I was certainly not the best mother. That goes without saying. I didn’t set out to be a bad mother, however. It just happened. As it was, being a bad mother was child’s play compared to being a good mother, which was an incessant struggle, a lose-lose situation 24 hours a day; long after the kids were in bed the torment of what I did or didn’t do during those hours we were trapped together would scourge my soul. Why did I allow Grace to make Mia cry? Why did I snap at Mia to stop just to silence the noise? Why did I sneak to a quiet place, whenever I could? Why did I rush the days—will them to hurry by—so I could be alone? Other mothers took their children to museums, the gardens, the beach. I kept mine indoors, as much as I could, so we wouldn’t cause a scene.
I lie awake at night wondering: what if I never have a chance to make it up to Mia? What if I’m never able to show her the kind of mother I always longed to be? The kind who played endless hours of hide-and-seek, who gossiped side by side on their daughters’ beds about which boys in the junior high were cute. I always envisioned a friendship between my daughters and me. I imagined shopping together and sharing secrets, rather than the formal, obligatory relationship that now exists between myself and Grace and Mia. I list in my head all the things that I would tell Mia if I could. That I chose the name Mia for my great-grandmother, Amelia, vetoing James’s alternative: Abigail. That the Christmas she turned four, James stayed up until 3:00 a.m. assembling the dollhouse of her dreams. That even though her memories of her father are filled with nothing but malaise, there were split seconds of goodness: James teaching her how to swim, James helping her prepare for a fourth-grade spelling test. That I mourn each and every time I turned down an extra book before bed, desperate now for just five more minutes of laughing at Harry the Dirty Dog. That I go to the bookstore and purchase a copy after unsuccessfully ransacking the basement for the one that used to be hers. That I sit on the floor of her old bedroom and read it again and again and again. That I love her. That I’m sorry.
Colin
Before
She hides in the bedroom all day. She won’t come out. I won’t let her close the door and so she sits on the bed. She sits and thinks. About what, I don’t know. I don’t give a shit.
She cries, tears spreading across the pillowcase until it’s probably soaking wet. Her face, when she comes out to pee, is red and swollen. She tries to be quiet about it, as if she thinks I can’t hear. But the cabin is small and made of wood. There’s nothing to absorb the sound.
Her body aches. I can see in the way she walks. She can’t put weight on the left leg, an injury sustained when she fell down the cabin steps and into the woods. She limps, holding on to the wall as she staggers to the bathroom. In the bathroom she runs a finger across a bruise, which is now engorged and black.
She hears me in the other room. I pace. I chop firewood, enough to keep us warm for the winter. But it’s never really warm. I’m sure she’s cold all the time, though she dresses in long johns and gets under the quilt. The heat from the stove doesn’t reach the bedroom. But she refuses to be out here where it’s warm.
I imagine the sound of my footsteps scare the shit out of her. She listens to nothing but the footsteps, waiting for the worst to come.
I try to keep busy. I clean up the cabin. I wipe away the cobwebs and pick up the dead beetles. I toss them into the trash. I unpack the things we bought in town: canned food and coffee, sweats and soap and duct tape. I fix the front door. I wipe down the countertops with paper towels and water. It’s all just to waste time. I pick up the girl’s clothes from the bathroom floor. I’m about to yell at her for being a slob and leaving her dirty clothes lying around. But then I hear her cry.
I fill the bathtub with water. I clean the shirt and pants with the bar of soap and hang them outside to dry. We can’t do this forever. This cabin is only a temporary thing. I’m wracking my brain to come up with next steps, wishing I would’ve thought this through before I decided to grab the girl and flee.
She shuffles by me to use the bathroom. She’s beaten up and limping. I’m not one to feel guilt, but I know that I’m the one who did it to her, out there, in the woods, when she tried to run. I tell myself that she asked for it. I tell myself that at least now she’s quiet, not so certain anymore.
Now she knows who’s in charge. Me.
I drink coffee because the tap water tastes like shit. I’ve offered her some. I’ve offered her water but she’s refused. She still won’t eat a thing. Pretty soon I’m going to pin her down and jam the damn food into her mouth. I won’t let her starve herself to death. Not after all this.
The next morning, I invite myself into the bedroom. “What do you want for breakfast?” I ask.
She’s lying on the bed, her back to the door. She’s half-asleep when she hears me come in. The unexpected sound of my feet, the explosion of words in the middle of silence, force her from the bed.
This is it, she thinks, too disoriented to hear what I’m saying.
Her legs get tangled in the sheets. Her feet are lost though her body runs away from the sound. She falls to the hardwood floor. Her feet fight the sheet to find the floors. Her body thrusts itself as far away from me as she can. She backs herself into the wall, the bedding clutched in a shaking hand.