She Lies Close

by Sharon Doering

  First it had been spiders. Out of the corner of my eye I had seen spiders scurrying behind the curtains and under beds. Nate had raised an eyebrow and said, “If spiders are the nastiest thing in this hospital room, count yourself lucky.”

  Then I told him I saw one of the nurses sucking Wyatt’s fingers and when I’d followed her into the hallway to confront her, she had scurried up the wall and perched herself in the corner, out of my reach.

  Ten minutes later, Nate fed me applesauce out of a plastic container, the tin foil already pulled back. I’d thought he was being nurturing, but he’d crushed-up Silenor and Xanax and stirred them into the sauce. I slept for twenty-four hours.

  When I woke, Wyatt’s respirations were smooth and airy. No crackling. No rattling. The hospital room was free of spiders, and the nurses’ shoes stayed on the ground.

  18

  EAT SOMEONE’S WHOLE HEAD

  I wake to a quiet house. Open my eyes to catch the last moments of dawn and her mysterious bluish glow through the space where I can’t get my curtain panels to properly touch.

  Even through thick window glass, the birds’ morning party is loud. Boisterously soliciting sex, hunting, and feasting: they are insatiable little Vikings.

  My head feels heavy and sinking. My muscles are relaxed almost to the point of sleep paralysis. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t move. I love it.

  I close my eyes again and lose myself to a perplexing, yet deliberate daydream.

  I am dropping week-old pieces of chicken, slimy and stinky, onto the kitchen floor. I step out into the night. All the streets west of my backyard lack sidewalks and lampposts. That’s where I go.

  My daydream fast-forwards a few minutes.

  I’m walking on asphalt, weaving through these dangerously dark roads. I glance down. I’m carrying a black plastic garbage bag. It’s bulky and full but not heavy.

  “Is this yours?” Wyatt says.

  I open my eyes. A blurry Wyatt stands in my doorway. I grab my glasses from the bedside table and slip them on. Early morning’s golden glow is coming on strong. Like a drunk after last call. “What?”

  “There’s a pillow in the hallway,” he says. “Is it yours?”

  “Huh?” I feel behind my head. My pillow is gone. “I must have gotten up to go to the bathroom and dropped it.”

  “Why would you bring your pillow to the bathroom?”

  Sleepwalking again?

  “Who knows. I’m tired.” I stretch my arms and make the distasteful noises associated with a good stretch.

  “Are you OK, Mom?”

  “Yeah, I’m OK. I’m trying to wake up, that’s all. Thanks, kiddo.”

  “Mom!” Chloe yells happily from behind him. “I’m starving. I could eat someone’s whole head. I could eat Grandma!”

  Wyatt says, “Ew. Don’t talk like that, Chloe.”

  “Well!” she screams. “I could!”

  I slap my feet onto the floor like they are monstrous slabs of meat and smack my cheeks with my palms. “Wake up, sister. Rock and roll.”

  19

  A SHITTY ALTERNATE VERSION OF THE VELVETEEN RABBIT

  Thirty minutes later I’m standing on the deck, micromanaging Hulk’s bladder and bowels—Go potty. Go potty. Last call, Hulk. Last call. I got shit to do, dog—when a kid runs across Leland’s yard and disappears into his back door.

  A girl. It was a girl. Her dark hair flowed behind her, fanning like feathers.

  No. A bird flew through your peripheral vision. You saw movement. You’re obsessed with Ava Boone, and your mind is indulging the holes in your vision. It was a damn bird.

  Besides, if Leland kidnapped a girl, if he was hiding a girl in his house, there’s no way he would let her out.

  Maybe you did see a kid. Maybe his niece or nephew is visiting.

  “Let’s go, Hulk.”

  Finished with her business, she charges for me as if I’m covered in egg slops. She jumps onto my shins.

  “Ow. Shit, Hulk. We’ve got to cut those nails.” I’m wearing a skirt today, which is a rarity. Her scratches draw blood. “I guess you don’t like when I wear skirts either.”

  I walk inside. Wyatt has gotten Chloe cereal, and she’s sitting in her chair, eating. That’s a rarity too.

  “Look at you, sitting calmly and eating like a big girl.”

  “Yep.”

  “Hey, Chlo. Have you ever seen a little girl next door?”

  “Nora?”

  “Not Nora. The house on the other side. That way.” I point toward Leland’s house. “Did you ever see a little girl by that house?”

  “Um, I think so.” She’s mesmerized by her cereal, and might not be listening to me. If that’s the case, it’s impressive. She can’t make it to the toilet in time, but she can deliver a perfectly vague and easy-going answer to appease an adult and make them shut up.

  “I’m serious, Chlo. There is no little girl who lives in that house, but I’m wondering if there’s a visitor.” Shit, I’m complicating things. She’s three; keep it simple. “I thought I saw a little girl in the yard.”

  “She’s outside now? Can I go play?”

  “No, she went inside. Have you ever seen a little girl over there?”

  “I’m pretty sure. I’m not sure what her name is though.” Chloe tips her head to the side, thinking. Or pretending to think. “And she doesn’t talk so maybe you could teach me sign language.” She lowers the end of her spoon down into a small puddle of milk on the table and drags her spoon, making a sloppy milk star. “How do you say play in sign language?”

  “I don’t know. We should look it up. Chloe, when did you see a girl over there?”

  “Hm,” she says, soaking up my attention. “I think, was it, in my window? Maybe…” she pauses, thinking, “yesterday?” She looks at me for approval. She must not find it because she says, “Tomorrow?”

  I’m pinching my leg, forcing myself to smile and wait patiently. Give her your full attention, let her talk, and don’t drill her. If you come on too strong, she’ll clam up.

  She laughs, tipping her head forward. A strand of her hair gets caught in her mouth. “Hulk!” Pulling her hair out of her mouth, she says, “Hulk licked my toe.”

  “That’s funny, Chloe. So you think you saw a little girl in the house next door through your window?”

  “Maybe,” she says, looking at her toes and scratching her calf. “Or was it when that man gave me Tootsie Rolls?”

  My heart jumps into my throat. It’s as if a stranger walked through my front door, holding an axe, and I’m paralyzed with blistering terror; I can’t move, I can’t speak.

  I finally breathe. I find my voice, but it’s trembling. “The, the neighbor? It was the neighbor who gave you those Tootsie Rolls?”

  “That’s what you said, Momma,” she says thoughtfully. Then she gives me a teenager’s snarky grin and cocks her head. “Them weren’t poison. I’m not dead.”

  My blood is boiling. My head feels pressurized. I want to punch the glass door and shatter it. I want to throw all the glass dishes on the floor. I might actually need a paper bag. Inside my head, Lou’s voice, then my own. I will slit your throat.

  Focus on what’s important right now. She’s right. She’s not poisoned. What’s important is whether or not a little girl ran into his house.

  Flu-like symptoms gripping me, I sit beside her and put my face inches away from hers. “Chloe. This is important,” I try to keep my voice light, but I fail. I sound cross and shaky. “Are you playing make-believe or did you really see a girl?”

  “Mommy’s mean.” She cries in the name of drama, then forces the fake cry into real tears. She runs away from the table and up the stairs, wailing. Believing something hard enough can occasionally make it real. Like a shitty alternate version of The Velveteen Rabbit.

  You shouldn’t be looking for a reality check from your three-year-old. Be The Parent. Be The fucking Parent.

  Chloe didn’t see a girl. She would have mentioned i
t before. You prompted her. You egged her on. Chloe didn’t see a girl. And neither did you.

  It was a stupid bird in your peripheral vision.

  And Leland might not have given her candy. What had she said? That’s what you said, Momma?

  You seeded the idea. She’s only three.

  No, no. She said that on her own. Leland Ernest walked into your backyard while you were bringing in the groceries and gave Chloe a handful of Tootsie Rolls.

  Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  The whole world has gone silent, and all that remains is the ringing in my ears. The armpits of my shirt are damp with sweat. Sour panic and fear waft into my nose, but I don’t have time to change.

  Pretending Chloe didn’t run into her room, bawling, I stand at the bottom of the stairs and shout happily, “Let’s go, my peeps. Time for school.”

  You can convince yourself of anything.

  20

  HOLED UP IN A LOG CABIN OFF GRID

  Thankfully, work is busy. I have no solitude and little opportunity to picture Leland Ernest walking toward my baby with a handful of Tootsie Rolls.

  At the end of the work day, as I’m walking to my car, my cell rings. I recognize the number, and my pulse is already doing gymnastics as I answer.

  “Hi, Mrs. Wright. This is Principal Wendy Shish from Flyview Elementary.”

  “Everything OK?”

  “Yes, everything is fine. No one is hurt. I want to tell you about an incident that happened during recess today.” Apparently there was an argument, and Wyatt called another boy a swear word.

  I unlock my car, slide in, and close the door. Sun is beating on the seats and dashboard. Air inside my car is hot enough to kill a small dog. “What did he say?”

  “Hang on,” Principal Shish says, “let me close my door.” Her chair cushion squeaks and a door closes. “Um, he called another boy a fucking.”

  My face burns with shame, but I need all the details. “A fucking what?”

  “Apparently just a fucking.”

  “Fucking was the noun?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Sweat rolls between my breasts. I open my car door for circulation. “Wyatt doesn’t swear at home, and I don’t swear in front of him. Are you sure?”

  Indeed she is. There are witnesses, including two teachers. Wyatt’s punishment will be detention during recess for the rest of the week. Wyatt, she assures me, is not the only boy who will be serving detention. Others are in trouble as well.

  I am in total agreement with his punishment. Phone to ear, nodding with eager eyes even though she can’t see me, I am kissing her ass because:

  1. I don’t want to be categorized as a gullible parent who thinks their kid does no wrong.

  2. I don’t want to come across as an angry, accusatory parent who blames everyone but their kid.

  3. I don’t want to come across as apathetic toward bullying.

  4. I don’t want to come across as white trash.

  I drive home on the fast side, my mind manic with questions, emotions, and the possible ramifications of this incident.

  Is my child a dick? If so, how did I miss it? What mistakes have I made to lead him down this dick-path? I don’t spank. Am I a pussified parent? Doesn’t he understand that the school system has already discounted and depreciated us because we are low-income? Doesn’t he know we need to be on our best behavior? I review a list of possible punishments and, worried I’ve been too easy on him, decide upon a harsh combo punishment.

  Twenty minutes later he walks in the door. He usually calls, “Hi, Mom,” while noisily and joyfully putting his coat and backpack in the closet. Today he is quiet.

  I am sitting on the couch, but my calm is phony. I am nearing a rolling boil. “Wyatt. Please come in here and sit.”

  His face is drawn as he walks in. He’s busted and he knows it. His eyes somber, he sits on a chair. Sweaty from his walk home, his forehead is shiny and his hair is sticking up at odd angles.

  “Your principal called and said you called someone a swear word on the playground.” I wait for him to speak. He doesn’t, which pisses me off more. “I’m disappointed in you. Why did you do that? Why?”

  He shakes his head, then stares at his shoes. Worn at the edges, the cloth is stretched and torn along the side, and a patch of his orange sock is visible. His shoes are expired by at least a month. Which pisses me off more. “Why didn’t you tell me your shoes have holes?”

  “They’re fine.”

  “No, they’re not.” Principal Shish must think we’re scum.

  Hulk walks in and licks Wyatt’s hand, comforting him.

  “Hulk. Out of here.” My voice is so harsh, Hulk takes me seriously. “No going to friends’ houses, no TV, no video games for a month.”

  He lowers his chin even more. His back trembles as he sniffles.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “It’s only a word.”

  “A bad word.”

  “Who even decided it was a bad word?” His words come slowly as his breathing hitches. A fat tear slips down his cheek. “It’s a stupid word someone made up a long time ago. It’s not like I punched anyone.”

  I inhale deeply, puff out my cheeks, and exhale as if I’m blowing bubbles. “True, but it’s a trashy word so if people hear you say it, people might think you are trashy. Why did you do it?”

  “Marty called Arjun retarded. I was trying to stick up for him.”

  Which slaps the bitchy know-it-all out of me.

  Uh-oh.

  I know both kids. Marty is a nasty eight-year-old. At the school carnival last year, I saw him kick his four-year-old sister in the ass. When she cried and tugged her mother’s leg and told her what happened, the mother rolled her eyes at the woman she was talking with and shooed her crying daughter away. Marty is the kind of sly kid who gets away with crap because he’s good-looking and athletically gifted. I’ve witnessed a number of parents covetously regard Marty, wishing their kids were as popular and agile.

  Arjun is a quiet kid with a good sense of humor and a kind smile, but he is also uncoordinated. One of the last boys picked for teams at recess.

  “Tell me what happened,” I say. What you should have said when he first walked in the door.

  “I told you. We were all playing soccer, a bunch of the boys in my grade, and Marty kept calling Arjun retarded. So I called him a fucking.” It’s physically jarring to hear this abrasive word come out of his little-kid mouth, but his ineptitude with using the word softens the assault.

  “Did you tell the principal you were sticking up for Arjun?”

  “Yeah. Marty got recess detention too, but only for two days.”

  Recalling moments from the last thirty minutes of my life, shame swallows me. How did I get conned into a story to such an extent that I exaggerated the narrative? I am a public service announcement for how to not parent. I tried my damnedest to shame the young hero and convince him he was the villain. I am shit. I am a fucking.

  I am off the couch and crouching before him, caressing his little-boy rough knees, staring up into his sad-dog eyes. I wipe his tears with my thumbs as tears slide down my face. “I am so sorry, Wyatt. I didn’t know. You did the right thing, sticking up for Arjun. I’m so glad you did. That makes me so proud and I’m so sorry you can’t go to recess this week; that sucks. Most of all, I’m sorry I yelled at you. I was wrong. So, so wrong. I’m so sorry.”

  I set my head on his lap and hug his waist. I am sweating now more than when I was nervously listening to Principal Shish in my hot car, more than when I was driving home and silently berating Wyatt.

  You occasionally get these big-moment opportunities to parent correctly, to demonstrate calm, to impart wisdom. This was one of them, and I blew it.

  “Where’s Chloe?” he says.

  “She’s with Grandma. I’m going to drop you off at Grandma’s too because I need to go in for another vaccine.”

  “Oh. Do I still l
ose video games and TV?”

  My eyes, pleading, meet his. “No. That was my mistake, my misunderstanding. I’ll buy you a milkshake on the way to Grandma’s. Let me make a quick phone call first.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” He smiles and his eyes brighten, but the heavy sadness clouding them minutes ago when I assumed the worst of him and made his sweet, generous, innocent mind feel filthy is etched into my memory.

  I wronged him. I didn’t have his back. And he’s already forgiven me. It breaks my heart.

  Minutes later, I’m pacing in my bedroom with the door locked, scolding Principal Wendy Shish. Telling her I reamed my son before he told me what happened and why didn’t she tell me what had really happened?

  “None of the teachers heard Marty say anything.” Of course they didn’t. They’re suckers for Marty’s act too. “Two of the kids said Marty was teasing Arjun, but it doesn’t excuse Wyatt’s language.”

  I can’t argue with that, but I’m furious that she missed the bigger picture.

  I tell her I’m proud of Wyatt for standing up for the weaker kid. I may even mention she knows Marty is a little asshole. I end the call and sit on my bed, sweaty and exhausted.

  The system is garbage. Even in elementary school. The system is doing the bare minimum. It makes sure the rules are followed in the name of liability, but has little concern with integrity and protecting the vulnerable. The system protects the wolves and tiptoes around the bullies. My mind is clouded with terrible stories and their trial outcomes.

  Father rapes child for a decade. Child comes forward finally at the age of seventeen, the most difficult thing for a victim to do. Father gets only eighteen months in prison.

  Woman gets court order against her abusive ex. She drives to the police station on two occasions because the ex is threatening to strangle her. Cops give the ex warnings, but say their hands are tied, and secretly think the victim (sleazy with her fat ass squeezed into short jean cutoffs, a low-cut shirt, and a groupie hairstyle leftover from the eighties) may be a lying vindictive bitch. How could the ex be so obsessive, so possessive of this ugly fat chick? Weeks later, her body is found in a quarry. The ex is long gone.