Mother Loves Me

by Abby Davies

  ‘Please – Mother, stop!’

  I screamed and screamed, but she held me there, saying nothing. I tried again to back out and she held fast, pinning me to the spot. Cold panic spread through my lungs as I stared at Deadly, unable to look away in case he moved. Dread uncurled and attacked as an idea came – she was going to lock me in here, with him.

  ‘Please. I’m sorry. I’ll never lie to you again. I promise.’

  She loosened her grip a touch. Deadly scurried forward, darting towards me at lightning speed. I screamed and tried to jerk away but her grip tightened. He stopped an inch from my nose. This time, I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to tell myself he wasn’t there, but fear made me dizzy. He was there and she was going to lock me in this tiny space in the dark, with him. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks. My breathing came in short bursts. White spots danced behind my eyes.

  In a soft voice she said, ‘If you ever speak to Clarabelle again without my permission, I will lock you in here with that spider and turn out the light. Do you understand, Mirabelle?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I understand.’

  ‘Now aren’t you going to thank me for your lesson?’

  ‘Thank you, Mother.’

  She sighed as if a world of stress had been lifted off her shoulders. ‘Good girl.’

  Chapter 19

  I stayed in my room for the rest of the day and the whole of the following one. Mother didn’t call me down to eat, so I stayed where I was, leaving my room only to go to the toilet or sip water from the sink tap. I tried to focus on reading The Secret Garden but I kept reading the same line over and over again, unable to stop myself reliving Mother’s punishment and words. She’d been about to say something then stopped herself. It had been something about what she’d need to do to me if I didn’t start to be her perfect little doll again. A perfect little doll I knew I could never be, not now I knew the truth.

  I felt I knew what she’d been about to say and the knowledge was terrifying – more terrifying than staying in the cottage for the rest of my life and never getting the chance to meet my real parents.

  I could have been wrong, but something had woken up inside me. It was like a sixth sense had bloomed in my brain, and this new sense told me she was even crazier than I realized, and that she was getting worse.

  I listened intently. The house was quiet. She was out again.

  Trembling all over, I wrote a list, starting with the day Mother scraped my scalp.

  Horrible Things She’s Done

  1. Scraped my head brushing my hair

  2. Made me think I was dying when I started my period

  3. Tore off my dress

  4. Forced me into the light

  5. Slapped me

  6. Told me the light was melting my organs

  7. Stopped giving me food

  8. Terrified me with Deadly

  9. Threatened to lock me in the under-stair cupboard with Deadly

  I licked my lips and re-read the list; my senses sharp now, despite the gnawing hunger.

  She was getting worse. Much worse. She was losing control. I was in danger. Emma was in danger.

  Certainty thrummed in my chest and my palms began to sweat. I thought about the dolls hanging in Mother’s wardrobe and my heart wrenched.

  I didn’t deserve a life like this.

  I shuddered and pushed myself away from the desk.

  I couldn’t stay here any more. Emma couldn’t stay here any more. If we stayed here, we would probably die.

  I dragged myself up and put an ear to the door. I listened as Mother brushed her teeth. Listened as she padded across the landing and closed her bedroom door.

  I was starving and couldn’t think on an empty stomach. I crept downstairs, made myself some toast and ate a chunk of cheese. As I ate, my eyes strayed to the huge, wickedly sharp chopping knife on the kitchen counter. My stomach tensed.

  I could not, would not attack her.

  Mother was crazy. What she had done was evil. If I had to fight to get away, I would, but I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t think I could. She was all I’d ever known. She hadn’t always treated me badly.

  I dug my nails into my palms and looked at the knife again. I shook my head, felt my hair tickle my cheeks. Exhaling, I hardened my heart against the fear curdling my blood.

  There was no ignoring it though: Mother was dangerous. I needed to get away. I needed to help Emma get away. I had to make sure she got back home to her real mummy and daddy. She was too small to help herself and there was no way I was going to leave her here. She shouldn’t have to grow up like me, locked in a gloomy house with no friends and no daddy, believing she was going to die soon.

  I groaned and rubbed my temples. My heart hurt and my head hurt and I needed all of this to end as quickly as possible. As quickly as possible without anyone getting hurt.

  With shaking hands, I washed up the plate and knife and wiped down the surfaces.

  I looked at the knife once more then left the room.

  Chapter 20

  One week later

  Though Mother hadn’t given me permission, I took a risk and dashed downstairs, determined to get started. For days, I’d sat in my room and tried to work out how to escape, working through situation after situation, idea after idea, doubt after doubt, and fear after fear about what would happen if I tried to get away and was unsuccessful.

  Now, finally, it was time to act. If I put it off any longer, I might question my decision to leave, and questioning might lead to doubting and doubting might lead to talking myself out of it.

  It was clear Mother had taken great care to keep me a secret. From looking out of her bedroom window I knew that the cottage was far away from other buildings. How long it would take to reach the closest one was impossible for me to guess. Horribly impossible.

  Heart thrumming madly, I stood on tiptoe and opened the top kitchen cupboard where Mother kept the tinned food. If my plan was going to work, I might need some supplies. The last thing I wanted was to escape the cottage then starve to death.

  My heart skittered. The thought of leaving the cottage was scary but exciting. For so long, I had dreamed about the outside world. About the wonderful, beautiful, colourful things I would be able to see and touch and smell. I might even see a robin. And the idea of seeing my parents made my heart leap with anticipation and joy one moment then shrink with fear the next. What if they didn’t remember me? What if they’d moved on with their lives and wanted nothing to do with me? What if they were just like her?

  Mother’s voice drifted into the room from the living room, its edges spiky. ‘You can’t go outside, Clarabelle, Little Doll. It’s far too dangerous.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve already told you this. You’re poorly, Little Doll, just like your pretend mother. That’s why she gave you to me. But don’t worry. Mother will protect you. Mother will keep you safe. Mother will never let anything bad happen to you. Mother loves you.’

  ‘Oh yeah – I forgot,’ Emma said.

  ‘Good little doll. Come, let’s have a boogie together.’

  ‘What’s a boogie?’

  The Eagles blasted into the cottage. I pulled a tin of beans out of the cupboard. I dropped it into a laundry basket then grabbed a tin of sweetcorn. Laughter reached my ears and my heart burned. I kept putting tin after tin into the basket. When I had eight tins, I picked up the basket and crept over to the kitchen door. The hallway was clear. Another track started to play. This one was about someone’s lying eyes. I dashed past the open living room doorway and caught sight of Mother and Emma holding hands and dancing together. Emma saw me and frowned. My heart leapt into my throat and I turned and bounded upstairs, arms burning from the weight of the tins. I kicked open my bedroom door and pushed the laundry basket under my bed. Pulling the covers over the edge of the bed, I turned to see Mother standing in the doorway.

  Her face was red, hair wild. Her small eyes took in my unmade bed and messy appearance. I wore her favouri
te dress but it was uncomfortably tight across my chest and stomach. I had not brushed my hair and wore no make-up. She had not painted my face for a while, preferring to focus her artistic efforts on Clarabelle rather than me these days.

  ‘What were you doing just now? Were you spying on us?’ she snapped.

  I said nothing. I didn’t know what to say. My brain felt like a scrambled egg.

  ‘I suppose you feel left out, do you?’ she said, stepping into the room.

  I didn’t reply.

  ‘Poor Mirabelle. I know it’s been hard on you since I rescued Clarabelle, but you can’t let jealousy ruin you. Jealousy killed the cat, you know.’

  ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ I said.

  Her eyes narrowed and she tilted her head to one side, trailing her eyes up and down my body and face, her lips twisted.

  ‘Are you correcting me?’

  I shook my head. ‘No – I – sorry.’

  ‘Sorry what?’

  The words tasted sour on my tongue, ‘Sorry, Mother.’

  She stared at me for a long time. Her jaw clenched. A large blue vein throbbed in her forehead.

  I looked at the frilly pink curtains to avoid her glare, frightened she was considering locking me in the under-stair cupboard with Deadly.

  Finally, she said, ‘Good. Now, the kitchen’s a mess and Clarabelle and I need lunch. Go and make us some sandwiches. Don’t throw the crusts in the bin. Leave them out on a plate.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ I fought the urge to ask why she didn’t want me to throw away the crusts.

  She gave me a curt nod and left the room humming brightly.

  As soon as she was out of earshot, I moved the contents of the laundry basket into the back of my wardrobe behind my nightgowns then placed the laundry basket outside her bedroom where I had found it. I hurried downstairs and made her, Emma and myself a spam sandwich, which I gobbled down quickly before taking theirs in to them. They both sat at the dining room table. Emma looked up at me when I placed her sandwich in front of her. I was pleased to see that she didn’t look as sleepy as before. Mother ignored me.

  Knowing I didn’t have much time, I hurried back into the kitchen and grabbed the tin opener and a fork out of the drawer. There was nothing I could do about water because there were no empty bottles and if I emptied one out, she would notice straight away, so I took a mug from the cupboard then ran out into the hallway, past the dining room and past the living room. If I found a stream, I could fill the mug and drink that way. Or Emma and I could just cup our hands together and collect water in our palms. That would be easier. That was what Huckleberry Finn did. I wondered if the water round here would be thick and ‘yaller’ like Mississippi water or clear like in Ohio. The thought of drinking yellow water was gross but water was water and if Emma and I were dying of thirst, we would need to drink whatever we found.

  Realizing that I didn’t really need the mug, I turned around and ran back into the kitchen, put the mug back in its normal place then hurried along the hallway and up the stairs.

  I deposited my treasures inside my wardrobe along with the tinned goods then hurried back down to hear Mother calling my name.

  ‘Mirabelle! Come and clear away our plates, please.’

  Anger and misery bit, making me nauseous, but I obeyed her instructions and cleared away their plates, which I washed up, dried and put back in the cupboards. I left the kitchen, intent on completing the next step in my plan, but Mother stopped me.

  ‘Mirabelle. In here. Now.’

  I walked into the room to see Mother smiling sweetly at me. Emma was lying on the sofa fast asleep.

  ‘Yes, Mother?’ I said, hating that I still had to call her that, but still used to the feel of it on my tongue.

  She stared above my head as she spoke. ‘Polish the room then clean the fridge. If you do a good job, I might let you eat with Little Doll and me tonight. Would you like that?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘But if you miss just one spot …’ she trailed off, eyes glinting.

  She picked up Emma and kissed the top of the little girl’s head tenderly. Emma did not stir. She looked like a miniature Sleeping Beauty. And I’m Cinderella.

  Mother left the room with slow steps, holding the little girl close to her chest like she was the most precious thing in the world. I vaguely remembered how she used to hold me like that and felt a stabbing pain in my chest.

  I frowned and told myself to get a grip. There was no point dwelling on the past; I had to focus on the now – on getting Emma and myself out of here. Now that I knew what she had done, I realized there was no way to predict the full extent of her wrongness. Her badness.

  My eyes fell on the dining room table, to the empty syringe that Mother had boldly left out on display. My knees buckled as an idea that was so terrible but so obvious shot into my brain like one of Robin Hood’s arrows: Mother wasn’t giving Emma calming medicine to help her feel better about her father; Mother was giving Emma calming medicine to make her easier to control.

  I shouldn’t have been shocked, but I was. I picked up the syringe and shook my head. Did she drug me too? And if Emma was drugged, how was I supposed to get her out of the house? I could carry her, but not for long. I looked at my scrawny arms, at my bandaged hand. I wasn’t exactly muscle girl.

  I hurried to the cupboard under the stairs and grabbed a dust cloth and the polish spray. I placed them on the carpet behind me then knelt down and searched the cupboard for a bag, one big enough to hold all of my supplies. I gritted my teeth, worried. There was nothing in the cupboard of any use. Nothing. I reconsidered escaping without any supplies. Would I survive with nothing but the clothes on my back? I didn’t even have any warm clothes, but the month was May, so it should not be too cold. The only shoes I had were a flimsy pair of slippers. My feet were much smaller than Mother’s, so there was little point in taking a pair of her outdoor boots. But the problem of starving to death was one I had to deal with. I had learned that from my books. Whenever a character escaped, they always had to think about how to deal with hunger. Like in The Wolves of Willoughby Chase when Bonnie and Sylvia escaped from the orphanage. That was why I had collected those food tins. Food was essential. Without it, we might die. I had to find a bag to carry them in.

  A horrid thought scratched at my brain. Wolves. Would there be wolves outside? I’d never asked Mother about that and now it was too late to ask.

  A distant banging sound made me jump. It was the sound from the back garden, the sound I’d heard before.

  Mother came running down the stairs, face red and twisted with anger. I grabbed the polish and cloth as she ran past me into the kitchen. I heard the kitchen door being unlocked and hurried into the room to see her disappear out of the back door. What on earth was she doing? The kitchen door was ajar. Light ran down the gap, sucking me forward. It would be so easy to slip out of that door and make a run for it, but I couldn’t leave Emma.

  I heard Mother screaming something and the banging sound stopped. Was someone out there? Who was she screaming at? I crept towards the door, desperate to know what was happening outside, but the sound of approaching footsteps made me dash back into the hallway.

  Mother locked the kitchen door and whipped past me, saying, ‘After you’ve done your chores, go upstairs and take off that dress. I’ve laid out some other clothes for you. From now on, you’re to wear those and only those.’

  My question died on my tongue. It would be stupid to ask her about what had just happened anyway.

  She disappeared upstairs and I began to polish the dining room table, all the while puzzling over the bag issue. The trunks in the attic were far too large and bulky, so those were out. There were no bags in any of the other rooms in the cottage, except, maybe, in Mother’s room. I remembered the big black holdall she had brought Emma home in. That would be perfect. I would have to go into her bedroom a second time.

  Chapter 21

  I wore the plain, brown, sack-like dres
s Mother had left out on my bed. I had changed out of my doll dress into the brown one just before she left the cottage. Now I looked like the little slave girl I had recently become. The material of the dress – if you could call it a dress – was scratchy and coarse against my skin, and the fabric smelled musty. Despite the roughness of the dress, there was something wonderful about not having to wear one of my doll dresses, because that’s what they were. They were dresses for dolls, not human beings. Mother did not wear silly dresses like that; she wore jeans and floaty blouses. She had left the house dressed in faded bell-bottom jeans and an orange-and-white striped blouse.

  I touched the dress, stroked my finger down my cheek. Mother put me in doll dresses and painted my face because she wanted me to be perfect, just like a doll. A perfect, silent little doll that could not answer back. A doll-like girl she could control.

  I couldn’t believe I had been so blind to her strangeness for so long.

  I thought about her car. If only I could drive, I could whisk Emma and myself far away with speed and ease. If we could get out of the cottage, that was. Also, if I could drive, we could avoid any wolves that might be lurking outside. Huge, vicious wolves with yellow, blood-stained teeth.

  I swallowed. Told myself there wouldn’t be any wolves.

  I forced myself to refocus on searching for the holdall. I glanced around quickly but the bag didn’t seem to be in the bedroom. I knew it wasn’t in the wardrobe, which was a relief because I didn’t want to see her crazy doll display ever again.

  I sighed and stumbled away from the bed as the unmistakable sound of a knock on the front door penetrated the cottage. Rushing towards the window, I grabbed the sill and peered out – a man stood down there. A man! A real-life other person! The man wore a green T-shirt. His brown, straggly hair hung around his broad shoulders. A heavy-looking bag was strapped to his back. He knocked again and I hesitated, wanting to call out to him, but unsure whether to trust this stranger. What if he was as crazy as her?