Heritage

short story. a mother passes on her demons to her son

I should be safe now. Pressed against the deepest corner of my closet, with only the light from my room to crawl under the door and touch my feet. I pull my legs back, into the darkness, and listen for you.

You are outside, somewhere. Outside this door. In my bedroom. Or in the hallway. Or back on the other side of the house, behind you own closed door. I wonder if the light tries to touch your feet too.

I am little, and you are big.

Sometimes, when you are angry, you look even bigger.

And I feel even smaller.

Sometimes, when I have had an accident, and you have had it up to here, when I can see your chest moving in and out because I am watching you so hard that I cannot hear what you are saying anymore, when I have to stumble backwards, away from your open hands as they circle above me like crows, then you are bigger than anything I have ever seen. And I am so small that I think I may have disappeared entirely.

Sometimes, I call on him for help. For when I am scared.

He is a little scary too, except that he is mine, so he does not scare me.

He does not have a name, but he comes when I call. He is black and whirls around very fast. He looks like a ball of string that has come unwound, or my scribbles on paper. I can draw him for you. He looks like this:

****

He is my super scary friend, and he is bigger than you. And meaner. And more powerful too. And he does not have to listen to you, or do anything you say, because you are not his mother, and he is not your son, and he is not afraid of anything.

I have called him here. He punches the closed door and screams that he hates you. He grows as big as all of this closet. I wonder if the door will break open or if I will be crushed first.

He spins wildly into my room, tearing at the walls and ripping down my pictures. I follow behind him, crouching so that I do not get hit by his rage. He slams into the hallway and dares you to come out and fight. “I am strong!” he yells at you, “You are not the boss of me!” he threatens. I feel like I am pulled up behind him, tied up in his thin, sharp, dangerous black strings. I feel as strong as he is, and I too dare you to come and fight, though I use his voice.

But you do not answer our taunts. Your door is closed. The house has no sounds except for him.

He hopes that you are crying, and settles into a steady spin outside of your door. He tells me stories about his strength. He brags that he has protected many other boys. That he has been a grizzly bear, and a thunderstorm, and a werewolf too. That he has crouched hidden for days beside a single forest path waiting on his prey, and that he does not get tired, or get wet from the rain, or forgive anyone for anything. Ever. He tells me to picture the biggest tree I can imagine, and that he can pull that tree, roots and all, from the earth and throw it into the sun. He tells me that his strength is mine too. If I want it. He tells me that he will stay here outside of your door, and that I should go to sleep.

“Don’t hurt my Mom,” I ask him.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he growls.

I hope that you are not crying. I hope that Bridget is sleeping.

I put my hand inside of his spinning, and hold it there until he slows, like dragging my palms whap whap whap against the browned steel poles of our red steel merry-go-round. “Please,” I ask him. And then he is gone.

Sometimes, when you are sad and I am quiet, I can see your own super scary friend. She is white and silent and covers us all like heavy snow, quieting everything.

I knock on your door, and whisper, “Mom?” but you do not answer, and I do not whisper again. I leave my stuffed moose outside your room, a friend for when you feel better. I straighten his striped tie and green suit and ask him to look after you. Maybe a stuffed friend can keep you safe, without scaring me too.

In the kitchen I eat my lunch alone. Peanut butter and banana on toast. A glass of milk in our orange tumblers. Our kitchen lights flicker as the rain falls outside. I count the seconds between lightning and thunder and fear the storm is moving closer. The dogs are resting on their mats, and the washing machine is humming a grumbling song. We all count the seconds between the noises from upstairs. A door creaking and then slammed shut. A thump and then dragging. My baby sister is crying.

The dogs move together to the back door and whine. They prefer the storm outside to the one in our house. I pull the curtains back to see if my super scary friend is waiting hunched in the trees, or if he too has abandoned me.

“I’m right here,” he boasts as he hurls my lunch plate and cup to the floor. Not even for the treat of spilled milk will the dogs leave the safety of the back door.

He asks me if you have hurt the baby. I tell him I don’t know. He asks me if I am going to cry like a baby too or if I am going to do something. I tell him I don’t know. He jumps up on the breakfast table and spins. I can hear the howl of his wolf beneath his angry din.

We climb the stairs to your room, he leaping two steps at a time, launching himself against the walls and tearing plaster and paint with each collision. I am dragged up behind him, like a kite in a tornado. I start to cry as we cross the top stair and I feel his heat turn back into me. I have to close my eyes and hold my hands over my ears, but the howling only gets louder.

When I open my eyes I am sitting in the branches of my friend’s black tree, crouched above the forest path, but the path is the hallway, and you are below.

I hate you.

I flex my hands and feel the claws grow from the tips of my fingers. I feel new fangs press against the inside of my mouth, and I can taste my own blood. I will drop upon you and tear you apart. I spin faster too.

Bridget cries, and the storms stop.

You turn beneath us, and she is in your arms.

Your eyes are red. Bridget is squeezing Mr. Moose. “She won’t sleep,” you say.

I drop from the tree and hold your leg. I close my eyes and wish my friend was not here. “I hate you,” I say, and sit down. “I hate you,” I say, and you pull me close. Bridget pushes my moose into my cheek. “I hate you,” I say, and you answer, “So do I.”

***

Sitting in my closet, the door closed, but the dogs now sharing my space. I listen for the thunder, and count, one, two, three, four…

***

I hold on to Bridgie as tightly as I can, trying to breathe in the same easy, hot breaths she looses against my neck. Trying to push away the sadness and hoping that my super scary friend will let me down to see you, my son.

I can see your bedroom door far below us. We huddle together in my friend’s tree house, higher than the tallest homes, pushed through the ceiling and the roof and the night sky, and I strain to keep you in my sight.

She, my friend, has no name, but comes when I call her. She is scary, but because she is mine she does not scare me. She has come since before I was your mother, since I was a little girl. She built this tree house, and the clouds around it, and the quilt of silence she throws over you all.