“Mommy’s just going away for a little while.”
The first time I heard those words, alarm bells rang in my head. Back then, we were still living in the old house in West Virginia, and even at eleven years old I knew that Father wouldn’t be able to take care of it himself. If Mommy was going away, who would cook for us? What about the cleaning? Who would read us bedtime stories?
Not that she had been doing many of those things lately.
For the last few weeks, I’d been tucking Lyle into bed, the laundry had been piling up, and almost every meal ended in Father cursing at Mommy.
Sometimes I felt bad for her, but then I would remember – she only had three jobs! Cooking, cleaning, and looking after us. But Father had a real job, so of course he would be exhausted and angry when he came home to a tasteless meal.
But now that Mommy was going away, maybe there wouldn’t be so many arguments?
The two months that Mommy was gone were some of the most difficult days of our childhood. Father expected me to step up and do the cooking and cleaning. It made me real mad at times but I didn’t argue because it would upset Lyle. I found myself praying before bed that Mommy would come back soon. Whenever we asked Father about where she went or when she would come home he would only tell us off.
But just when it felt as though there was no hope, she returned. Her smile was a ray of light in the darkness of the house, and this time she even hugged Lyle when he tottered up to her. She was dressed differently to when she left, wearing one of her pretty old dresses – the kind she wore when we used to go out. She had her pearl jewellery on, and bright red lipstick that stuck to Father’s cheek when she kissed him. Her hair was curled up nicely and neatly, not like the way she used to keep it before she left. Even her voice had changed.
The first few weeks with this new version of Mommy were amazing. She cooked us the most delicious meals, she made our beds for us, and she would even sing to us. But it didn’t take long for things to go downhill again.
One night, long after she had tucked us in, I crept downstairs to get some water. I could hear Mommy and Father talking in his study. As I approached the door, however, they began to raise their voices.
“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” Mommy sobbed.
“Listen to me, woman. You are sick. You are sick in the head. Even the doctors couldn’t fix you.” Father’s voice was so rough, so full of rage, that it made me shudder. I wanted to run away but I had to know what he was talking about. Was Mommy really sick? Was that why she had to go away for a while?
“Fix me?” Mommy’s shrill, sarcastic laugh cut through the air. “By taking out parts of my brain? Is that what you call ‘fixing’?”
My stomach churned. I had heard of this before, but I thought it was only for crazy people. Did that mean Mommy was crazy?
“Nothing can fix something as pathetic as you. At least the surgery has you dressing properly, and my children have a mother again!” Father scolded.
My eyes brimmed with tears and I couldn’t bear to hear anything more. Abandoning my need for water, I ran back upstairs silently, jumping into bed and pulling my covers up over my head. That night was the first of many that I cried myself to sleep.
Days passed and Mommy started having guests over. I never learnt who they were; Mommy wouldn’t let us into the basement. It was on one of these sunny afternoons that found me sitting in the kitchen, my stomach grumbling as I waited for her to come prepare me a snack. Frustrated with how long she was taking, I walked to the basement door and pounded my fist against it.
The strange buzzing noise coming from the other side halted and a minute later the knob turned. Mommy didn’t open the door very much, but I could see a sliver of her face covered with a splatter of what I assumed was red paint.
“What can I do for you, darling?” came her clipped question.
“I’m hungry.”
“Oh, you poor dear. Go wait in the kitchen. Mommy will be there in a minute.” With that, she shut the door again and I walked back to the kitchen, wondering what she was painting down there. Soon, she came out of the basement– her face clean and fresh. But my eyes widened in horror when I saw an unmistakable splotch of crimson blood tainting her apron.
“Mommy! What happened?” I leapt off my seat and ran over to her.
Glancing down at her clothing, she sighed. A darkness passed over her usually bright features but she quickly fixed me with a beautiful smile.
“Mommy just had a bit of an accident while she was cleaning the blender. It’s nothing to worry about.” Turning to the sink she shook her head and muttered. “Silly me, I forgot to wash the cup after Mrs Spencer left!”
That night, Father and Mommy fought so badly that I could not sleep a wink. I couldn’t make out all of what they were saying from the bedroom, but the one thing I heard was about Mrs Spencer.
“What do I tell them when they come here asking about that woman?” Father yelled.
I strained to hear Mommy’s response. “Mrs Spencer left this house in one piece! Whatever happened to her after, I don’t know!”
Night after night, these fights continued. And day after day, Mommy was busy in the basement. I really wanted to know what she was painting down there, but the door was always locked. One question nagged at me like no other: why was she only using red paint?
It was on Wednesday, the week after Mrs Spencer had visited, that the police came. Looking back on that night, I should have realised something was wrong, but Mommy said they were just looking for a bicycle thief.
Of course, when Father came home and heard about the police visiting he was furious. The argument was instant and explosive. Lyle started crying, so I ran upstairs with him, covering his ears. Once I had finally put him to bed, I returned to the upstairs landing, eavesdropping anxiously.
“You’ll be the death of me, woman. Now give me my goddamn dinner!” Father demanded.
A tense silence ensued, punctuated by the clinking of forks against dishes, until I heard a loud thump and something shattering. I ran downstairs, afraid someone was hurt. Father had collapsed on the table, his head dipped in the remains of his dinner.
“Your father had a little too much to drink, darling. I can’t carry him upstairs, so why don’t you help me bring him to the spare bed in the basement?” Mommy smiled sweetly. Together we heaved him to the basement door.
“You can leave him here. I should be able to bring him downstairs.” She patted my head. “Now off to bed with you. I don’t want you to be late for school in the morning.”
Little did I know that I would not be going to school for a while.
I woke up well before sunrise the next morning to the sound of sirens and chatter. Peering out of the window I saw at least three police cars parked outside. Running downstairs, I yelled for Mommy.
“There’s a child in the house!” An officer grabbed me by the shoulder. Panic struck me as I realised just how many strangers were in my house, especially with no sign of my parents.
“The head’s been cut open!” someone called out from the basement. A moment later, two men carried up something draped with a large white sheet. Dangling from the side was Father’s hand, his watch still on. And following Father’s body was Mommy.
“Mommy!” I screamed, trying to run to her. But the man held me back. Taking her in, from top to bottom, I felt sick to the stomach. Her entire dress was covered with blood - even her hands as she waved to me. Even her face.
“Don’t cry, my darling,” she spoke in her sickly sweet voice, “Mommy’s just going away for a little while.”
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