A Life in the Making

Before the Badge

An excerpt from A Life in the Making

I hear my mom’s voice calling me, and she sounds upset, like she’s crying. I have school tomorrow, and was almost asleep. But now I stumble up the burnt orange carpeted stairs, past all the junk lining them, and she asks me to come sit with her. I half lie down to her right, propping myself up on my elbow. The room is dark except for the bedside lamp that washes her face in harsh light. I notice the cotton coming loose from the 18” replica bale of it that doubles as her nightstand. The burlap sack surrounding the bale is stamped as being from Georgia, just like my mom. I ask her what is wrong and she covers her face, tears streaming down her cheeks. I look down at my hands that have reached for the crochet afghan there. I run my hands across the bumpy texture, noticing the spacing of the holes. The red, yellow, and brown yarn is so familiar. It looks like the same yarn my grandma taught me to crochet with.

Mom lets out a deep sigh, followed by a deep drink of her Jim Beam on the rocks. It has not been a good night for my mother. Snotted on tissues are in a heap beside her, and on her lap. Once she can get some words out, she tells me that my father hasn’t sent the child support checks this month. She then lists off all the bills that will go unpaid without those checks. I am eleven and do not have the structural awareness of what this all means. She does rant on about money a lot. We always have food, and lights, and wood for the stove to keep us warm. I do not know what she wants me to say, so I nod and continue inspecting the afghan.

Then she talks about things that happened before the divorce when I was five. I don’t have a whole lot of memories from that time. She speaks about abuse, and being afraid, and going to the hospital, and telling the police she can’t press charges because then he might kill her. My stomach feels like its full of worms and my chest feels like its shaking, like I’m cold, but I don’t think I am. The afghan feels rough and poky against my hands now. I look out her bedroom window that is framed in raw wood and expands to wrap around the entire slope of this attic room. I used to feel comfortable in this room, and come here to sleep when I was sick. Now I stare at the moon out her window and feel frozen. Like my body may not ever move again. I can hear my mom crying and blowing her nose still. Occasionally I hear the ice slosh around in her glass. I want to comfort her, but I don’t know how. Can I go to bed now, I wonder?

Finally, when I think I can get up, I tell my mom I have school tomorrow. I should probably go to bed. She says to me “When your dad picks you and John up this weekend, can you please, please, ask him for the child support checks? If I ask him, he may just spit in my face” On my way across the carpet toward the stairs I notice that the collection of turds from our three pound chihuahua, Spud, has gotten out of hand. I make a mental note to pick them up after school tomorrow. I mumble some halfhearted reply, and grip the handrail as I slowly walk down the stairs. On stair six, the smell of the turds hits me in the face.

Sweet, dear child, if I could look into your eyes, these are the words I would say. This is not your pain, and these are not your problems.