re cute. Here’s a red ‘B’ and a yellow ‘A’. Do you know your letters?”
Of course I do. Does he think I’m stupid? I try to squirm away from him and sit up.
“It’s okay, just lie back.” He keeps playing the lift-up-my-dress game. Part of my mind watches us, another part is thinking about Vera. If she sees this, she’ll beat me for sure. Freddie wedges me against the wall and unfastens his pants, releasing a pink thing. I don’t see it clearly because I squeeze my eyes shut. I know this is all very bad.
“Do you want to touch it?” he whispers.
I shake my head. I think fast—how can I get him up without making him mad? Vera might find us at any moment.
“I won’t hurt you.” He climbs on top of me. “Just let me put it between your legs.” He’s breathing hard. He pulls at my underpants, but I push against him. I have to get away. Now.
I start babbling, “Freddie, I have to go to the bathroom bad, really. Please let me get up. Pretty please.”
Freddie blinks and gets off me. I dart up the stairs and he follows, fastening his pants.
“You won’t tell anyone?” he whispers.
I shake my head no, but I’m terrified that Vera will see inside my brain and know anyway.
When we burst through the door into the bright lights of the kitchen, I have a smile plastered on my face to cover up any other feelings that might be there. The others ask us what we were doing. “Playing.” I feel dirty and confused, terrified that Vera will read my mind about Freddie in the basement, but she doesn’t seem to sense anything about it.
Vera accuses me of sneaking food between meals. I am always hungry, and mealtimes are so unpleasant that I can’t eat much for fear of being teased. It’s true that I did take some sugar bread, but how does she know? Vera’s eyes are even smaller than usual. She’ll spank me whether I tell the truth or lie, but the truth is worse. I shake my head. She grabs me by the arm and drags me to the closet for the paddle.
“Pull down your pants,” she yells. I wonder how I can stall her, get her to change her mind.
“Pull them down, I tell you!” She yanks down my pants and bends me over, spanking me hard, screaming, “You no-good liar. How dare you? You’re nothing.”
I cry in spite of myself. I hate myself for breaking dow
n, giving her that power over me. She points at me, her face twisted. “Look at you, you’re a mess. No wonder your mother and father…” She starts hitting me again. “Repeat after me, my mother doesn’t love me, my father doesn’t love me, only you love me, Vera.”
They don’t love me? She is voicing my worst fear—that they have forgotten me, that they don’t really love me. If they did, why would they leave me here? My stomach sinks in misery and dread. Inside my head I try to fight what she says: no, they do love me, they must love me.
“Come on—repeat after me.” Her glittering eyes bore into my brain, my very soul. Her terrible words bang around in my head. For a long time, I cry, refusing to say the awful words that seem too true. Finally I have to give in because she won’t stop unless I do. I say the terrible words; darkness falls inside me. I feel like a piece of lint on the floor, to be swept away. I must be a terrible, bad person just as Vera says. I drag myself to my room, my mind flying around frantically, trying to reassemble the pieces.
One day Vera announces that Mommy is coming to visit. I try to remember my mother—her face, her wavy dark hair falling to her shoulders. I want to remember her soft voice and her touch, but now there’s just a blurry picture. At the train station in Wheatland, Mother steps out of the mist in all her loveliness. She bends down to kiss my face, and I put my arms around her, inhaling her musky, sweet scent. I want to tell her everything, but Vera stands behind me like a sentry. I know that if I tell Mother, she’ll have to take me away now or Vera will make everything much worse.
They drink coffee by the hour, chatting and giggling. Mother clicks her knitting needles, talking on and on, punctuating the air with her wild laughs, kicking her legs in the air. I peek around the doorways, watching them have a fine time. Vera smiles as she always does with strangers, saving her sour face for us kids.
I begin to understand that Mother loves her single life in Chicago. I keep listening to her, checking to see if I’m right. Deep in my bones I know that my mother won’t rescue me. Heavy with disappointment, I just watch her, wondering what I’ve done wrong to make her not want me. At the train station, Mother’s soft cheek against mine, I want to tell her everything and run onto the train with her, but I know I can’t. She steps onto the train and waves cheerily while I stare miserably at her, trying not to cry.
Instantly, Vera’s face returns to its usual scowl. She puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes hard. “Big girls don’t cry.”
The train is a trembling silver beauty, yellow and red stripes wrapping around the engine. The Santa Fe Super Chief has come from the west with a real Indian wrapped in a blanket. He stands beside the engine, silent and imposing, his eyes dark and mysterious. The train gathers itself and whistles, shattering the evening, and then speeds off with an earthshaking rumble. In the silence that follows, I realize that I’m on my own forever.
I get a second chance to be rescued when my father visits. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him. I can’t exactly remember his face, but at the train station he recognizes me and scoops me up in his strong arms, whirling me and spinning the world. He smells like spicy aftershave and makes me giggle when his beard scrapes my face. Daddy talks with a drawl and has good Southern manners. He shakes Vera’s hand heartily and introduces his wife, Hazel. She smiles shyly and speaks in a soft voice. I am disappointed that he is with her. I wanted to see him alone so I could tell him about Vera.
Vera serves coffee and cookies, acting every bit like the polite person she appears to be to the world. They’d never guess what she’s like with kids, especially me. Right in front of her, Daddy asks me if I’m happy. I fix a smile on my face and say yes, oh yes, so happy, feeling sick inside. All afternoon I watch the adults laugh and chat. Daddy puts his arm around Hazel and talks about his life in Chicago, how happy he is in his railroad work. I realize that Daddy likes his Chicago life, his shiny suits, the diamond ring on his left pinky, and his new wife. A little girl would mess all that up. The morning they leave, Vera takes a photograph of the three of us. I stand in front of my kneeling father, his arm around me. The little girl in the picture looks lost, with sad eyes and not even a hint of a smile.
I have a series of illnesses, from colds to bronchitis to flu and more colds. When I’m lying in bed, Charlie sometimes brings me soup, and the kids come by to say hello. They are not always mean, but I can’t trust them. They’ll be nice and then suddenly lash out, making fun of me. I have grown used to Vera’s spankings, but I hate it that I cry for each one. I can’t seem to keep the tears away anymore. I often see scary monsters in the closet at night, but one night I have a different vision, one that stays with me for a long time.
A lady wearing a red gown and a blue headdress appears in the window across from my bed. I blink, but she does not disappear. I get out of bed and check in the hall to see if someone is standing there, but there’s no one. Her dark hair falls to her shoulders, and she looks at me with kindness. She tells me not to worry, that everything will be all right. I feel peace and relaxation as I look at her, and eventually I fall asleep. She isn’t there in the morning, and I never see her again, but I return often to the feeling of comfort she gave me, as if she had taken me into her arms like a mother. Later, I discover that she looked just like paintings of Mary, the mother of Jesus.
On my sixth birthday in March, Vera makes a cake for me and everyone sings Happy Birthday. I try to imagine my next birthday, but I can’t. My life stretches out like the plains, empty all the way to the horizon. I blow out the candles, my skin crawling with awful feelings: ugly, unwanted, and alone. I know that despite their smiles and singing, these people don’t really care for me. I blow out the candles, missing Mommy and Gram, seeing their beautiful faces in my mind. I wonder if they know it’s my birthday.
Just after school is out, I get sick again and have to stay in bed. Vera tells me that the family is going on vacation, so I’m going to stay with Gram, and they’ll get me after they come back. I should be ecstatic, but I’m too sick to care. They bundle me up with my suitcase and drive to Wichita. Suddenly we are at Gram’s house, and she’s smiling and wrapping her arms around me. “Sugar Pie, poor sick Sugar Pie,” she croons.
Gram folds me into a soft bed with clean white sheets. She tries to hide her alarm at my deflated condition and high fever, but I can see she’s worried. The doctor takes my temperature and gives me a shot. I huddle under the quilt, feeling protected and safe. Gram is a kind nurse, waiting on me day and night with juice, pills, and soup, putting warm washcloths against my forehead and a hot water bottle on my feet. Sometimes her tenderness makes me cry, but I don’t let her see that. She yells at my mother and father on the phone, “She has rickets and malnutrition!” I don’t know what that means, but she says it’s their fault for not noticing.
I rock for hours in my mother’s childhood rocking chair holding my doll. I rock and rock, grateful for the peace in the house. Gram watches me carefully, puts her face close. “Tell me, what it was like at Vera’s? How did she treat you?”
I want to tell her the truth. The words gather in my mouth, but before I can speak, I remember that words are dangerous. When they come back, Gram will pass on everything I say, and Vera will beat me harder than ever. At night I cry, feeling desperately worried, waiting for them to come take me away from Gram. I know that they will be mean again and that I will be unhappy. There’s nothing I can do about it, so I just wait, shaking and worrying.
One morning Gram decides to boil an egg for me for breakfast. She bounces around her sunny kitchen, happy, I can tell, because she’s going to get me to eat, which I don’t do much. Eggs—doesn’t she remember I can’t eat them? Already I feel like throwing up. She spreads apple butter on toast and pours a glass of milk. I stare at the runny egg whites, not touching them, shaking. Gram kneels on the kitchen floor. It makes me sad to see her like that, begging me to talk to her. I don’t want to make her mad, but I’m scared to talk. Movie-like images run across my mind: Vera’s spa
nkings, her scary eyes, the boys’ cruel teasing. It all gathers up like a steam engine and comes out in a rush of tears and sentence fragments. She smoothes my hair and listens, with tears rolling down her face. I don’t dare tell her what happened with Freddie. Her face is sad, then angry, and then sad again. She pats me and strokes my hair, saying, “Poor little Sugar Pie. It’s all right.”
When I am through talking, she declares: “That’s it! You’re not going back.”
“But they’ll get mad. They’ll make me go.”
“You’re not going back with them, and that’s final!” Her eyes are fierce. I’ve never seen her like this before. She calls my parents, screaming that they forced me to go and didn’t see that I was suffering. She tells them again that I have rickets and anemia. “I will not give that child back to them. She just sits in a chair and won’t talk. She’s skinny as a rail. She’s not the same little girl.”
After many loud phone conversations over the next few days, Gram announces that my parents have agreed to let me stay with her. Gram finally looks happy, and I feel hopeful for the first time in a long while. Still, I wait for Vera’s return, rocking in the rocking chair. Will Gram really keep me? I don’t trust any of these adults; they change their minds all the time. I keep asking her if she means it. She insists that she will be what is called my guardian from now on.
Finally the day arrives when my tormentors are supposed to come back. All day, my stomach’s knotted with anxiety. They all burst into the living room acting as if they are glad to see me, Vera with her white teeth and her phony smile that sends chills down my back. I hide in the bathroom. The adults chat a little, and then Gram tells them. She says that I’m not well and she’s my guardian now, with my parents’ permission. I come out just to say goodbye, standing close to Gram.
Don't Call Me Mother Page 3