by Diana Estill
Neta Sue approached my car. She yanked wide the front passenger-side door and grabbed for Sean’s waist. “Come on out, now,” she said, throwing daggers at me over the top of Sean’s head. “You’ll see her again in a few days.”
Kenny popped open a rear door and hoisted Sean’s toy box to his shoulders. Lugging the container to the veranda, he set it down and then returned for the remaining boxes I’d filled with Sean’s other belongings. I sat motionless and said nothing. The battle had already been fought. And our side had lost.
Sean sprang from the car and gave his daddy a high-five.
Slapping his hand twice on the Mustang’s roof, Kenny indicated the cargo had been cleared so I could leave. I watched in anguish as the three of them strutted toward their newly shared quarters, Neta Sue on one side of Sean, Kenny on the other. Shoving open my driver’s side door, I leaned my head over the asphalt and heaved the remains of my breakfast.
For a second I was convinced I needed a paramedic, someone to help remove me from that driveway. But after what felt like a lifetime, I found reverse gear and drove off.
My soul seemed to orbit my body. Vaguely I observed the traffic signals, highline wires, tract homes, and strip centers all passing in a silent haze. Like a satellite, my vision hovered somewhere far out in space. My eyes looked out from a place so remote that no one could have possibly seen into them.
~
On Sunday, Momma came to visit and found me sitting on my sofa, catatonic. I hadn’t bothered to change out of my ratty robe or comb my hair. I didn’t want to see her or anyone else, didn’t want to talk, didn’t even really want to breathe.
Momma found her way to my kitchen where she warmed a cup of chicken soup. She set the liquid nutrition on my coffee table and searched for a chair. Finding only the orange, fake-fur beanbag Sean liked to sit on, she dragged it over next to the sofa and plopped down. “Now listen. I know you don’t want to talk, so just listen.”
I stared past her at the TV set that hadn’t been turned on for two days.
“Sometimes life gives us more than we think we can handle,” Momma said. “Then time passes, and we see that we were wrong.”
I did not need a salvation speech. I knew she was trying to pull me back to the surface before I drowned. However, all I wanted was to close my eyes, inhale water, and sink into the deep.
She leaned closer. “Renee Ann, I don’t know what you’re feeling right now. But whatever it is, I know it won’t be permanent.”
I gazed off into the nothingness. “What am I, if I’m not Sean’s mother?”
Momma wrestled herself free from the beanbag chair. “You’re still his mother, and you’re my daughter.”
I looked up, studying her face for answers. “What kind of mother loses custody of her child?”
“The Lord is the one who giveth and taketh away. It’s not our place to question,” Momma offered with rote precision.
“Yeah? Did He take Daddy away from you and give him to another woman?”
Momma folded her arms. “Yes, He did. And I found out life kept right on going, even when I didn’t expect it to.” She sighed. “Even when I sometimes didn’t want it to.” She sat down on the couch next to me.
I twisted to face her. “I don’t have anything left to take away. My spirit is broken.”
“No. Your heart is broken. Your spirit is just fine.”
~
When I next saw Pearly, she was selling Mary Kay cosmetics and giving everyone she’d ever met a makeover. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, wiping goo from my forehead. “You be prettier than evah when I finish.” She searched through the variety of samples she’d placed on my coffee table. “Them mens won’t be able to take they eyes off you.”
“I don’t want another man.”
Pearly’s eyes grew wide. She dabbed at my face with toner. “I hope you ain’t saying what I think you saying.”
I groaned. “I just want my son back.”
Pearly applied cake foundation with a damp sponge. “Of course you do. Meantime, you gots to be there ever chance you get.” She brightened like she’d suddenly figured out the formula for perfect bliss. Giving out one of her trademark hoots, she declared, “There’s no glory in raising kids. It’s work, hard work. Let ‘em have it. You do the fun stuff!”
“Like what?” I asked, trying not to move my lips.
Pearly traced a line of pink around my mouth. “Vacations! Movies! Take him to the circus!” She held up a hand mirror for me to see the finished results.
“He lives in a circus.” We both fell into fits of laughter.
What Pearly did for my appearance and outlook seemed nothing short of miraculous. I purchased twenty-five dollars’ worth of cosmetics that afternoon. But the mental makeover advice I received was worth thousands more.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I don’t know how mothers survive the death of a child, but I suspect they do it by trudging fearlessly forward despite a deeper urge to fold into a fetal position and succumb to intentional starvation. Though Sean hadn’t died, all my dreams for his future had been destroyed. I experienced that loss in a profound way that I could only compare to suffering the death of a loved one. While I knew I would continue to see him, the Sean with whom I’d interact going forward would be a different child than the one I’d previously known.
Though children, by the very nature of maturation, will change over time, I watched helplessly as Sean’s personality altered in ways I’d always hoped to discourage. On the weekends when I had Sean with me, which weren’t that many, I spent all of my time with him. We swam, toured The House of Wax, where Sean got scared in the dungeon, and watched the lion tamers and trapeze artists perform at the Ringling Bros. Circus. If I couldn’t be the primary parent, I decided, at least I’d be the exciting one. I wanted to create the kind of childhood memories that would last Sean a lifetime, ones strong enough to withstand a daily sabotaging from Kenny and Neta Sue.
In addition to my new secretarial job, I’d been freelancing for the local newspaper for extra income. Now I could afford what had once been out of question. I’d even managed to move from government-subsidized housing into a brand new apartment that accepted only adults. I had access to a swimming pool and a clubhouse where guests were welcomed, and it was okay to have children visit on weekends. Neatly bordered by sculpted shrubbery, the apartment complex parking lots remained abundantly lit at night. And each apartment unit had a dishwasher and ceiling fans that actually worked.
Residents of Heatherwood Springs, my new address, appeared more courteous than those I’d encountered at Jewel Gardens. I never heard anyone arguing. I guessed all those amenities helped folks sustain their agreeable natures.
My new surroundings even improved my attitude toward Kenny. Though he remained as overbearing and possessive as ever, when it came to Sean, I no longer felt the need to meet Kenny’s pigheadedness with resistance, which worked about the same as dousing a fire with lard anyway. That was why, when Kenny insisted that Sean remain home with him on Friday nights, though our divorce decree instructed him to surrender Sean by six o’clock, I decided not to argue. “You can pick him up at ten o’clock Saturday morning,” Kenny commanded, as though along with primary custody he’d been granted the right to make the rules. Unable to fight him from his position, I’d simply acquiesced.
Every time I saw Sean, he seemed different. When he’d first visited after he’d gone to live with Kenny, he’d arrived wearing a stained shirt and a pair of orange shorts that looked like they’d gone one too many rounds with a washing machine agitator. I laundered the outfit one more time, which didn’t help matters much, and sent Sean home in a brand-new set of red and navy Buster Brown coordinates. Two weeks later, when he returned for his next visit, he again looked like a poster child for poverty relief.
Besides Sean’s outer appearance, his personality underwent changes, too. He repeatedly referred to Neta Sue as “Momma,” which I’d explicitly asked him never to do. He constan
tly wanted to roughhouse with me, as though we might be contenders for a World Championship Wrestling. “Come uh-uh-n-n, Momma,” he’d complain when I refused to pin him to the ground. Once, he caught me off-guard and put a chokehold on me. For Christmas, the holiday he pretty much thought about year-round, Sean asked for a set of boxing gloves.
Adding to Sean’s peculiar behavior, he incessantly spoke of bingo dabbers, jackpot rounds, and lucky cards as though these were standard vocabulary words for a six-year-old. I had to wonder if Neta Sue might not have been better suited for the medical profession because, with surgical precision, she’d seemingly extracted parts of me from Sean and substituted those closer to her likeness.
“Hi-eee,” I chirped when Sean climbed into the car seat next to me one Saturday morning. “I’ve got a surprise for you today!”
Sean looked around inside the vehicle, as if to say, ‘Where is it?’
“We’re going to the fair!”
He clapped his hands and chanted, “The fair, the fair! Oh, boy!”
“We’re going home first, for lunch.” I hadn’t yet become rich enough to afford overpriced entertainment foods. “Then we’ll head to the fairgrounds, right after that.”
At the apartment, I served hot dogs and chips, Sean’s favorite weekend meal. But as I took a seat at my new dinette, I noticed Sean staring at the weenies as if they were infested with cockroaches. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “You too excited to eat?”
Sean shook his head. Gazing into his lap, he said, “I don’t want to get sick.”
“Have you been sick, sweetheart? I’m sorry. I didn’t know. We can go to the fair another time if you’re not feeling well.”
Sitting taller and looking more energetic than before, Sean explained, “No, I’m not sick. Momma said...I mean, Grandma said you fed me rotten weenies and made me sick when I was a baby.”
I wondered if Sean could see steam spewing from my ears. Neta Sue had pushed things too far. If she thought she’d gotten away with that ploy, she was badly mistaken. “I don’t know why your grandmother would say such a thing. I never fed you hot dogs when you were a baby. And I wouldn’t feed you anything that might make you sick. Okay?”
Sean smiled, picked up his frank, and chowed down.
~
On Sunday, at the end of our visit, I returned Sean to Neta Sue’s house. I’d little more than pulled into the driveway when Sean announced, “Daddy’s not home. He said Momma would be here.”
“You mean your grandma, Neta Sue,” I corrected.
Sean shook his head. “She says for me to call her momma because she’s my momma now.”
“She does, huh?” I climbed from the driver’s seat to let Sean out of the vehicle. “I’m going to walk you to the door.” I rubbed Sean’s back as he wandered unaware into the minefield.
At the stoop, I rang Neta Sue’s doorbell. She tore herself from behind the window shades she’d been peeping through to answer the door.
“I brought Sean back,” I said, “and I’m glad you’re here. You see, Sean has been confused, and you seem a bit confused yourself. So before I leave, I want to clear up something.”
I bent down low, to Sean’s height, so I could look him in the eyes. “Sean, this is your grandmother,” I pointed to Neta Sue. “And I’m your mother.” I tapped my collarbone. “That’s why you call me Momma, because that’s who I am. And you call her Grandma or Nana or Granny, because that’s who she is.”
Neta Sue’s eyes sparked. “I’m not the one who’s confused. I’m raising this child.”
I coaxed Sean inside, past Neta Sue’s imposing stature, and stood up to square off with the witch. “You ought to finish raising your own son before you go trying to raise mine. Seems you failed miserably the first time around.”
Her hands balled into fists, Neta Sue pushed her girth past the doorjamb and stormed out onto the porch. “Get your ass out of here. I’m done talking to you.”
I took a step closer to her bulbous figure. “I’ll get out of here, all right. But I’m not getting out of my son’s life.”
She sneered as I turned to leave.
From inside my car, I looked back at Neta Sue. She stood on the stoop, glaring at me. I gave her a go-to-hell look as I pulled my Mustang into reverse gear. Backing from the drive, my anger overtook me.
I shot Neta Sue the middle finger.
Though Neta Sue and Kenny might wish to relegate me to the furthest fringes of Sean’s life, they would not push me out, I vowed. I would not let that happen. At his core, Sean remained a part of me as much as he was a portion of Kenny. I couldn’t be fully severed from him because even when we were physically separated, we remained connected through sheer genetics. And no one, not even Kenny Ray, his vengeful mother, or a courtroom genius could change that fact.
~
Nine forty-five. I drove past the city limits and sped the last few miles toward Neta Sue’s house, anticipating how Kenny would act when I arrived to pick up Sean for summer vacation. More likely than not, he’d repeat his normal routine—act like he’d won some meaningful contest of wills or garnered proof that he could order me around since he lacked any other hint of personal power. Every time I showed up to retrieve Sean, Kenny would carry him to my car as though Sean was a baby. You’d have thought the boy hadn’t yet learned to walk.
The show began as soon as I parked my vehicle. First, Kenny would hesitate while standing underneath the weatherworn awning that covered Neta Sue’s front porch, talking low enough to Sean that I couldn’t hear. From his consoling facial expressions and Sean’s befuddled look, I guessed he pretended to soothe Sean. For a final jab, Kenny would enact a major display of affection right before he’d place Sean in the front seat of my car. “Love you,” Kenny would say in a singsong voice. And then he’d wave as if Sean might be going off to boarding school.
“Love you,” Sean would parrot back.
“Love you more,” Kenny would say before he’d close the passenger door. After that, the jerk would tilt his head forward and stare at me through the window glass. I could feel him searching me for signs of what? Happiness? Devastation? I was never sure.
Each time I retrieved Sean, Kenny’s theatrics made me feel like an intruder. The first few moments when Sean and I were reunited were always overshadowed by Kenny’s behaviors. To my extensive list of reasons to loathe him, I added this one. But on this morning, I made an internal promise not to act bitter. I would not give Kenny permission to reach inside my head and rearrange my emotions. I would not.
I navigated past the familiar landmarks: a veteran’s cemetery now filled with red, white, and blue flags, a milkweed-infested pasture erupting into purple blooms, and a barn so dilapidated that it practically begged for a tornado. The bridge that had once spanned Hawk Creek now arched over a dry gulch. Along the roadway on either side, sunflowers sprouted in the bar ditches. I swerved to miss a large pothole, my tires narrowly escaping the road hazard.
Nearing Neta Sue’s drive entrance, I slowed to make the left-hand turn. Under the great oak that shaded most of her front yard, I could see a small squat figure: Sean. Glints of sunlight danced across his hair through the spaces between the tree leaves. He was outside, playing alone. Perfect, I thought. Maybe today Sean would stride to the car on his own two legs.
I parked the Mustang with its rear bumper barely clearing the road behind me, its nose pointed toward the detached garage that could have been plumbed by a drunken sailor.
Sean stood, straightened his small frame, and stared right at me.
Glancing back toward the house, I observed a shadow in the doorway. I smiled at Sean and yelled, “Hi-i-ee!” With a wave, I motioned him my direction. He put down his toy caterpillar and stared as though he no longer recognized me.
My heart surged. What was he doing? I lowered the passenger side window. “Sweetie, are you ready for vacation?”
His eyes narrowed, face contorted. “No-o-o!” he screamed. “Don’t make me go-o-o! I don’t
want to go!” At full throttle, he traced a direct line to the front door, yelping, “Dad-dy, Dad-dy!”
Kenny opened the storm door as if it were a drawbridge and he the fortress gatekeeper. He knelt to receive Sean, patting him and stroking his head. You’d have thought the child had suffered a skull fracture. But I suspected it had been something closer to a brainwashing.
I looked on in horror, a lump rising into my throat.
Disregarding me as easily as he had my parental rights, Kenny pulled Sean inside and closed the door. The innermost one.
That scene replayed itself many times over the next six years. Though I never knew when Sean would go with me or when his mind would be too poisoned to leave his dad, I kept showing up.
Only death could have stopped me.
TWENTY-NINE
I’d like to say I had a premonition about it, but I didn’t. It happened the year I graduated from college, on an otherwise ordinary February day: forty-five degrees, overcast, windy, with a slight chance of rain, the kind of day I almost didn’t mind being stuck indoors reading press releases from individuals who had nothing of significance to report. I opened the day’s business mail and answered mildly annoying telephone inquiries.
Between calls, I addressed hundreds of envelopes to people who would likely never open them.
The telephone on my desk rang. Another assignment, I figured. Through broken words that began high and ended low, sounds filtered through the vocal chords of an adolescent boy-turned-bullfrog. Sean croaked, “Mom, I’m stranded. Can you come get me?”
“Stranded? Where are you?”