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ANONYMOUS

Minden, LA

1973

My hands scour through the towering pile of mail on the stained countertop.

There’s a stench that has settled through the house, but it’s become such an after thought that I hardly smell it when I pass through the door. It settles upon me, clings to my skin, and more than once my boss has told me at the beginning of several shifts that I have to go home and shower. He’s received several complaints from customers when I serve them—a very bad thing for business indeed.

It’s resulted in my second write up.

I don’t get the opportunity to clean up often. Trash and old newspapers litter the living room floor, so much so that I can’t see the carpet anymore. It’s getting harder to move around due to heaps of plastic bins, boxes, and broken furniture. There is nothing in the fridge when I open it, besides a container of expired milk and an orange covered in green fuzz. I have not eaten since yesterday morning—all I had were two slices of dry toast. I cut off the bad part of the fruit, peeling back the soggy skin with my thumbnail before wolfing it down.

As I finish my snack, I observe the kitchen. I can’t remember the last time I did the dishes or took out the trash, and flies buzz around the plates filled with partially eaten food. I frown when I see them. Mama’s been lying to me; she hasn’t been touching the ham and cheese sandwiches I’ve made her every morning. She is incredibly wasteful; it takes me about two weeks of pay to scrape enough for groceries. With a heavy sigh, I dump the rotting food into the overflowing trashcan.

Maybe I should get a cookbook, just to see what she likes. I’ve never known her to be a picky eater, but she does like a good stew, with plenty of meat and vegetables—the nourishing stuff she needs to put on a couple of pounds. If I commute to school, I can easily make it home by noon and prepare her a nice lunch.

And, hopefully, we will be able to bake together; like in the old days. Just the two of us, jamming to the radio or making fresh gingerbread for Christmas.

My feet are sore after finishing a twelve-hour shift at the local Italian restaurant. There are stains and grease in my uniform and hair. I begin to scoop up the slimy spaghetti that I was able to sneak out when my manager wasn’t looking from a Styrofoam to-go tray and onto a mostly clean plate. The washing machine isn’t working, so I’ll have to bring my clothes to the laundromat. Fortunately, I’m off the following day, so I’m able to catch up on some chores and much needed sleep before my shift tomorrow evening; although the idea seems daunting. I stretch my aching back and yawn.

Maybe I’ll do it this weekend.

I’m barely able to make ends need as it is to keep up with the mortgage of the house, before Mama and I end up on the streets. Even with two full time jobs; and some part time freelancer work, I can hardly seem to buy anything. I keep shifting through the mail, hoping to find a letter I’ve been waiting weeks for. I’ve already applied to six colleges so far—got rejected from four, waitlisted from the fifth one. The sixth one seems to be hidden from me. I swear I’ve checked the post office so many times, even the mailbox every evening when I get back from work.

Nothing.

There’s no point in calling the admissions office to check the status of my application. My grade point average of 2.1 doesn’t seem to be helping me much, and it’s not like I did any extracurricular activities or made honors. I barely graduated from high school. I haven’t been in a classroom for over three years. A scholarship seems like a dream at this point. I’m still hoping to at least go to school part time—although the fee of the first semester alone puts a massive dent into my meager savings.

I would like to buy a computer so I can continue to practice my coding, but that will have to wait until I get tuition straightened out. If it doesn’t work out, there is always the local community college. It’s only fifteen miles away. And I could always transfer, although I don’t want to be too far from home.

A heavy sigh escapes my mouth. Once the microwave beeps, I remove the plate, steam rising from the bubbling tomato sauce and rubbery meatballs. My stomach grumbles, but I know Mama needs this much more than I. She hasn’t been eating—she’s been hiding the food I make for her underneath her bed, or making herself throw it up once she thinks I’ve gone downstairs. She’s sure I poison her food, even though I make it right in front of her.

That’s when I have to lock her inside her room. It’s very simple: if she wants to have privileges, such as going outside, moving around the house, or watching her favorite television shows, she has to cooperate with me.

She’s skin and bones.

I just want Mama to eat something. Her face is wasting away. She won’t speak or look at me, and it kills me inside. The other week she panicked when I brought her soup, and dumped it straight into the toilet. It took me two days to unclog it, and I made sure to keep her locked in her room for a good while. I’ve boarded her window shut in case she thinks of trying to climb outside. It’s a long drop below. She doesn’t seem to remember who I am anymore, and it truly scares me.

The other evening, I tried to play spades with her. Again, she had not touched the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I left for her the other day. She had ripped each card into shreds and threw them across the room. I’ll have to laminate them once I get a new deck.

Using the fork, I stir in the sauce to make sure the noodles are coated all the way. I slip off my shoes, and, after carefully grabbing a handful of paper napkins, make my way barefoot up the stairs. Clothes and trash litter the dirt crusted carpet, and I make a mental note to vacuum this Saturday—or some day this week. I’ll have to eventually do it. The upstairs hallway is dimly lit, and it’s even darker inside my mother’s room.

I gently rap my fist against the door. “Mama? Mama, I’m home. I got you a little something, but you got to be careful. It’s still hot.”

She don’t answer, of course, and I don’t expect her to. She’s barely spoken in the past week. I enter her room. She’s huddled in the corner of her bed like a small child, the sheets drawn up to her chest. Her clavicles are visible through her nightgown, and a small line of drool collects at the bottom of her chin. With one hand, I grab the chair from her dresser, which is crowded with dozens of plastic medication bottles. Once I switch on the light, I sit down at her side of the lumpy mattress. Her eyes slightly widen at the heaping plate of food on my lap.

She loves pasta.

”It was really busy tonight, Mama,” I murmur, gently tucking a paper napkin underneath her chin. “I’ve made over three hundred dollars in tips, though. So after I take care of everything, we can have a little extra for ourselves to enjoy. Maybe we can have a movie night together.” I squeeze her hand. “And I can pick up dessert for us later. How does lemon cake or vanilla ice cream sound?”

The tines of my fork sink into a meatball, causing watery tomato juice to leak out on the plate. I carefully blow off the steam, before raising it to Mama’s lips. She stares at me—it’s the blank look in her eyes that get to me the most.

”Come on,” I whisper. “It’s good.”

She knows her stubbornness bothers me. But I push down my exasperation and hold out the fork after twirling it around some noodles.

“Please?” I ask. “You haven’t eaten anything all day. And barely anything yesterday. If you don’t eat, you’ll get sick.”

Her eyelids falter for a moment, before she takes a large bite of the meatball. She chews for a long time, probably an attempt to get me to lose interest. But I have all night, just like her. I’m just as stubborn as she is, if not even more. Her napkin slips out from under her chin, and as I’m bending down to pick it up, something slams against my forehead with a loud crash.

The room goes white for a moment, and I realize that there are pieces of the plate scattered everywhere on the carpet, next to slippery, moist noodles. I struggle to see straight. I can hear Mama rushing out of the room. My head is killing me, and as I scramble down the steps, I can see that she’s heading for the kitchen, where the knife block is. My bare feet catch against the rugged carpet, and as she reaches for the biggest one, I immediately attempt to pry it from her.

The blade catches against my arm.

I hardly feel it.

Mama screams and screams. She tries to go through the front door, struggling to unlatch the chain, but I grab her back by her arm, slamming it shut with my left bare foot. The cold November air settles in the hallway, and dead leaves have already escaped inside. She gets me again, this time in the shoulder. My blood splatters against the wallpaper. This time, I manage to snatch the knife directly from her. It falls to the floor with a heavy clatter, and I immediately kick it to the side, where it slides near the bottom of the sink.

She starts throwing other items at me, whatever she can find with her hands. I grab her by the shoulders after dodging a vase that smashes against the counter behind me. She bites my hand, and, this time, something hot takes over me. I roughly wrestle her to the ground—she is surprisingly stronger than she appears; and me skipping meals and missing sleep hasn’t helped one bit.

Her yellow teeth sink into my flesh, and she snatches at the ends of my long, disheveled hair, frantically trying to rip it out of my head. I free my locks from her balled fists. She’s then reaching for the knife again, but I yank her backwards, accidentally shoving her against the legs of the slanted kitchen table.

Mama slaps me across the face.

Hard.

The noise echoes across the room like a thunderclap. She screams so loud that I clamp my hand over her mouth as I get her to her feet. Her long nails are digging into my skin. She knocks over a chair with her foot. I get her standing again, but she’s kicking me.

My sweaty fingers reach for the syringe I know will be there from one of the cabinets. She delivers one final blow before I jab the needle deep into the side of her neck while I hold her down. The pure rage in her eyes is all I see before she slips into unconsciousness. Her limbs go limp.

I struggle to catch my breath.

My bruised arms are covered with the red scratches she left upon my flesh, and I lean my head against the bottom of the sink filled with dirty dishes. Blood is dripping down my face, splattering on the grimy kitchen floor. When I touch it with my fingers, they are coated in it. I roll up my uniform sleeve, where I examine my bleeding shoulder. There are a crossroad of other scars that she had left behind, and this one, although a little bit more deeper than normal, would heal fast. I know it will.

From now on, I will be using paper plates.

There’s a thud in the basement, but I don’t react. I simply pick up Mama and carry her up the stairs in my arms, careful to not accidentally bump her head against the wall.

* * * * * * * *

I quietly hum.

The faucet in the bathtub is spewing out warm water. It’s slightly smeared with the blood from my hand when I turn it up to a warm setting. I add plenty of soap, and dip my fingers in the tub to test the temperature. Bubbles always seem to calm her down, and I pour a generous amount, watching the white fluff expand and grow. I want to buy bath salts for her, to help with the scabs she gets on her skin. I saw them for fifty percent off in the Sears catalog, a wonderful present in time for holidays.

It doesn’t take long before the bathroom is filled with the aroma of rosemary, one of Mama’s favorite scents. Steam fogs the mirror. I soon find out that her nightgown is soiled with her own urine and feces, and of course, she has been hiding this from me, although I make sure she’s properly cleaned every night. The stuff has dried onto the back of her legs and upper thighs since she’s been lying in it all day, causing an infection. I rub a pasty medicated cream into those areas to make the swelling go down.

I then start scrubbing, getting her fully coated in the pink rosemary soap. Bubbles rise above.

The sound of trickling water fills the air.

Mama wakes up a few moment later. She is shivering and naked in the thick white suds, her teeth chattering.

“Are you cold?” I softly ask, and I can tell my voice startles her. “Let me make the water warmer.” As I turn the handle, I hum a bit louder. “That’s better, ain’t it? Much better.” I smile. “Your skin is about to match the color of this soap, Mama.”

She flinches as soon as she sees me next to her, my shadow on the wall. Her eyes are darting from one side of the bathroom to the other, but I know she can’t really move. I want her to trust me. I want her to know that I am here. I can tell she’s trying to sit up, but the hot water is lapping near the bottom of her chin. She is all I have left in this world, and I am not ready for her to leave me behind in it. She can’t leave.

“Shhhh,” I murmur, caressing the side of her face with my bloodied hand. “It’s okay, Mama.”

”I want to go outside,” she mumbles.

“We will. As soon as you feel better.”

I turn the faucet off and raise one of her bare arms, scrubbing with the cloth in my hand. The blood is still on my face, and my slashed arm and shoulder are starting to kill me. But I scrub as hard as I can, no matter how much she squirms. Red drops slowly fall into the soapy water. Mama doesn’t move, her knees partially submerged into the suds. She just continues to stare at me I make sure to lather more shampoo onto her head, before massaging it deep into her scalp, which has been inflamed and raw due to her scratching so much she leaves a bloody mess. Her hair is just beginning to grow back. I don’t want her to lose it again.

Carefully, I use my nails to gently rake up the large chunks of dead skin that are on the crown of her head. I can tell that this is extremely relieving for her, although she remains stiff. She has had lice for weeks and wouldn’t let me help her get rid of it. Her fingers grip the edge of the tub, feeling for a weapon that is no longer nearby.

I keep humming. It seems to relax her.

“I remember that song,” Mama slowly says.

A soft smile crosses my face. “Of course you do. You used to sing it to me all the time when I was little,” I whisper, pouring a small container of lukewarm water over her head, rinsing out the shampoo. “How can I forget?”

Mama doesn’t say anything else, but I know what she’s thinking. I help her to her feet, drain the tub, wrap a thick, fuzzy towel around her frail frame. She’s very unsteady, and I support her as I lead her back into the bedroom and help her get dressed. With a paddle brush, I gently remove all of the knots from her sparse hair, surprised that she let me to do so.

She doesn’t put up a fuss as she usually does, and once I have her in wrinkled but clean pajamas I find smushed at the bottom of her drawer, I help her climb into the bed. One thing I’ve noticed about her fits, is that she wears herself out plenty afterwards. She smells like roses. I shake out a bright blue pill from one of the prescription bottles on her dresser and place it into the middle of her palm. She looks at it like she doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Here,” I gently say. “The doctor says you need one each night.” I reach for a water bottle and unscrew the lid. “Go ahead.”

Mama scrunches up her face like she always does, but she finally takes it. I make sure that she opens her mouth and check beneath her mottled tongue to see that has actually swallowed it. The spilled food and shattered plate covers the ground, but I don’t look at it. I don’t have the strength to clean it up.

I’ll do it later.

I hold her thin hand, cradle it between my own fingers. It’s rough now, but I remember when it used to be soft. I hold it close to my face, the smell of roses growing stronger against my nose.

She gives me a confused look. ”What?”

I kiss the bridge of her knuckles.

Mama glances at the mess beside her bed. “Did you drop something? That’ll attract ants.”

I smile at her again. “I’ve been clumsy.”

”What happened to your head?”

”I fell, Mama,” I whisper. “I fell down.”

She slightly yawns and leans her head against the pillow. “You must be careful.” Her eyelids are getting droopy. She’d be knocked out tomorrow, and I won’t have to worry so much when I’m out of the house. She then frowned. “I went to check the mail today, but the door is locked. It’s always locked.”

”We have to earn unlocked doors,” I say.

Mama doesn’t reply. She has already fallen asleep. I turn off the lamp by her nightstand and close her bedroom door, making sure that she won’t be able to open it until I get home. I slip the key back into its hiding place and head to the tiny bathroom in the hallway, turning on the sink. My hands are shaking very much.

There is blood on my uniform.

I will have to go to the laundromat tomorrow, and bring Mama’s dirty things with me as well. Our washing machine stopped working last year. I begin to viciously scrub at my unbuttoned shirt with the bar of soap. I don’t want to look at myself in the mirror, and my breaths grow heavier. I’m surprised to sense moisture already pouring down my cheeks, hot and salty, but I splash my face with cold water until my neck and ears are freezing and my skin is electric. There is still a great deal of blood still coming down from the gaping wound on my forehead.

I see the red imprint of Mama’s hand on my cheek. My hair is dripping wet, and I examine my face for a moment in the mirror. I’ve lost more weight than before. My hipbones and collarbones protrude through my skin. I look like a ghost due to how little sunlight I’ve gotten. Blood travels down my elbow from the gash on my shoulder. I can find a way to stitch up with some needle and thread in the attic.

The thumping in the basement continues.

There is a distinct rattling of chains. I go downstairs, the air cold against my face. I bend down to the floor, and pick up the bloodied knife Mama has dropped in the kitchen. My sweaty fingers are wrapped so tight around the handle that they are white.

Before I descend into the dark basement, I slowly close the door behind me.