My life was over and I was
laughing. At the tender age of thirteen it
was the end. I knew it without a doubt but still
I laughed. The short roller coaster ride that had been my life had
come to a screeching halt when my mother’s best friend had put her
arms around my stiff and rigid shoulders, trying to offer comfort as she
told me my mother was dead.
But that’s not really true.
My pubescent heart had known when I first
heard my mother scream. Not at me but at a God
who let mothers suffer and
die. I cursed him too as I watched them lower
my mother’s powder blue
coffin into dry and arid California soil. But
still I laughed.
I hadn’t laughed three nights
before when I watched my mothers sweat
darkened blonde hair hanging greasy and limp from
the edge of a stretcher
as they loaded her into the ambulance. Or while
she screamed in pain as she
grasped her head with fingers turned to claws, her
laser blue eyes clouded
with pain and fear. No, I hadn’t smiled even
once.
But later at what was supposed
to pass as a get together for the
mourning family, I laughed. Every time uncle
Thomas looked at me through
reddened bulbous eyes I nearly wet myself I laughed
so hard. Feeling
ashamed but unable to control the giggles I had to
excuse myself claiming I
needed to use the restroom.
Catching sight of my rictus smile
in the baroque mirror that hung on
Aunt Annie’s wall I stopped to stare. Feeling
hysteria bubble up through
turgid depths before I began braying like a donkey.
It was truly over and
there was no one who could save me. My reflection
wavered and blurred as
tears filled my eyes.
I felt a presence looming
behind me causing the golden hair on my arms
rise in a salute to fear. I knew who it was
without having to look in the
mirror at his reflection. With pretence at tenderness
my stepfather placed
a heavy calloused hand upon the sharp blade of my
shoulder and whispered in
my ear.
“Why are you laughing?”
He asked in a rough gravelly voice that made
my armpits sweat. “You think it’s funny that
your mother is dead?”
“No,” I giggled as my throat
tightened. “It’s not funny at all.”
The hand that had lain warm against
my shoulder suddenly turned cruel.
Gripping my shoulder with a strength I was all too
familiar with I felt, more than heard the bones in my shoulder begin grinding
together. “Then why
are you laughing little beastie?”
Oh, how I hated that pet
name! That name meant pain. Then suddenly
as if an internal switch had been flipped the laughter
stopped. Blind animal
rage swooped to take its place, filling the dark echoes
of my heart with bright burning flames. Hot and liquid it raced through
leaden feet and hands with mercurial swiftness I was still shaking and
the grin remained upon my face but it was that of a corpse
The cunning deep-set eyes
that had been avidly watching my reaction
widened somewhat in surprise when I began to growl.
Eight years of fear
melted beneath molten anger, I could feel the heat
of it burning in my face.
Unwilling or perhaps unable
to relinquish the control he had established by my fifth birthday he squeezed
a little harder. “I have plans
for you beastie,” he muttered through teeth clenched
with effort. You will
stay here, with me. Clean the house and look
after me.” Grinning with the
smile of a conqueror he continued. “You will
take your mother’s place.”
And I knew in the deepest
recesses of my being what he meant and my
knees nearly buckled with fear. But the rage,
that lovely searing anger
kept me standing.
Unthinking I blurted
out the truth. “I’ll kill you. I’ll wait till your sleeping
and slit your throat. Or maybe I’ll wait awhile and poison your food.
Or maybe I’ll find a way to make you miserable and afraid then I’ll kill
you.” Trembling from my own temerity I was still undeniably triumphant
as I poked my finger into his broad chest. “Don’t think I won’t.”
Releasing his grip
upon my shoulder he stepped back, and looked at me
with eyes unfettered and greasy with something close
to fear as waggled one
finger in my direction. “You are an evil stain
upon the world. A devil
dressed as a child.” Shuddering slightly he
stepped back bumping into the
large bulk of Uncle Thomas. Quite suddenly he
became my favorite uncle.
With ham sized fists balled
into mallets of rage Uncle Thomas spoke in
a growling whisper through tight white lips.
“If I ever hear you speak to
her again I’ll kill you myself. I’ve had my
suspicions, we all have,” he waved towards the dining room currently housing
the gathered mourners, “but this proves it. Now get out of my house
before I end up in jail.”
Slack jawed and staggering
with surprise he knocked over a chair in
his haste to reach the door. “You haven’t heard
the last of me,” he threatened.
“She’s mine, and I’ll be back for her.”
“Oh I don’t think so,” Uncle
Thomas growled as he advanced towards the
door. “Now leave before I call the cops.”
As the door slammed
and shut out the sight of my stepfather’s burning
gaze, the anger that had kept my knees locked evaporated.
Leaning into the
wall for support I looked into the kind face of an
uncle who had perhaps
just saved my life.
Placing one beefy arm around
my damaged shoulder he led me to the
couch. “Come here sweetie, we have plans to
make.”
I guess it wasn’t over after
all. This time my smile was genuine.