by Byrne, Leigh
“Head injury?”
“She fell down the stairs not long after Audrey died and got a bad concussion.”
“But it happened when you were seven, four years ago. She should be healed by now.”
“That’s what I thought, but Daddy said the doctor told him that with an injury to the front of the head, there was a possibility she could have a permanent change in her personality.”
“I’m not a doctor or anything, but you would think she’d be better by now.”
“I don’t know whether it’s her head, or what I did to Audrey, or both, that made her start hating me, and I’ve gotten to where I don’t care. All I know is I can’t take it anymore, Kat.”
“How bad is it for you at home?”
“Bad.”
“How bad?”
“Well, every afternoon when I get home from school, Mama makes me stand with my face turned to the wall. And I’m never allowed to talk, unless she asks me a question. I don’t get to eat what everyone else in the family has; usually I get fat meat, or hog jowl, and sometimes she doesn’t feed me all day!” I watched Kat’s eyes grow round. “Sometimes she hits me in the stomach and in the back with her fists as hard as she can, or beats me with the wire end of a flyswatter, or a broom handle, or a vacuum cleaner hose. Once she held my head under scalding hot water and…”
Kat waved her hands to stop me. “Okay, okay. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I was ashamed to tell you. I mean, it’s awful! And I didn’t want you to think something was wrong with me because my own mother doesn’t love me. I was afraid you wouldn’t want to be my friend anymore.”
“Well, that’s just silly. Why would I stop liking you because your mother is a mental case?”
After I had calmed down, I regretted having confided in her. Even though she assured me it was nothing to be ashamed of, and kept saying over and over that it wasn’t my fault, I was afraid she would tell someone, and people would find out what a freak show my life was. I begged her not to tell a soul, even her mother, and made her swear she wouldn’t.
“We’ve got to go now; it’s time for class,” she said, grabbing my arm. “We’ll figure something out later, I promise.”
I believed her; I had more faith in her than I did anyone, more than I had in myself.
33
It was early one morning, a couple of weeks before Christmas, and I was on the bus on my way to school. As the driver pulled up the hill in front of our house, I noticed all the festive decorations our neighbors had put up. On one of the rooftops, bright against the pale winter sky, was a giant cutout of Santa Claus with his team of reindeer. Another house had silver and gold bells strung across the gutter, and twinkly white lights around the windows. On Natalie’s front lawn was a nativity scene, and her door was covered in glossy green paper with a huge flocked wreath hung on it.
At our house the decorations had gone up the night before—a wreath on the door, candles in the front windows, and of course, the tree. Mama insisted on a live tree every year because she liked the scent of pine to fill the house.
My brothers had trimmed the tree, stringing it with large multi-colored lights and a garland made of cranberries and popcorn. They hung on shiny red, glass balls and real candy canes, and then finished off with angel hair. Mama and Daddy looked on, sipping spiked eggnog and listening to corny Christmas songs on the record player.
As the bus geared down in front of Birch Street—the street Kat lived on—I cleared away the frost from the window with my coat sleeve, and as I did every morning, looked out to make sure she was there at the bus stop. She was, and she had on a new red sock hat with a white furry ball on top. Her breath was curling in front of her face, and she was bouncing up and down on her toes to keep warm.
She, and everyone else around me, was obsessed with the spirit of the approaching holiday. The kids on the bus wore silly sweaters with snowflakes on them, and prattled incessantly about what they were going to get for Christmas.
“You remind me of an elf in that stupid hat,” I said to Kat as she walked onto the bus.
She sat beside me, took off her hat, and hit me with it, all in one motion. “You’re a sourpuss,” she said, folding the elf hat in half and laying it in her lap.
Earlier that morning, on my way out the door to catch the bus, I had swiped two peppermint candy canes from our Christmas tree and stashed them in my backpack. I got them out and gave Kat one. She peeled part of the cellophane from it, bit off a tiny piece, and then covered the rest back up and stuck it in her purse for later. I opened mine almost completely, and sucked on it like a lollipop.
In the weeks after I had told Kat about my life at home, it had become the main topic of most of our conversations. Together we wracked our brains, trying to find an answer to my problem. After much discussion and deliberation, we could only come up with one solution. Kat thought of it, but I liked the idea, so it became “the plan.” I was going to run away from home and live with her. All we had to do was work out the details of when, and how, and then put our plan into action.
“What is Christmas like for you at home?” Kat asked.
“It was great before Mama’s accident, but now it’s terrible.”
Kat rolled the peppermint around on her tongue a few times, and then stored it in one of her cheeks. “Do you ever get any gifts?”
“They put a few things out on Christmas morning, socks or underwear, sometimes a school dress. But I think it’s so my younger brothers will believe in Santa Claus. When Grandma Storm was alive, she gave me dolls, and all kinds of neat toys, but I never got to play with any of them. Mama always took them away.”
“What a witch!”
“Two Christmases ago, a birthstone ring in a black velvet box was beside my usual school dress and socks. I got to keep the clothes, but Mama took the ring.”
“Why?”
“Later Daddy told me he had bought the ring for me without her knowing, and it had made her mad, so she refused to let me have it. Last Christmas the same ring showed up again, but she took it away, and I haven’t seen it since. I’ll probably get it again this year.”
“What’s the point of giving it to you if you don’t get to wear it anyway?”
“I don’t know! I can’t figure it out either, unless it’s Daddy doing it behind Mama’s back.”
Kat fidgeted with the ball on her sock hat. “Tuesday, you said you didn’t want me to feel sorry for you, but I can’t help it,” she said. “You know, my Aunt Jesse is a nurse, and the other day she was over at the house, and I asked her if an injury to the head could make somebody go nuts, like your mom. She said she has heard of some people who were never right again after a concussion. She called it a front lobe injury, or something like that. Tuesday, I believe your mom is nuts and maybe she can’t help it, but you’ve still got to get out of there before she kills you.”
My throat tightened, choking off the words of gratitude I felt. I didn’t want her to see the tears in my eyes, so I turned toward the window for the rest of the ride, fighting to keep from breaking down in front of all the kids on the bus.
When the driver pulled up in front of the school to let us out, I noticed someone had written “Merry Christmas” across one of the classroom windows with spray snow. I tried to recall what it felt like to have a merry Christmas.
34
Christmas morning I awoke to the sound of Ryan running down the hallway toward my parents’ bedroom. “Mama, Daddy, get up!” he squealed. “Come see what Santa brought me!”
There had been a time when I awoke early on Christmas, like Ryan, eager for the rest of the family to get up. But I had no reason to be excited anymore. I no longer believed in Santa Claus, and in the years since Mama had become angry with me, I received far fewer gifts for Christmas than my brothers.
Mama used to claim the reason I didn’t get as much was because Grandma Storm gave me more presents than my brothers. It was true, but she had good reason to. She was cl
oser to me. After all, I spent my summers with her. And I think she knew—although she never wanted to talk about it—that I wasn’t treated the same as my brothers. She was trying, in her own way, to make up for that.
Every year, when my presents from Grandma Storm and Aunt Macy arrived in the mail, Mama threw a fit, and she and Daddy got into a major fight. “It’s just not fair,” Mama would say. “I’m not going to let her have all of this! How do you think it makes the boys feel?” Then she would take my presents away and put them somewhere before I even had a chance to open them.
When Ryan came back up the hall, Daddy had joined him. Mama was dragging behind, sleepily. She paused in my doorway. “Come on, Weasel, get up.”
After having been let down so many times before, I decided I wasn’t going to get my expectations up this year. But as I followed her, listening to my brothers tearing into their presents, I couldn’t help but hope it might be the year when things would be different.
And it was.
When we got into the living room, Mama instructed me to sit on the floor in an area near my presents—the usual school dress, and for the third year in a row, the birthstone ring. I knew better than to touch anything without permission, so I sat quietly watching the boys play with their toys.
“Don’t you want your Christmas presents?” Mama asked.
“Yes.”
“Then act like it!” she shouted.
“Rose, not on Christmas,” Daddy said. Then he turned to me. “Tuesday, why don’t you try on your new ring?”
I fixed my eyes on the ruby stone nestled in the velvet box, but I was too afraid to pick it up. “Go ahead,” Daddy said. “It’s okay.”
My hands trembled as I slipped it on my finger. I looked up at him, and he winked.
I’d never paid much attention to the ring before. I hadn’t wanted to become attached to it, because I knew Mama would only take it away, but now that it was on my hand, I drank in every detail. It was beautiful in its simplicity—emerald cut, rich red stone, flanked by two gold fans. I knew right then, as I admired it sparkling on my finger, I would never own a ring that would shine any brighter.
35
It was a month after Christmas, on a Saturday evening. The house was filled with the yeasty smell of frozen pizzas baking in the oven. Jimmy D. had invited a friend over to spend the night, and upon his request, Mama was making pizza.
She was in the kitchen setting the table with paper plates and cups. I was sitting on the living room floor, within her view. Because we had company, I didn’t have to put my face to the wall, but I still couldn’t have the run of the house. She had given me a book to read—a collection of short stories by Edgar Allen Poe—so I wouldn’t seem too conspicuous.
I was happy that night because we had company, and Mama always put on appearances for company. Although I knew she would not go so far as to invite me to eat at the table with everyone else, I was sure she would bring me a slice of pizza to keep Jimmy D.’s guest from getting suspicious.
Being in the living room brought back memories of Mama’s accident. Nothing had changed since that night. Nothing in the entire house had changed since then, except Mama. I tried to recreate the image of how I last saw her before it happened, curled up on the sofa asleep. It was too painful to even think about.
I turned my attention to my favorite part of the room, a nineteenth-century painting near the front door. It was of a woman—a Southern belle, according to Mama—seated in front of an intricately carved ivory vanity. On the vanity were bottles of perfume, and bejeweled boxes overflowing with extravagant jewelry. The belle appeared to be getting dressed for a ball or some other grand event. She had on a teal green off-the-shoulder evening gown with layers upon layers of tufted satin. Her brown hair was short, and from her reflection in the vanity mirror, I could see she had smooth, fair skin and deep, dark eyes.
Standing behind the belle, also facing the mirror, was a black woman wearing a blue and white print dress with a white apron over it. A red bandana was tied around her head. She was on the plump side, with cheeks as round and shiny as polished apples. Her gentle, smiling face was that of a caring soul, the quintessential mother, someone who would always make sure you had plenty to eat and a safe, warm place to sleep.
The belle was fascinating to me, and as any young girl my age would have been, I was intrigued by her beauty and apparent wealth. But I was most drawn to the black woman, to her obvious benevolence and the tenderness in her face, and even though I was well aware that she was only a one-dimensional image in a painting, and may not have even existed in any form other than in an artist’s mind, I fell in love with her. I loved her because I perceived her to be kind and strong and righteous. I gave her life—a personality and a name. I called her Mattie.
There had been times when, on my way out the front door to catch the bus, I had looked up at the painting, closed my eyes, and wished with all my might that Mattie was real so I could run to her and find safety in her layers of fat. She would gather me up into her arms and protect me from Mama. “Don’t you dare touch this child again!” she’d say. And Mama would back off, terrified.
Mama called out for the boys to wash their hands because supper was ready. I could hear them running through the house, and then splashing in the bathroom. When they had finished, they all went into the kitchen and shuffled around the table to get a seat, while Daddy cut the pizza. Soon they stopped talking, and I heard them eating.
About five minutes passed. I wondered why Mama hadn’t brought me a slice of pizza. I thought she had forgotten about me, so I tried to make some noise. I crinkled a page of the book in an attempt to attract her attention. She didn’t notice. I coughed a couple of times, still nothing.
Jimmy D.’s friend asked him why I wasn’t eating with the rest of them.
“She doesn’t like pizza,” Mama said. “She only likes the crust, and she’s waiting for us to finish the rest of it.”
That was when I made my decision. “I’m leaving tonight,” I whispered to Mattie. And she smiled at me to show her approval.
After everyone else had finished eating, Mama brought me a couple of pieces of crust, and I gnawed on them as I planned my escape. I thought of Kat, and how surprised and elated she would be to see me. I pictured the shocked expression she would have, and enjoyed an inner laugh.
Daddy and the boys went back down to the den to watch television, and Mama sent me to bed for the night. From behind my closed door, I listened for her to retire to her room. I had to make my move fast; I couldn’t wait for her to go to sleep, because I didn’t want to arrive at Kat’s house too late. My adrenaline pumping, I pressed my ear to my bedroom door and listened to make sure no one was around. When I thought the timing was right, it took me less than five seconds to grab my coat from the closet, dash down the hall through the living room, and out the front door.
As soon as I stepped out onto the porch, the winter air bit my face and sucked all the breath from my lungs. But I pushed forward across the front yard. I didn’t even stop to zip my coat; I just pulled the hood up, held it together with one hand, and ran up the street toward Kat’s house.
To keep my mind off the cold, I focused on the sound of the frozen grass crunching under my feet. The rhythm of my running made me aware of my progress, and reminded me of my goal. When I had topped the hill of Maplewood Drive, I turned back and took a final look at the house. The light from Mama’s hurricane lamp in the foyer shone through the windows of the front door, casting three amber shadows out into the darkness. I zipped up my coat and tied the strings of my hood snugly under my chin. The coat was a few years old, and the sleeves were too short. Whenever I had the hood on, it pulled my arms out away from my side. I giggled, remembering the time Kat had told me I looked like a penguin. Without hesitation, without fear, I turned the corner and headed for Birch Street.
Kat lived only about four blocks from me, but by the time I had reached her street my chest was burning from running and inhali
ng the cold air. My breath hung heavy in white puffs in front of my face, and stayed there until the next one came up behind it and pushed it out of the way.
Once I had Kat’s house in my sight, I felt safe enough to slow down and walk the rest of the way. I stepped up onto the front porch and rang the bell, my heart pounding hard against my chest. Kat opened the door. When she saw who it was, the disbelief on her face far surpassed what I had envisioned it to be.
“Tuesday, what are you doing here?” as I had expected, were the first words out of her mouth.
“I did it! I ran away, like we planned.”
Her jaw dropped. “You did not!”
“Yes, I did!”
“No, you didn’t, you’re teasing.”
“Katherine, have you ever known me to come to your house for a visit?”
Her big eyes got bigger, bulged more. “Oh my God, you ran away from home!”
“It’s freezing out here,” I said, chattering my teeth. “Can I come in?”
She pulled me inside by my coat sleeve. The house was warm, and I could smell wood burning in the fireplace, and food lingering from supper.
“Who is it?” Kat’s mother hollered from the den, which was off the foyer.
“Tuesday Storm,” Kat said. “I forgot to tell you she was coming over.”
“Hi, Tuesday,” Mrs. Miller said, walking into the foyer. She looked like a grown-up version of Kat. They even had the same hairstyle. She was wearing a long, new-looking red robe, probably a Christmas present. “It’s nice to finally meet you!”
“We’re going up to my room,” Kat said, pulling me along behind her by one of my arms.
“Okay, have fun!” said Mrs. Miller.
The carpet in Kat’s room was dark-blue shag, and the walls were a lighter blue of the same shade. The shabby furniture, which was painted white, was chipped in places, and some of the glass knobs were missing. Hair ribbons and yarn hung over one corner of the mirror above her dresser. On the other corner were strings of multi-colored beads and necklaces of all kinds. The rest of her jewelry—chokers and rawhide friendship bracelets—was in a pink and white music box, with a tiny ballerina inside, almost exactly like the one Audrey had.
