The Mason List

by S. D. Hendrickson

  My mother had something called ovarian cancer. The doctors were hopeful at first, but the cancer had quickly spread to the other places in her body. She had spent weeks at a time in the hospital while my father alternated between work and sitting at her bedside. I had stayed with mean, old Mr. Wilson and his wife. The happy days were over; no more mornings playing in the garden and no more laughing afternoons drawing with my mother.

  For months, I cried myself to sleep every night, clutching little Digger. I had just wanted it to be normal again. I wanted my bedtime story. I wanted my mother. I was incredibly sad. I didn’t think our lives could get any worse, but then my father came home carrying a box. I knew from his sagging shoulders something bad happened at work. My father said his company had let him go. They’d used some excuse about a bad economy, but we knew the truth. He had missed too many days sitting at the hospital. My father had cried and cried that night. I didn’t know what to do as the big tears rolled down his cheeks. Parents don’t cry.

  The bills had piled up everywhere: pink ones and blue ones and eventually red ones. Some were from hospitals or doctors. Some came from the little plastic cards. They all wanted money as my father struggled to find another job.

  Maybe he was a little too honest in the interviews. They were always sympathetic with his situation, but he was never picked. My father took odd jobs, but it just wasn’t enough money. The bank ordered us to leave the house by the end of May. We could no longer pay for our pretty, little cottage and my garden. I was losing both my mother and my home.

  I had cried for days and refused to come out of my room, losing my temper more than once, smashing doll china like the Mad Hatter destroying high tea. The meltdowns became farther apart as I slowly came to acceptance. With every breath, I felt the fear and uncertainty of our future. With every breath, I felt a hard, ridged coat form over my heart.

  My father looked for us a new place to live and place to take care of my mother. The treatments had stopped working months ago. It was time to just keep her from feeling pain. He found a hospital west of Fort Worth in a town called Arlis that took charity hospice cases. My father wanted us to live there too. I hated the idea of moving. I hated leaving my home. I hated the bank; it was cruel, like the evil queen who attacked Snow White.

  As we packed the house for the move, my father handed over two small boxes. He struggled to look me in the eye as he said choose only the things that were most important to me. I stared back, wanting to scream in his face. His sad eyes had stopped every word from flowing out of my mouth. Instead of yelling, I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood. I bit down hard, feeling the coat squeeze around my heart. I needed that coat to block out how dark I felt inside. It would keep the tears away. I may have only been eight, but I felt the reality of the outside world like someone twice my age. No more daydreams up in the trees. It was time to be strong. I needed it and my father needed it too.

  Without a word, I had followed my father’s instructions and only packed items I needed for the trip. All the jeweled dresses and crowns stayed in the closet; this Arlis town was no place for a laughing princess.

  “Hey Pumpkin, can you get those blankets and pillows out? We can stretch those out in your room tonight.”

  “Ok,” I muttered, snapping back to reality. My tongue traced the familiar cut that still remained on my bottom lip. I watched my father pile the remaining items up in the living room. The creases on his forehead seemed ingrained on his skin. Today had been hard on him too. We were leaving with only few boxes and a little money, which only existed because we sold everything in our house.

  I got the blankets from the garage and laid them out on the carpet in my room. My little white bed had sold this afternoon. The new owner seemed like a nice little girl holding her mother’s hand. Maybe she would love it as much as me.

  I wrapped up in the blanket while my head rested against the pillow. Digger bounced out from some hiding place deep in the house. His little tongue licked my nose and eyes. I pulled him close in a bear hug. It would be my last night with Digger. He was staying with Mr. Wilson. My father had rented a room at an extended stay motel in stupid Arlis. I had begged my father to let me take Digger, but the stupid motel said no pets.

  I squeezed the little dog tighter as my father walked into my bedroom. He sat down on the floor next to me. “You ok, Pumpkin?”

  “Can’t we just sneak him in the room?”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s better for him to stay with the Wilsons than the motel taking him away.”

  “I know.” My throat hurt on the words as the tears burned in my eyes. The coat around my heart got thicker, and I cried no tears for Digger.

  “It will be ok. You’ll like Arlis,” my father said, as he tried to pull together a smile.

  “How do you know? You’ve never been there!” I snapped back. In the weak moment, I struggled to contain my anger. I hurt too much tonight.

  “Alexandra! You need to change your attitude about this!” I felt myself cringe; he never got upset with me. I didn’t want to make this worse for him.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean that. I know you’re right. It will be good there.” The words didn’t calm the storm I felt inside, but it made my father’s face relax a little. I said the words he needed to hear. I said the words to comfort my father.

  I blocked out his voice as he continued to talk about that stupid town and that stupid motel and that stupid hospital. I bit my lip until I tasted the salty blood in my mouth. I squeezed my eyes shut, begging the darkness to carry me away.

  By the time I woke the next morning, my father had the old SUV loaded with our belongings. The back had boxes packed to the ceiling. The Wilsons stood outside talking to my father. I saw Mr. Wilson pat my father on the shoulder as they nodded about something I couldn’t hear. I carried Digger over to his new home. Mrs. Wilson smiled down as I handed over the ball of fur.

  “We promise to take good care of him,” she said, trying to reassure me. I muttered thanks and climbed in the truck. I saw the tears in my father’s eyes as we backed out of the driveway. Mine were completely dry as I pressed my nose against the glass to look one last time. The coat around my heart got even tighter, seeing our little cottage with the garden fade into the distance.

  Chapter 5

  When I was eight…

  From the hospital room window, I peeked through the closed curtain and watched three children on the red and yellow playground. They seemed happy. A boy joined in for a game of tag. He chased a girl around the green hedges.

  “You should go down there, Alex.” I heard a faint voice come from the bed. My mother was in a deep sleep most of the time. I preferred it when she was out because I knew she didn’t feel the pain. Those wishes came laced with selfishness. I liked to sit in silence. It was easier than a forced conversation with a dying person even if she was my mother. I really didn’t know what to say anymore. The days just seemed better when her skeleton face didn’t speak. Shame filled my chest. I stopped the terrible thoughts and buried them with a crooked smile.

  “It’s ok, Mom. Do you want me to get you a drink?” I left the window to sit in the chair next to her bed. Her skeleton hand patted my arm. I felt a shutter and focused on her bald head instead.

  “Maybe a little sip.” She looked so pale, and I saw the strain on her face as she tried to speak. “I worry about you, honey.”

  “Why?”

  “You should be doing something, I don’t know,” her voice cracked. A faint cough interrupted and then she continued, “Fun. You’re like a little grownup, now. I miss my little Alex in the trees.”

  “I’m, ok. Really. Besides, you were right. It was dangerous climbing up in the trees.” Fleeting images of our garden flashed through my mind. I wondered if my mother understood the trees were gone from our lives forever.

  I pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and kissed her cheek. My throat fought back a gag. Her skin used to smell like the roses in our backyard. Now her s
kin stunk like moldy bread.

  “Mom, I’ll see if…” My words trailed off as I watched her eyelids close. I sighed with relief and settled back in the window sill. Silence.

  It didn’t take long for the Tanners to get into a routine. We arrived in Arlis at the end of May. Over the last few weeks, we shuffled between the nasty motel and the hospital. My father and I took turns sitting beside my mother’s bed. He would leave some afternoons to search for a job, but got the same reaction in Arlis and the surrounding Palo Pinto County. Not a single person wanted him.

  I studied the cheap, fake pink and blue bouquet in the corner vase. My father bought the flowers last week in the half-price bin at Dollar General by the extended stay motel. I wrinkled my nose at the mere thought of the “suite” we called home. Suite my foot! It was filthy and a strange animal lived in the bathroom. Each morning, I studied the small pile of poop left in the corner by the brown-stained tub. I had it narrowed down to a rat, a wall possum, or a snake. I assumed a snake could poop too.

  My clothes always smelled musty from the odd fumes that seeped through the walls from our neighbor on the right side. I did not like him. He scared me. I wanted to tell my father how much he scared me, but I knew there was nothing we could do about it. Every night, that man stood on the balcony. His eyes followed each of my steps to our apartment. From the base of his throat, an evil tattoo glared like a second pair of eyes. My father turned the lock on the door, but I knew that two-headed monster stayed just on the other side of the old wood.

  As soon as we settled in each night, I struggled to sleep with the banging and yelling from the neighbor under our bed. The words came through muddled except for a few snippets that sounded like pig-faced bitch. My father just turned up the volume on the television louder to drown out the noise.

  Sometimes I watched our downstairs neighbors. He was a skinny man for having such a loud voice. I thought the woman was rather pretty and nothing like a pig-faced bitch. Once, I watched them from the front window until I coughed. The walls had black mold from rain coming in through holes in the glass.

  I hated that place. Although hate didn’t come close to describing my feelings for our new home. I needed a word stronger and bigger than just hate.

  “Hey. How are my girls?” I turned to see my father walk back in the room. He gave me a little squeeze. Something seemed off. I’d gotten pretty good at reading my father over the last year. He leaned over to kiss my mother on her forehead. The sleeping corpse never responded.

  “Dad, is something wrong?” I had to ask even though I was afraid of the answer. Given our recent luck, it was inevitable our life would just get worse.

  “No Pumpkin, everything is fine.” I saw by the tilt of his eyes that my father was lying. We sat for a couple of hours as the sun faded into the sky. My mother never woke up after our little talk. My father and I left for the night. The soles of my shoes squeaked on the floor. They hurt my feet and I needed new ones. My toes seemed to double over at the front just to fit inside.

  My father and I crossed the parking lot. I saw the Bronco under the street light. The old truck sat packed to the roof, just like the day we arrived in Arlis.

  “Dad!” I gasped, looking at the truck and then back to his devastated face.

  “I couldn’t pay the weekly rate last week so the manager let it slide. When I didn’t have the money today, they made me pack everything up in the car.” My father stood on the hot pavement staring at the ground like he failed all of us.

  My stomach lurched as the reality twisted inside my body. I’m homeless. The Tanners literally were homeless without even an option for a place to go. I knew a flood of tears wanted to flow in ugly streams down my cheeks. I pursed my lips and bit down hard on the lower one. I no longer allowed tears. Not since we lost our home. Not since we had to travel to Arlis. Not since I left Digger.

  I settled in the passenger side of the Bronco. My eyes felt vacant as the deserted parking lot. I cranked down the window with the manual turn knob. I needed air. I couldn’t breathe.

  “Wait, Alex. We can’t put them down until all the cars are gone.”

  I wanted to scream. I couldn’t hold back the words. Turning to unload a gut full of hate, I stopped cold. Tears gathered in the corners of my father’s eyes. One rolled over the edge. His face tilted toward the driver’s side window to hide the fact he sat crying in our old car. A sob cracked in his throat, turning into a terrible sound, like a wounded animal. I pretended not to see the breakdown. Resting my head back against the seat, I stared at the stains on the cloth ceiling of the Bronco.

  Over the next few nights, I curled up in the passenger seat and rested against the hot window glass until it was safe to roll it down. We visited my mother during the day. I snuck into the hospital bathroom to wash up. Some nights, I just I dabbed off my arms and legs in the sink.

  My father left every morning to find anything to bring in money. He tried to walk as much as possible to keep from using the last of our gas. Even if he found something, I knew it would be a few weeks without money unless someone paid cash. I sat in grateful silence each day that my mother was too weak to catch on to what was happening right under her hospital room window.

  On the eighteenth night of sleeping in the Bronco, my father and I sat in the front seat watching the sun set. I took a bite of my pimento cheese sandwich from the vending machine. Halfway through it, I noticed mold growing on the underside of the bread. My stomach fought back a gag as I hid the rest of the sandwich in a napkin. I didn’t want to upset my father. The hot air couldn’t handle another one of his breakdowns.

  I’m not sure what he picked from the machine tonight. My father said he ate a sandwich while I was washing off in the bathroom. I think he was lying. My stomach rumbled trying to digest the molded bread. I was afraid. The coins would eventually run out and so would the supply of spoiled food.

  I fluffed my pillow against the glass and did my best to block out the sticky heat. Two cars stayed in the corner of the lot. I wanted to yell, go home to your stupid house.

  The Bronco had developed a lingering smell of dirty socks and bologna. Each morning, we killed roaches that scattered across our seats. I think the nasty bugs lived in the boxes we stored in the back part of the car. They came out at night looking for food. I felt the bugs; their tiny legs pricking my skin as they stepped down my arm and across my stomach while I slept. My father insisted they didn’t have teeth.

  I took a deep breath watching the parking lot. The air pulled sharp through my nose but it felt so hot. Every breath was like sucking in the fumes of a hair dryer. I fought the urge to sling open the door and run down the street with my feet pounding against the cement. I would run until my shoes filled with blood from my curled up toes.

  A man walked out the side doors to the last car. Finally! I could get a cool breeze through the window. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared in our direction. Noticing the jet black hair, I recognized him as one of the people who took care of my mother. Dr. Mason fixated on the Bronco. He continued to stare with a worried look on his face.

  No, no, no! He was coming over. He would see us; the creepy homeless people living in the parking lot. I wanted to slide into the floor and put the pillow over my face. Go away! I screamed in my head while my Dad rolled down the window for Dr. Mason.

  “Hey, Henry. How ya holdin’ up tonight?” I saw Dr. Mason’s eyes glance to the back of the Bronco. Even in the low light of the dark parking lot, I knew the doctor had a good idea of our current problem. Old boxes packed to the ceiling. Clothes draped out over the head rest drying from today’s hand washing in the shower. And the smell. I knew the exact stench that escaped like a giant cloud of death when the door opened.

  “Doing ok, Dr. Mason. Did you need something? Has something changed with Anna?” I heard my father trying to keep his voice steady. At this point, I wasn’t sure if the tremor came from the fear that something had happened with my mother, or just plain embarrassment of getting
caught in the parking lot.

  “No, news. Everythin’ seems to be holdin’ steady at the moment.” Dr. Mason looked over in my direction and I quickly dropped my eyes to the floor. I wished my mind possessed magical powers to dissolve my body into the carpet floorboard, but I was no longer the child who believed in fairy dust.

  “I saw you leavin’ and thought maybe you’d like to stay in the room with Anna tonight. I think it’d be big enough to pull in a couple of cots.” I looked back up in surprise, but only saw kindness in his expression.

  My father glanced at me with a strained face as he tried to hold it together. He asked for my reassurance. I wrinkled my nose and tilted up in defiance. I was so tired of being his strength. Slowly, I nodded back at my father and gripped the pillow tight in my hands. Fine!

  “Sure,” my father said with a smile. “I think that would be nice change to stay overnight. Could do Anna some good.”

  Dr. Mason walked back to the hospital while we gathered a few items from the back. I looked over the parking lot and took in the reality of the moment. Shame pumped through my body with each beat of my heart. I hated charity. I hated depending on others. I hated being homeless. I hated people knowing we had nothing.

  Every fiber of my being wanted to scream as I followed my father back through the sliding doors of the hospital. Each tennis shoe clomp on the tile took us down a path of no return. The stomping made the tight shoes hurt worse. I didn’t care. Until tonight, it has been our secret and now everyone would know.

  Since she got sick, a little piece of my life disappeared every day, yet we still survived on our own. Tonight was different. It was the first step into the bottom of the barrel. We needed so much more than just a cot for the night. Dr. Mason had to know this about our life.

  I watched one of the hospital staff wedge two small cots between the bed and window. It was a tight fit. Dr. Mason came in with some blankets, pillows, and a few towels.