My ten-year-old hands gripped the bottom of the old wooden window and hoisted it open as far as I could. The pane had long been busted out, sharp edges of glass still protruding out of its frame. As usual, the crisp 2 a.m. air stung the back of my head as I lay in a fetal position with my back to the opening, wrapped in my piss saturated sheet. The moisture and the unyielding night air contributed to my fierce grip, securing the thin fabric around my body. My grip wasn’t only meant to shield me from the chilling night air, there was something much colder about. I suppose one could have mistaken me for a mummy or perhaps a body wrapped for burial before being lowered into the Abyss.
Colder than ice itself, is the heart of a mother that would abuse their own child.
Boom! My bedroom door slammed into the wall. Fear paralyzed me, even though I’d endured these night attacks for years. I don’t know how, but I had drifted off to sleep, missing all the warning signs that ‘colder than ice’ was near. I also missed my opportunity for a hasty escape into the prickly arms of the 2 a.m. night air outside my window. Oh, how I wished I was a mummy!
Mummified.
Standing in the doorway, the look in my mother’s eyes chilled me to the bone, as it did every time. To my young eyes, she appeared to levitate a couple of inches off the floor and glide closer to my bed, the odor of alcohol seeping from her pores and into my nostrils.
* * * * *
I was awakened by the birds chirping outside my window and smiled. Surviving yet another wintery night storm gave me hope. How do the birds endure the bitter cold each night and show up every morning singing and dancing? I wished I could be like the birds outside my window.
Then I heard the knob of my bedroom door. This was rare, leaving me unsure how to proceed, as I stared at the doorway and my mother appeared. Filled with alarm, my mind raced to figure out what was about to happen since I rarely saw my mother in my room during the day. I knew it was vital to assess quickly and accurately. Then her voice cut through the air, sounding different, less hostile, less angry. “Go take a bath, and put these on,” she said, throwing me a new t-shirt and pair of jeans. “Be ready to leave in twenty minutes.”
Without hesitation, I complied, tears forming in the uncertainty of it all.
Let’s go, Larry!
Not heeding my mother’s command meant pain, plain and simple. As I walked out the front door after my mother I noticed the broken door jam hindering our front door from closing and locking properly. Scenes from the violent attack my mother unleashed on her new boyfriend the night before crashed back to my mind, tightening my chest. My mother’s bloodcurdling screams came to mind as my eyes landed on the blood stains on the floor, wall and sofa. Hell, it was everywhere. Things ended badly for the man after he dared to kick in my mom’s front door.
I was about four or five steps behind my mother as we raced up the street, going to only God knew where, when she broke her stride and I nearly ran into her. Then it happened. She turned and reached for my hand, telling me to ‘come on’. With our hands firmly gripped together, she all but dragged me to the bus stop.
She grabbed my hand!
I wasn’t sure what phenomena blew my mind more, my mother’s hand gripping mine, or the fact that I was about to board the bus for the first time. I had ridden, hanging onto the back, several times, but never actually boarded. What a delight! In that moment, I felt safe; important even! It was new, and I dared not fight it because whatever it was, I liked it. Smiling, I looked out the bus window, watching my neighborhood disappear. My eyes were again drawn to my hand cuddled inside my mother’s. How were those same hands that soft and tender?
Is this Love?
My mother pulled the chord that ran the length of the bus before gathering her purse and me as the bus slowed down and pulled over. Walking through the folding doors, I was caught off guard by everything I saw. This was a world I never knew existed. Cars were whizzing by, people were everywhere and there were more restaurants and stores than I could ever count. We made our way across the highway and right up to the Golden Corral.
Once inside, my mother pulled out a wad of money and handed it to the pretty white woman behind the register. I liked the way the lady spoke to us, “You two enjoy your meal, eat all you want!” I smiled in kind, and as we walked farther into the restaurant the sweet smell of food – fish, bread, chocolate, fried chicken and more – caused me to salivate. My heart began to race as my mother handed me a tray with various empty dishes, napkins and a set of shiny silverware. I could literally see my reflection in the face of the spoon, and I remember looking happy.
I smiled.
My mother and I got situated at a table, and she again reached for my hand. I was sure I was experiencing the thing called ‘love’. Her face was different than what I was used to, beautiful. I had never remembered seeing her teeth so plainly. As interesting as the thought of eating was, I was captivated by her smile.
Then Mama let my hand go and told me to go get whatever I wanted. That was the day I fell in love with barbequed pork chops! I gorged myself on porkchops, long fish (Mama called it trout), and sliced ham. Mama made me also eat some green beans and a bit of mashed potatoes, but I was not mad or upset at all. I took notice of how lightly my mother ate that day. The few times I remember looking up, I felt she was happy to be looking at me. Maybe she was feeling it too, that thing called love.
Then it happened! No doubt also having the best day of his life, a kid walked by licking the hell out of a triple stacked ice-cream cone. My head spun in all directions searching for where he may have gotten it. And there it was on the other side of the buffet line, a two sided ice cream machine, offering chocolate and vanilla. Alongside the machine were several side options for topping off the ice cream. My mother, still eyeing me, handed me a bowl. Love escaped her lips yet again as she told me to go get what I wanted.
Happy birthday, Larry.
While eating my ice cream, my mother came around to sit beside me. She leaned closer to ask, “Do you know what today is?”
When I didn’t respond she told me – “Larry, today is your tenth birthday!”
I took in what she was saying without asking any questions. It didn’t really matter what she was saying. Whatever was happening, which I fully believe was that thing called love, just seeing the smile it put on my mother’s face demanded that I be all in for whatever it was. And I certainly was.
I didn’t think things could get any better, yet they did. I generally knew that gifts were often given to people on their birthdays. They were given to kids at Christmas time for being good all year. I remember seeing other kids with new bikes, Big Wheels, BB guns, remote control cars, new shoes and other things. It always felt bad in my chest, and I had learned never to expect those things. Mama told me quite often that I was no good and she wished she never had me. So when my mother asked me if I was ready for my gift, my throat got dry and tears threatened to fall.
Shining bright!
My mother ushered me into a huge building, the letters on top reading, ‘Movie Theater’. Again, she pulled out a wad of money, passing some through a little trap window, before guiding me into the middle of what looked to be a million chairs in front of the biggest TV I had ever seen. Again I thought, was love here too? My mother laid her coat and purse in my lap before telling me to sit still, she’d be right back.
After she left, the already dim lights ceased to shine at all before the brightest lights I had ever seen blasted onto the giant screen, along with a thunderous roar that accompanied the action on the screen. Wide-eyed, heart pounding, I knew this was truly the best day of my life. It only got better when Mama returned with two buckets of butter smothered popcorn, Coca Cola and jelly beans. We watched Howard The Duck that day, and I have never forgotten it, but what shines the brightest in my heart from that day is the laughter I heard from my mother. Her smile is forever etched on my heart and in my mind. Maybe, just maybe, we could remain in that moment, surrounded by that thing I think is called love.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Larry Thompson, Jr. is a well respected and talented WITS writer. He is also a man of strong faith, whose positive energy has an impact on those around him. He is a delight to work with.
Mr. Thompson can be contacted at:
Larry Thompson, Jr., #0406623
Albemarle Correctional Institution
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
