I wanted a tub bath. I wanted a tub bath more than I wanted anything else. I hadn’t had one in ages. I was dying to slide into warm water up to my eyeballs and stay there for eons, until I shriveled up like a Fruit Loop stuck to the bottom of the bowl. Yes, please. And bubbles, thank you very much.
It wasn’t allowed right away. For a few days I had to be content with water from a basin and a warm rag, which felt absolutely splendid on my thirsty legs but which only heightened my desire to immerse myself in a tub. I begged and pleaded for a “real” bath. The first thing I asked every nurse who walked in was, “Can I have a real bath?” After breakfast, after lunch, after dinner: “Can I have a real bath now?” Finally, sick to death of hearing me beg, my mother offered to give me a bath herself. Someone relented.
There were no bubbles, but the water was every bit as glorious as I had imagined it. I was absolutely delighted by the satiny softness of it, by the bottom of the tub against my skin and the soap that smelled so sharp and clean. I just could not hold still: I splashed and squirmed and wriggled like a puppy in a puddle and got everything wet.
My mother did not share my enthusiasm. She did not want to be wet. She did not want to be bathing me; that much showed on her face, pinched and sour. She probably didn’t want to be facing weeks in a hospital sleeping on a cot next to my bed, continuously woken by nurses coming to top up pain meds and unkink intravenous lines. I didn’t either. Less than a week in, and I was already sick of it – I couldn’t sleep on my side the way I liked because the IV was in the wrong hand; I had brought a doll that wasn’t soft enough to snuggle with, and its little plastic fingers jabbed me in the ribs every night; the incessant squeak of the nurses’ shoes made me want to gnash my teeth in frustration. But I was able to forget that for the length of a bath, so why couldn’t my mother? I wanted to have a little fun. I wanted to play. The florescent lights and the smell of antiseptic were making me antsy, restless. Cheeky. Bold.
I splashed her. Just a little, up onto a t-shirt that was already plenty wet. I did it on purpose. I was only trying to draw her into a game, get her to crack a smile. She was putting a damper on my glorious bath, simpering and snapping like she’d never felt a little water before. Didn’t she know that water felt great? I was in high spirits. I wanted someone to share my happiness with! Come on, Mommy! Let’s be silly!
I should’ve known better. My mother’s face darkened like a thundercloud. She started scrubbing me hard with the rough rag, stinging my tender skin. She handled me roughly; my head bumped the corner of the tub and I slid down in the water at an odd angle.
“Ow! Stop! That hurts!”
My good spirits vanished, whooshing out of the room and slamming the door behind them. Anger and spite gathered over my head.
My mother twisted her face, mocked me: “Ow, stop! That hurts!” She made her voice high and nasally. She shoved me into a sitting position again. I glared at her, willing daggers to appear out of thin air and stab her straight in the eyes. She was stupid and mean. I only wanted to play. I told her as much:
“You’re mean. We never have any fun anymore.”
I crossed my arms defiantly. There was an interminable silence in the aftermath of my accusation, during which my mother sneered at me in a way that made my bravado begin to waver: her incredulous expression, her plotting expression, with her lip curled up to show one of her eye teeth and her entire face frozen into a mask of cold, haughty, better-than-you-ness. The first time I saw Dr. Seuss’s How the Grinch Stole Christmas, (the cartoon, not the movie) it hit me with a bang that my mother’s sneer was just like the Grinch’s. I was impressed. Dr. Seuss had surely met her.
When she spoke, her voice was so low it was almost like she was whispering to herself. She said: “I, for one, have never had fun. Darling.” Then she soaped up the rag and fell to scrubbing hard again, squarely between my legs. It burned and stung. I cried, “No! I can do that myself!” She snarled how I’d never in my life get myself clean enough and kept scrubbing till she was satisfied.
My wonderful bath was thoroughly ruined. I wanted to cry, but I was too angry. I smoldered like banked coals instead. Why did stupid, meanie Mom have to screw up everything nice? It wasn’t fair. I refused to speak to her for hours after that. I did absolutely nothing to help her dress me and put me back in bed. I held still as a stone and kept turning my head so I wouldn’t have to look at her perpetually sour face. For the first time, I felt myself starting to hate her.
No comments:
Post a Comment