I was still sick on Christmas. The itch had subsided considerably, but it was deemed inappropriate for me to go to my great-aunt’s house, where we usually celebrated the holiday, and be around other, older people who had not had the chickenpox as children. I was upset about this at first: I really, really wanted to go to Aunt Jo’s house. It was fun there. I was even more upset when my parents decided to fight about whose job it was to stay home with me: my mother said she spent all her time taking care of kids and she should get to go; my father said he spent all his time working and he should get to go. Except they didn’t say it, really. More like they bellowed it at each other repeatedly until my father got fed up and left, taking Matthew with him.
I was sitting in the recliner in the living room when the door slammed. I froze. I didn’t know what to do. When my mother threw herself down on the couch and began to cry, I got extra-special confused. My mother never cried. She screamed and hit, but she never cried. Equal parts of fear and compassion warred within me: I was scared of her, but I still loved her, and anyway I have never been able to resist comforting a crying person. I’m a companion crier: if I see you cry, chances are I’ll cry right along with you.
I approached her haltingly. “Don’t be sad, Mommy. It’s okay.” I reached out and began to stroke her hair. She recoiled at my touch, flinging me away as if I had suddenly become poisonous. I backed away quickly. She glared at me.
“You,” she spat. “Get out of my sight!” She addressed me with hatred. I didn’t understand – I didn’t understand that she was young and lonely and that I was a burden and the embodiment of her shame and humiliation. That didn’t occur to me till some years later. I was seven, and I was confused: what had I done?
“I was only trying to help!” I started to sob. My feelings were hurt.
“I don’t want your help! Go away! Now!” She lunged for me. I turned and beat a path out of there as fast as I could.
In my bedroom, I closed the door and leaned against it, listening. My mother cried and cried. She cursed. She blew her nose. She cried some more. Then it was silent.
I dared not move for a good while. In that state, she was especially volatile: if she heard me, she might very well come looking for me and beat me brainless out of spite. The minutes ticked by. It was so quiet, I could hear the air humming. When it occurred to me that she had most likely fallen asleep, I finally moved away from the door and began to play.
At first, I moved so carefully I barely made a sound. I dressed my dolls between bouts of looking over my shoulder to make sure the door remained shut. It did. After a bit, I began to talk quietly to them. I watched the door. It stayed shut. Emboldened, I started to play with the new toy I had gotten that morning: a play set that was a doll cradle with a mobile which, when lifted off, showed a bathtub, which in turn lifted off and became a changing table. There were doors beneath it for storing things in. I stacked and re-stacked the pieces. I opened and shut the doors. I gave my dolls a bath and put them to bed and sang to them.
After a little while, I got lonesome in the otherwise-quiet house. I longed to use the other present I had gotten that morning -- a little brown cassette player with two tapes – but I had enough caution to still be afraid. What if it was too loud and Mommy woke up and got mad? Then I had a flash of courage and inspiration. Nervously, but with purpose, I tiptoed across the room and pressed home the lock on the doorknob: click. Mad mommies cannot get through locked doors, I said to myself. Not without a lot of trying, anyway.
I inspected the tape player. I figured out how to work the buttons and the knob for the volume and how to put a tape in. Then I hushed the voice inside my head screaming, You’re being bad! You’ll get in trouble! and pressed Play.
I jumped when the music came out of the speakers. I twisted the volume down so low I could barely hear it and stood there trembling, listening for angry-mother steps. Nothing. I edged the volume up a little more. A little more. A little more again. Still no angry mother. I relaxed and went back to playing.
It was a sunny day. Warm, golden light came in through the window and made patches on the walls and the floor. I stood in them with my arms held out, bathing myself in the glow. I studied my hands under that light, turning them this way and that to watch the shadows of tree branches move across my skin. I studied the rim of lace on the sleeves of my little red house coat. I wriggled my toes in my socks. On that Christmas, after the fear left, the tiniest little thing felt glorious. I don’t know why, but I was happy. I was so simply happy. I felt hopeful, even peaceful. Somehow, I forgot about my mother. She didn’t bother me. She let me be, even when I rewound the Alvin and the Chipmunks tape for like the hundredth time so I could hear about Theodore wanting a hula hoop. Even when I turned it up as loud as it would go and started to sing along. Even when I started dancing in circles and lost my balance and fell to the floor, and laid there in a tangle of limbs and un-brushed hair giggling at the glory of being in my pajamas in the middle of the afternoon. I had the chickenpox, and I hadn’t had anything to eat for hours, and the next day would probably see me gagged and bound and screaming like so many days so often did, but I forgot about all of that. It was Christmas. I was a little girl. I sang and laughed and danced, and there was nothing wrong.
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