mother

My mother told me never to run barefoot – “you only get one set of those” she’d say waving a wooden spoon through the sweet-smelling kitchen air. I always came home with scrapes that ran up and down my body from whatever adventure I had taken that day. Little bunnies teased me from the bushes, forcing me to show them who’s boss. The trees at the park persuaded me to come and play before I could heed my mother’s warnings.

For the first time, I didn’t let the trees draw me in. The slight breeze pushing my feet to keep going further made the trees dance to the music that was quickly banished by the sound of my heart thudding through my chest. The rustling leaves calling out at the sidewalk only distracted me for a second until I noticed the hard leather straps digging into my feet. I feel the heel wobbling with each slam on the pavement. They were my mother’s Christmas bonus – she’ll be disappointed.

My mother told me I couldn’t wear pants to my first communion – “pants are not for young girls who are about to become women” she scolded as the tailor put pin after pin in the hem of the white cotton-ball I was being forced to wear. I looked around the store at all the other little girls in my grade at church. Our mothers wanted us to do everything together. Sophia was dancing around in a dress that rose up to reveal her pink bunny underwear when her father spun her around. Natalie was throwing a tantrum while her mother sat in dismay: they left with two dresses that day, one for the church, and one for the dinner celebration. Tommy shouted from across the store while his father forced him into a new pair of dress shoes. His mother sat with mine. I took turns scowling at my mother, then at the tailor with my arms crossed for the whole appointment. My mother was so embarrassed she didn’t talk to me until bedtime.

I pumped my arms with as much force as I could muster but that didn’t help: the peach chiffon still wrapped around my ankles and grabbed the bottom of my toes. I clawed at the fabric, trying to bunch it up around my waist so I could hold onto the bundle of fabric that had turned a sickly brown color riddled with holes from dragging on the ground. My mother was going to be devastated if the seamstress can’t fix it.

My mother gave me a Ken doll for my eighth birthday – “now your dolls have a man to play with.” The girls didn’t want to play with Ken, I told her. They have fun living in the dream house by themselves, I told her. Ken can sleep in the car.

“Ken can’t live in the car honey, he’s supposed to be with Barbie.”

I don’t remember when, but I tripped somewhere between the big oak trees and the neighborhood without street lights. Crimson stained the under layer of peach chiffon that was suck to the sweat on my legs. Paranoia sat on my shoulder with bated breath. I keep my gaze down and out. No looking back. I knew he was still there.

My mother took Tommy and I on dates – “you need to make yourself more available.” Each month I didn’t bring home a boyfriend, she took me on a date with Tommy – she approved of him. He could teach me a thing or two, she told me. The other girls at school had crushes on him – he got around more than his mother liked. “You two make an excellent pair” she called to us from the front seat of her Corolla on the way to one of our dates. Tommy schmoozed my mother every time she dropped us off, just before he pulled me into the theater by the wrist. He always chose a scary movie. I couldn’t eat any snacks. Things get a little fuzzy after that.

My mother taught me what it would take to be a good wife – “one day you might be cleaning the house for Tommy.” All the floors sparkled. It took all day. I had a lot of bruises. I think I fell.

Tommy doesn’t allow me to see Natalie or Sophia anymore – “you need to stay at home so I know you’re not sneaking around.” He held my hands down. I deserved it.

“You shouldn’t talk back to a man, be polite!” My voice got lost in my throat.

Is this what you wanted?