by Kyla Stone
I spin my rings on my fingers. Anxiety prickles the hairs on my neck. “I’m following you.”
“I just—I have a suspicion you know this about him more than anybody. When we were at MSU sophomore year, something happened. What’d he tell you about getting expelled?”
“What he told everybody else, I guess. He partied too much and let his grades slide. Lost his football scholarship and got kicked out of school. It was his one shot to glory and happiness forever, blah blah blah.”
There’s tension in his face. “He could’ve gotten a tutor for his grades, the university would have worked around it. It was something else. There was a massive party just before Christmas at our fraternity house. It was packed with players and girls. Some high school girls squeezed in. Everyone was partying hard, dancing, drinking, drugs, you name it. We knew those girls were high schoolers, if that. Freshman or sophomores. Young. They were damn babies all dressed up in mini-skirts and their mama’s makeup.”
My heart jams into my throat.
“Frank singled one out. He was dancing with her hard. He was with your mom by then, but she wasn’t there. Had the flu or something. I told him ‘hands off, dude, that merchandise isn’t for sale.’ He just laughed at me. I was young and stupid, too, half drunk, and I didn’t see him take her upstairs. Long story short, the girl spilled the beans when she went home and got caught by her parents. Her parents called the cops.”
I try to breathe, but my brain isn’t getting enough oxygen. “What happened?”
“She was fourteen. But she was also drunk off her ass and dressed like . . . Anyway, it wouldn’t have been a slam dunk case in court. It would’ve been ugly every step of the way. The school settled with the family out of court. He got off without a record, but one of the stipulations was that MSU expel your father. Which they did. No school would touch him after that.”
I count back the years in my head. Frank would have been a sophomore at MSU in 1998. My mother, a freshman. In March of 1998, she would have been eight weeks pregnant with me. “Did my mom know?”
“She did. She supported your father 100%. Blamed the girl for throwing herself at him.”
My skin feels shredded. I’m about to unravel, thin threads of myself rippling off and floating away. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I always wondered if it shouldn’t have gone the other way. If there should have been a trial.” He looks at me. His eyes are tired and heavy with regret. “I don’t know what went on behind closed doors, and I don’t need to know. But ever since I found out what your mom did, I’ve had this feeling I can’t get rid of. This feeling that I let you down. That I wasn’t watching close enough.”
“My mother shot Frank because he slapped her around and she got tired of it, even though she refused to admit it,” I say woodenly.
“I’m sure he did.” He stares at me, his head cocked, like he wants to say more.
It’s like he’s examining me, studying my insides, like he can see much more than I’m willing to show. I feel exposed. “What about Frank’s parents?”
“Frank’s dad—your granddaddy—took off when Frank was just a toddler. He was a drinker, a gambler. He probably drank himself to death a decade ago. But you know already, don’t you?”
I shake my head. Neither of my parents ever talked about their childhoods. I remember visiting a grandmother in the nursing home. She was thin and pale and severe, with zero interest in her grandchildren. She died when I was nine. “My family keeps a lot of secrets.”
Bill looks at me again, like he’s not surprised. “Your grandmother coddled your father, gave him whatever he desired, even though they didn’t come from money. He could do no wrong. She depended on him for everything, companionship, money, attention. She didn’t care for your mother none, that’s for sure. That’s all I know. We all have our crosses to bear, kid.”
For a long moment, we just stare at each other.
“I just wanted to stop by,” I say, my words dropping into the silence like stones.
He nods, a short quick jerk of his chin, and turns back to the grill. “Crap on a stick!” he mutters, pushing at the blackened veggie burger with his spatula. “You think they’ll even notice?”
I pat his arm. “I doubt it. I’ll call you. When I’m ready.”
“Merry belated Christmas, kid. I hope it was a good one. Take home some Choco-Butter Pie, will you?”
He knows Choco-Butter Pie is my favorite, which is an unfortunate name for a delectable swirl of dark chocolate mousse, creamy peanut butter, and whipped cream on top of a gooey sugar cookie crust. Brianna puts an entire pie into a white cardboard box and hands it to me. She pops her gum. “It’s boring without you. I hope you come back soon.”
I start to roll my eyes and say something snarky, but then I stop. She’s just trying to be nice. It’s not the worst thing in the world. “Thanks,” I say.
Outside, the sky is nearly black. The wind whips my hair and drives wet snowflakes into my face. I head back to the car with the pie box heavy in my hands, my head spinning.
I barely see the road. Fat snowflakes dart from the night sky and slap against the windshield. My fingers grip the frozen steering wheel. There is only darkness beyond the twin beams of my headlights.
The girl. She was fourteen. The same age I was when my father chose to take what I didn’t have to give. She predated me. Frank turned his twisted gaze on her long before I was around.
He was the damaged one. Not me.
I was a child. Innocent. He was the one who was warped, sick, dirty. I am not those things. I never was.
Not me.
Not me.
44
I wake up sweating, gasping, my fingers clutching at my sleeping bag. Another bad dream. I stare up at the inky darkness above me. The urge to cut rears up, but I resist it. I take long, slow, steady breaths.
I’m changing. I want the change, this shifting, nebulous idea in my head of who I could be, someone different, better than who I am now, something transformed. I want it. I need it. I need it so much it hums in my blood, thrums through my skin, calcifies my bones.
But part of me is still stuck. There are shadows, that black thing gnawing inside me. I need to know. I have to know. I have to know what to do with this black guilt, the rage and sorrow choking my throat. And the question swirls at the very center of me: am I just as guilty as they are? After all, I am free. My mother is locked away for my sake, a truth that fills me with shame. Should I be where she is? Don’t those shackles belong on my wrists, not hers?
My skin’s blistered, every nerve frayed. But I know what I need to do.
I’m in the chrysalis.
The caterpillar who inches along the ground, plagued by shadows and predators, who can’t even see the sky—does she still imagine being in it? Does she dream of sunlight flashing off iridescent wings? Does she feel that primal urge within her cells, a flickering deep within her DNA, like a whisper—that she wasn’t made for this? That there’s more, so much more—but she’ll have to destroy herself to reach it.
It will be her destruction or her salvation. She doesn’t know which.
She spins her own coffin anyway.
45
The Women’s Huron Valley Correctional Facility looks like it could be a library or even a school from the front, with its benign brown brick facade. That is, if you can ignore the perimeter fences and the guard towers looming threateningly over the yard. I undergo the check in and frisk procedures and clip the plastic visitor badge to my sweatshirt, obediently holding out my hand for the black light stamp.
I sit in the cold metal chair, my knee juddering as I watch the other female prisoners with their families. To my left, a mother holds a chubby baby on her lap, reading aloud to him from a battered children’s book. In one corner, a correctional officer stands like a sentry, keeping watch.
The electronic double doors buzz open. The inmates’ sneakers squeak against the concrete floor as they shuffle in. At first, my g
aze falls right past her. The woman standing in front of me is a stranger. She’s wearing a navy blue shirt and pants set striped with a bar of bright orange. She’s at least 30 pounds thinner, with short brown hair cut in a ragged bob just below her ears.
“Sidney.”
I blink up at her. Everything I’ve prepared to say is gone. My mind goes blank, empty, numb.
Ma moves toward me like she’s going to hug me. I flinch. A shadow flits across her face. She retreats, sitting down opposite me. “We can hug when we come in and when we leave,” she says in a hurt voice.
I don’t want to hug her. I don’t want to touch her at all.
“I’m so glad you came. How are you doing?” She smells clean, like soap. She folds her hands in her lap. Her fingernails are trimmed close to the skin. She’s still wearing her wedding ring.
“Okay.” The English language has all but abandoned me. My tongue feels like a block of clay.
“It’s been a long time.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’ve missed you so much.”
My mother circles me with words, traps me with longing. It’s not fair. I’ve spent all my life despising and wanting this woman, loathing and loving, scorning and desiring. Everything I wanted and needed her to be, she wasn’t. My emotions are a tangled knot in the pit of my stomach.
“How’s Ellie and the boys? They come to visit every week or two, like clockwork.”
“Fine.”
“They’re growing so fast. Too fast.”
“Yep.”
“Did you get a prepaid card?” She gestures at the vending machines lining the far wall. “I’m starving. Ellie always brings in a card, so we can fill up on snacks. The boys love it.”
I shake my head.
She huffs a breath. “Well, fine. Just remember it next time. How’s Zoe? I heard you named her. It’s not what I would’ve chosen.”
I look away. How dare she ask about Zoe? I hate the sound of her name on Ma’s lips. “She’s sick, thanks to you.”
“Sidney, honey, why do you have to be like this? Why can’t we have a nice, pleasant visit?”
“I’m not here for a nice, pleasant visit,” I force out.
“Why do you always act so hateful toward me? Your own mother.”
“Why do you think?” All the old wounds are opening up, my heart red and vulnerable and pulsing with pain.
She sighs heavily. “This is how you want to be? The first time I’ve seen you in months?”
I stare down at my fingernails, pick at a stray flag of skin.
“Do you know how many nights I’ve cried myself to sleep in this place?”
Anger flips a switch in me. “Do you know how much I don’t care?”
She sniffs and wipes her eyes. “Why are you always so hateful? Haven’t I suffered enough?”
I hum inside my head. I’m not listening. I will not be swayed by this new Susan Shaw, this bright and shiny mother. I am not deceived. Across the room, a child laughs.
Ma lifts her hand. It hovers over mine, hesitating.
“Don’t touch me.”
Ma’s hand drops into her lap. “I have an illness, Sidney. They called it borderline personality disorder and cyclothymia, which they said is like bipolar, kind of. They diagnosed me here. I was—well, you know what it was like. I don’t even remember—” Her voice catches. “I suffered so much. My illness made things difficult for me.”
My fingers curl up into my palms, nails burrowing into my skin. More laughter from across the room. What is there to laugh about? My soul crumples and I am nine again, bathing my sick, drunken mother because Ma’s forgotten how to wash herself, hasn’t done it in days. It was the first time Frank took off. He was gone for two weeks, and every single day felt like Ma was descending further into a black hole, dragging us after her. I can still feel the slippery bar of soap in my hands, the sudsy water, my mother’s slick, rubbery skin. I stared at the milk-white stalk of her neck while I scrubbed. A strange and shameful feeling washed over me when I stole a glance at Ma’s body, her drooping breasts and splayed legs, her wet nakedness exposed in a swirl of pubic hair. Even at nine, I knew. Even at nine, mothering a grown woman, I knew this wasn’t how things should be. “You made things difficult for us, your kids. I never even had a childhood.”
“There were good times,” Ma says wistfully, hopefully, almost begging.
I shake my head.
“I used to sing to you. I taught you to draw and paint. I helped you knit a scarf in third grade, remember? You always tracked after me, helping me clean up after the boys. We put soapy wash clothes under our feet and danced around the kitchen to mop it. Do you remember that?”
I do. A longing for something I’ll never have snakes through me, coiling around my heart, squeezing so hard it hurts. “That was a long time ago.”
“Not that long. It seems like yesterday.”
“And all those times you passed out in your room for days? All the times I had to feed and bathe and dress the boys, do the dishes and clean the floors and scrub the toilet, staying up late, too exhausted to finish my homework? All those times I had to check on you, to make sure you were still breathing, to snatch the cigarette out of your fingers so the whole damn house didn’t burn down. How long ago was that?”
She closes her eyes. “I don’t like to think about that.”
“No? Neither do I. Only you took that choice away from me.”
“I’m sorry, Sidney, but it was hard for me, too. I had so much to deal with.”
“And what about the rest?”
She ignores me. “I take classes here, do counseling. They’ve got a substance abuse program. And other classes, like school. I can sign up for auto mechanics. Can you imagine? Me fixing up cars, up to my elbows in black grease? They’ve even got a garden. I used to like gardening.”
“I don’t care about gardens.”
“You’re always so difficult, so angry. This isn’t easy for me, you know.” She sighs. “They make me talk about things and help me see all the reasons why I had to drown out my problems with alcohol. They put me on medication that helps relieve my suffering. I was so lonely when Frank was gone. You kids were too much. I was overwhelmed.”
I keep shaking my head. I don’t want to hear this. She’s just spouting more excuses. Still passing the blame. Everything inside me is sharp and jagged as broken glass. “You knew.”
“What?”
“You knew what was really happening. That summer after eighth grade. I told you.”
Ma’s eyes narrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I’ve got no clue what you’re going on about. Please, can’t we have a nice visit?”
“I told you the truth.”
“Told me what?” she says, but she knows.
“I came to you and you didn’t do anything.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Her gaze slides away from my face.
“Well I do. You knew what he was doing to me. You knew all along.” The words are gravel in my throat.
Something changes in her face, some emotion I can’t read flickering across her hardened features. “There you go. Starting in on your lies again.”
“Then we’re done here.” I stand up quickly, my legs trembling. One of the guards looks at me.
“Wait. Sit back down.”
I just stare at her.
“Sit down.”
“Tell me the truth, or I’m gone.”
She folds her hands in her lap. She nods to herself, like she’s deciding something. She meets my eyes. Her gaze is cold, the lines around her mouth sharp. “Have it your way.”
I sit.
“You need to understand,” she says slowly, her voice flat. “You were a little liar. You lied all the time, trying to make me look bad every chance you got, trying to get between Frank and me. You were dressing skanky, itching for attention from a man, any man. I recognized the look in your eyes, the swing i
n your hips. It was dripping off you. Frank’s just a man, like any other. He’ll take what’s offered.”
Outwardly, I don’t even flinch. I’m made of stone. My heart is carved in marble. “I was his daughter.”
“What Frank and me had—it was primal. It was eternal. We loved each other more than we’d loved anybody else. I would’ve done anything for him. Anything. And he always came back to me. Do you understand? Most people don’t get it. Most people never experience real love. They wouldn’t know it if it slapped them in the face. Sure, he wandered. He disappeared sometimes. He enjoyed himself. He’s a man. He’s entitled to that. But he always, always came home. To me, to my arms. I was his.”
“You always chose him. Over your own kids.”
She nods. “Aren’t you supposed to love your husband more than your kids? He came first.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“Well I did. I do. I’ve never apologized for that and I’m not starting now.”
“If you loved him so much, why are you here? Why are you doing this for me?”
Ma’s hair swishes around her chin. Her voice is sharp-edged as a knife. “You came to me that summer to brag.”
I’m so shocked, my heart skips a beat. “What?”
“You know how Frank was. He was enamored by young flesh. You wanted to shove it in my face, to show you were better than me, that you’d won. He wanted you, not me. My own daughter.”
I shake my head, stunned to silence by her words.
She rubs her eyes with her fists. Her mouth is pressed into a tight, bloodless line. “Every chance you got, you threw it in my face.”
“I was fourteen.”
“Old enough. Like that other girl. She was plenty willing until he didn’t want her anymore. Then she called rape. Typical slut.”
