The First Conception_Rise of Eris

by Nesly Clerge

  Then I returned to Mama, held her hand with the fewest broken fingers, talked to her, wept so hard it choked me. And waited. Wondering who the hell had done this to her.

  I was furious with myself for not knowing what to do to help her, certain there had to have been something I could have done to keep her alive.

  Words of Buckminster Fuller came to me. “The wave is not the water. The water merely told us about the wave moving by.”

  I’d been hit by a wave, the undertow too much to bear.

  And I was drowning.

  ***

  Abigail had a spare room, so I stayed with her while the police went through the apartment for forensic purposes. Then it would have to be professionally cleaned, and Mr. Hopkins would have to install a new door. I’d debated about whether or not to keep the apartment, and decided I would, at least for a while. It was only $250 a month. I made that, and more, writing papers for students.

  I insisted on knowing the results of the autopsy:

  Death a result of intracerebral hemorrhage due to physical trauma.

  No surprise about that conclusion.

  But they should have added, Death also caused by unskilled daughter who doesn’t know as much as she thinks she does.

  What was a surprise were the drugs in her system. Marijuana, cocaine, amphetamines. Mama hadn’t been high on life, as I’d thought.

  The other surprise discovery, my second, was the presence of semen in her vagina. And elsewhere.

  The police questioned me. “Who was your mother in a relationship with?”

  “She didn’t tell me she was seeing anyone, much less in a relationship.”

  “So, you’d say you and your mother weren’t close.”

  “I thought we were.”

  “When’d you last speak to her?”

  “Two days before I came home. I called repeatedly the day before I left, but she didn’t answer.”

  “And she didn’t say anything about a boyfriend? Didn’t mention company joining you two for Christmas dinner or anything?”

  “Nothing at all. Only that she would fix spaghetti and meatballs. She knows it’s my favorite.”

  And that’s when the interview had to stop for almost a half hour.

  Once I regained my composure, I explained about Mama’s history of choosing abusive men. “It’s as though they have radar tuned to the same frequency. Or a heightened sense of smell that allows them to sniff each other out in a crowd.”

  “She’d had a number of such relationships, all abusive?”

  “I thought she’d gotten better about that. She let me believe she preferred being single.”

  “What about the drugs? Had she always been a user?”

  “I don’t know anything about them.” It was obvious they didn’t believe me. “I swear on her life that I had no idea.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You use?”

  “I have too much respect for the human body to go anywhere near that poison. I’ve never taken as much as a sip of anything alcoholic either. I’ve seen what these chemicals do to people’s faculties and organs. I have a good mind and big plans. I’m not about to fry or overstimulate or alter my brain in any way. Is that clear enough for you? I didn’t know she was using anything. And she didn’t tell me, because she knew how I would have reacted.”

  They bothered me for another hour then let me go. The next day, they contacted me to say Mama’s body could be released. The forensic coroner had finished with her.

  Finished with her. They’d forget about her soon. I wanted to envy them that luxury.

  I had no idea what I was supposed to do. Or how I’d pay for it. With Abigail and her husband’s help, funds from my own account, and a couple hundred dollars contributed by Mr. Hopkins, we managed a Potter’s field-type burial, even though that service was typically reserved for unknown or indigent individuals. It was a pitiful turnout at the grave, with only me, Abigail, her husband, Mr. Hopkins, and two employees from the resort who stayed for the prayer then left.

  I checked with the detective working the investigation every day, including the day after the funeral, to see if they had a suspect. They’d interviewed Mr. Hopkins and nearby neighbors to see if anyone had seen or heard anything—no one had. Exasperation in his voice, he informed me that combing through the numerous fingerprints found there would take a while.

  “What do you mean by ‘numerous fingerprints’?”

  “Not quite Grand Central Station. But she weren’t no recluse either. Look, Miss Barnes, we’ll contact you if we have anything to report.”

  “Don’t you mean when?”

  “Sure. That’s what I meant. Got another call coming in.” He hung up.

  What had Mama been up to?

  CHAPTER 22

  Plautus said, “Nothing is more wretched than the mind of a man conscious of guilt.” He nailed that one.

  I wallowed in “if only’s.” If only I hadn’t received the full scholarship to Stanford. If only I hadn’t had such lofty goals. If only I’d gotten a job and stayed with Mama. If only I’d found a community college closer to home. If only I’d convinced Mama to move near my school. There were more. There always are.

  The one “if only” I couldn’t beat myself up about was my attempt to get Mama to recognize her poor choices in men. Because I had tried. Often. I was the one who persuaded her that she didn’t need a man. Or thought I had. That she needed to focus on herself and her life.

  But that’s not where she came from. She believed she needed a man in order to feel or be complete, though I think feel is the word that fits best. She didn’t believe in herself. Didn’t feel about herself the way she craved, so looked to men to give her that feeling, as though it could never come from within. A fallacy, of course. Self-esteem has always been an inside job. How often had I told that to her, especially after I’d left home, hoping it would sink in?

  I could say it was because she was raised in an abusive home, so didn’t know any better. The truth is, she never talked about her parents, had no photos of them, and I never met them, so have no concept of what her environment or formative years included. If she had siblings or other relatives, that was news to me. But, as the saying goes, that dog don’t hunt. Look at the environment I was raised in. Perhaps some people repeat what they learned, while others, like me, run like hell to avoid it.

  The only reason I could fathom for believing in myself was that my mother had taught me the opposite, by virtue of her behaviors and their consequences. What I find remarkable is how often people will move away from a bad smell in a hurry, but choose to linger in a bad relationship. Especially women.

  This led me to further research, which led me into deeper guilt. Why hadn’t I thought to look into this matter sooner? I could have approached Mama with facts rather than the childish edicts of, “It’s him or me” and “You need to think better of yourself”.

  One fact stared me in the face, one so simplistic, I missed it: Mama didn’t do better, because Mama didn’t believe she could do better. Her “deserve” quotient was nearly on empty, if not running on fumes. She’d been willing to change, once, for my sake, but couldn’t change for her own.

  At the library, I looked up different reasons cited for why some women stay in such relationships.

  There was fear, as in being threatened by the partner, if the woman tried to leave. I’d never heard any explicit remarks such as these from any of Mama’s men. That didn’t mean they weren’t uttered, but perhaps they were implicit. Being so young, I may have missed that.

  There was the belief that abuse was normal. I’d once read that, frequently, what we call normal is often just usual. Since I didn’t know anything about Mama’s family, and as she had no girlfriends whose conversations I could overhear, I had no idea what Mama believed about this. Maybe she was an eternal optimist, in her own way, and believed she’d one day find the magic formula to get the louse in her life to act right. />
  Leopards and spots, Mama. Leopards and spots.

  If Mama was afraid of being judged by others, for repeatedly getting into abusive relationships, perhaps that was one reason she didn’t seek friends or engender close ties with anyone. There was no one around to hold up a mirror, who wasn’t me, that is, so she couldn’t see what her life really looked like.

  Avoidance goes only so far, Mama. Eventually, the beast devours you.

  Verbal abuse had come with the territory, at least once the first blush of any new relationship Mama got into wore off. Perhaps she’d experienced the same while growing up, so believed any attention a man paid to her was the pathway to love and acceptance. Better negative attention than none at all. This theory had numerous, obvious flaws. If she were still alive, I’d point them out to her. Maybe make a list and tape it where she could read it every day, until her mind absorbed each one.

  None of Mama’s men had been especially popular. Buster did have a rep in the hood, or so he liked to proclaim. No one would have thought her crazy had she complained about mistreatment. She might have been ignored, but would have been believed.

  We didn’t have religion, so she didn’t feel forced to stay in a bad marriage or to marry again. I’d managed to be born in wedlock, and there were no other pregnancies, at least that I knew about. That nixed Mama feeling compelled to keep the “family” together.

  I read that some people stay because they don’t trust the police or any similar authority to help them. Mama never even tried to ask for help from any of these people.

  Nor could I buy the lack of money reason. Because, back in Chicago, Mama had everything the government could provide and turned over her welfare funds to every man she invited into our lives. She could have chosen to stay single and keep her money or find a man who worked for a living.

  Then, of course, she got her first job after we moved and, with my budgetary influence, became independent, or so I believed. It may have been a meager existence, but it was a result of her efforts, for the most part.

  The report said some women believed they had nowhere to go. Of course, someone finally realized there was a need for shelters, but Mama never indicated any desire to go to one with me. Only after I’d been taken by the social worker, had she found the strength to remove us from Buster hell and into our new life in Idaho.

  This information answered some of my questions and left me with others. Like, how do women fall into such a trap, and so easily?

  One way is what I came to refer to as the first-blush syndrome. That scenario usually plays out this way: The man dresses nice and acts nice, perhaps even respectful, on a first date or dates, like Anthony did. He reads the woman’s self-esteem issues accurately—he’s well practiced—and does or says whatever will get her into bed. Then the veil of illusion is yanked off. She’s in the throes of an oxytocin high, bonded to the man through chemicals released during sex, and in a love relationship all by herself and doesn’t know it. Only it isn’t love at all. Love was never displayed by any man Mama got involved with, not even my father. As for Mama’s example of it …

  My best guess is that some women are so desperate for love and acceptance, or financial security, they approach dates like interviews for jobs as lifetime maids and secretaries, who’ll lure men with sex, or promises of it. Since Mama’s culinary and housekeeping skills were pretty much nil, and she never went for men who had extra money to spend, at least, not on her, I have to stick with the love and acceptance aspect and leave the rest out.

  My research led me into the dark world of narcissistic personality disorder. Nasty stuff goes on there. Men with this disorder woo the woman, get her feeling secure and cherished, then abuse her, usually verbally, berating her until she feels utterly worthless and unable to do anything right. If she stands up for herself, he goes after her in all manner of despicable ways. If she gives in, he despises her. Either way, the abuse never stops. Until she gets as far away from his tentacles as possible, somewhere he can’t reach her.

  Like Idaho.

  Only, there is no such place. They, or variations of them, exist everywhere.

  This left the question of why, even if a woman escapes, does she continue to pick losers who will abuse her?

  I had a number of assumptions and presumptions about that. But there were two things I was certain of: I’d never follow in my mother’s footsteps when it came to men, and I’d make them pay for their treatment of women.

  They’d gotten off too easy for too long.

  CHAPTER 23

  Abigail sat hunched over in the stuffed chair, her feet propped on the matching ottoman. She dipped the small brush into the bottle of bright tropical-orange polish then stroked the color onto the large toenail of her right foot. “You’re being too hard on yourself,” she said. “Even if you’d glued yourself to your mother’s side, she’d have found a way to get involved with some man who’d treat her just like all the others.”

  “I could have stopped her.”

  “She was a grown woman. It was her choice. Whatever you’re telling yourself about being able to do anything about that, stop it. Look at how I handled it with my mother. I got out of there as soon as I could. I don’t bother her, she doesn’t bother me. We stay out of each other’s way and business, and we’re both happier.”

  “At least you have the luxury of having a mother you can choose to ignore. Anytime you change your mind, or she does, you’re only fifteen minutes or a phone call apart.” I sniffled and said, “It’s not fair. I’m only seventeen, and motherless. And, it took a lawyer, whom I’ll be paying in installments for another year, to prove to the state that I don’t need a legal guardian because of my age. If it hadn’t been for my dean at Stanford vouching for me … It’s not what I imagined for my life.”

  Abigail stuck the brush back in the bottle. “I’m sorry, K. I’m trying to get you to realize you didn’t do this to her. You’re not responsible for what happened. Any of it. And don’t make it sound like you’re alone in the world. You’ve got me. Always.”

  “Thanks, but that doesn’t make the feeling go away, no matter how many times I, you, or others say it.” I stood up and removed my keys from my jeans pocket.

  “You’re leaving? Why don’t you stay? At least have dinner with us.”

  “Thanks, but I’m going home.”

  “Are you positive you don’t want to spend tomorrow here? I hate your spending Christmas alone.”

  “I refuse to spoil everyone’s fun. No way can I feign a celebratory mood.”

  “If you change your mind …”

  I gave her a weak smile. “Thanks, but don’t wait for that to happen.”

  “Still sleeping on the sofa?”

  “I can’t bring myself to sleep in her bed.”

  “Guess the next step will be letting the apartment go. You’ll return to school soon, anyway. Then, I suppose, I’ll never see you.”

  “I haven’t decided about the apartment, but we’ll see each other and stay in constant contact. I’ll let myself out. Don’t want you to mess up your toes.”

  “Call me anytime you need to talk.”

  “I’m starting to feel talked out.”

  I kissed Abigail’s cheek, pulled her front door closed behind me, and got into Mama’s car. A quick stop at the store for a stack of TV dinners then back to the apartment.

  The professional cleaners had done a good job. Still, it took a few days after Mama’s funeral for me to go back there for as much as a few minutes.

  It became necessary to return to the apartment sooner than I’d liked. I had to get away from the sex I tried to not listen to between Abigail and her Hubby-Buns. My tearful, morose presence cramped their newlywed style. Although they protested when I announced my departure, it was nothing more than courtesy expressed to a wounded friend, and we all knew it but were too polite to admit it.

  I turned the oven on, punched holes in the cellophane as directed, and popped a chicken dinner into the oven. Tonight, I’
d heat up the turkey selection. It was, after all, Christmas Eve. I’d do the same for lunch tomorrow. Normal families had turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce for their Christmas meal. Who knew?

  My edification about holiday protocol and tradition, enforced by Abigail, came from politely suffering through programs provided by smiling hosts and hostesses showing how Christmas should be done. Lavish dinners and decorations, deliriously happy family and friends seated around a table appointed with candles, a tablecloth, holly twigs with ornaments, seasonal dinnerware and linen napkins folded just so or secured with ornate napkin holders. It was all a foreign language and culture to me.

  Abigail pleaded with me to help her pick out a tree and then decorate it. First time for everything, I suppose. I also suppose that under different circumstances, these activities, which felt frivolous and expensive to me, would have put me in a jolly, holly, Christmas mood, as thrust upon listeners by one of those songs playing incessantly on the radio. Abigail sang along to all of them. I didn’t know the words to even one.

  Christmas movies played on every channel. I forced myself to watch them. Not because that had been a tradition in my home. I watched them because it hadn’t been.

  I sobbed and blubbered through each movie, interspersed with occasional strings of obscenities, in an effort to diffuse some of the turmoil clamoring inside me.

  When I used the last tissue in the apartment, I grabbed a notebook and pen, sat on the sofa and began a list. It wasn’t a long list. But Buster’s name was at the top, followed by Karl, which was followed by Anthony. Fourth on the list was a thick, dark question mark, added in case whoever had murdered my mother was someone other than one of them. As far as I knew, Anthony might have escaped from prison or arranged for a friend to go after Mama. A few other names came to mind, so I wrote them down as well.