I squeeze my eyes shut when she says my name. It’s been a long time since I heard her call me that. The memories of long before she met my stepfather and our lives became tangled in chaos and death. The times when she would read stories to me about King David, a shepherd boy and musician who became a powerful warrior, conquering the enemies and uniting tribes, but also a man who committed significant sins.
Images of me curled up in my bed with her sitting on the edge, our Bible open on her lap, rereading the story of David, convincing me that one day I could be like him. Faithful, a warrior, a servant to the religion she clung to in the wake of my father’s untimely death.
Little does she know that, like David, I’ve sinned. I remember the tales of him killing 200 men. The shocking horror I felt as a small boy learning that David cut off the foreskins of his enemies to present to his potential father-in-law. My mother would certainly not be pleased to know that while I’m no faithful servant to god, I ended up having a lot in common with David. I, too, have killed and removed skin, more like the entire genitals of my enemies, but not to offer up as a bride-price. My sins are committed in the name of the only god I serve. Revenge.
I reopen the book and continue reading, enjoying the smile on her face. Usually, she looks at me in confusion, in horror. Most days, there is zero recognition on her face that her son visits her every week.
But today is a good day for her. Despite her early onset of Dementia, she has moments of lucidity, and memories of her past bubble out of her mouth. Moments where no time has passed. Her daughter is still an innocent 12-year-old. My father is still alive. We still attend church, dressed in our finest. She recognized me immediately when I arrived, smiling at me, asking how my day at school was. To her, I’m still in high school, on the cusp of manhood, desperate to save money to find a way for us to leave the man who held us hostage.
Her Dementia started not long after Mikey was killed. The memory loss made simple tasks harder for her. She couldn’t remember her shifts. She left the stove on multiple times, causing small fires in our minuscule kitchen. Eventually, she lost her job and seemed to withdraw into herself. But the worst was when she started leaving the house, unable to find her wayhome, wandering our neighborhood until a neighbor or one of the gang members found her. It was Ivory who called me the day she drove into a tree. Called me crying that our mother was in the hospital. I paid people to take care of her, but soon she became too aggressive, and I had to put her in a home. My options were limited to facilities. Many lacked the necessary equipment to address her needs.
I set the Bible back on the bedside table, next to her glasses. A rush of nostalgia hits me. They are similar to the ones she always wore when I was growing up. I look around, at peace that she’s here. Clean and well-maintained by experts who ensure she’s safe.
I sit on her bed and pick up the stuffed animal. A horse called Tubby because of its rotund tummy. It belonged to Ivory. I won it for her at a local carnival when she was only four years old. We both looked forward to the carnival that came to our neighborhood of Washington Park every fall, which would park in the abandoned parking lot of a closed-down strip mall. It was run by the local church. The rides were garbage, old and rusted, but the games and food were decent. Every fall, I took Ivory until the fall of her 13th birthday, when I tried to get her to leave her room. She refused, staying locked away. I can still hear her broken voice, whispering.“I’m not a kid anymore, Stef.”
I turn the stuffed toy in my hands. Ivory used to play with it all the time as a child. I touch the damage. One of its yellow plastic eyes is missing. Some of the stuffing in one leg is long gone. Lifting it, I wonder if I can catch the smell of my sister. The Bath and Body Works spray and lotion she begged me to buy every time we went to the mall. It’s ridiculous to think it would still smell like my 12-year-old sister. After her assault, she rarely played with it.
The night she screamed angry words to my mother and me, Come back, vicious in their clarity. We’d been eating dinner.My stepfather had been gone for weeks. Unbeknownst to my mother, he hadn’t abandoned her like she thought. He was rotting in a deep grave. His head and hands burned.
It was my mother who found Tubby abandoned in the garbage. When she asked Ivory about it, Ivory angrily told her that stuffed animals were for babies, that it was time to grow up.
The slam of her bedroom door in my mind was like it was yesterday.
“What happened?”
My mother turned to me, and I refused to look her in the eye. “Nothing. She doesn’t want the toy anymore. It’s not a big deal.”
“No. It’s something else. Tell me, Stefan. I know something happened. Where is Mikey?”
“Gone,” I grunt. Gone like the piece of garbage that he is, I whisper to myself.
“What do you mean, gone?” Her body started to shake, and she rubbed her hands.
“I mean he’s never coming back!” I shout, standing. “I made sure of it.”
“Did you hurt him, Stefan?”
I continue to eat my spaghetti, not giving her an answer.
“Stefan? Tell me.”
“I didn’t do anything he didn’t have coming.”
“Oh my god. Did he hurt Ivory?”
I refused to answer her then and gripped my fork harder, my 17-year-old body vibrating with rage and guilt. Yes, Mikey hurt her. He raped her, repeatedly. He destroyed her. He made a twelve-year-old wait in terror that her period would come, that she wouldn’t be pregnant by her mother’s husband. When Ivory finally told me she wasn’t pregnant, I held her as she cried in relief. The memory of me praying that he didn’t give her some awful STD still haunts me. My mind goes back to watching myoverworked and tired mother, realizing that her daughter had been hurt by the man she had married.
“Is she okay?”
I wanted to comfort her, but there was anger in me, too. Disgust at her for her choices.
Finally, I looked at my mother and stood up, feeling decades older than a teenager. “No, mom. She’s not, and she probably never will be again.” I walked out, leaving her slumped in her chair, hugging Ivory’s stuffed animal.
“Ivory used to love this thing,” I say absently, pushing the terrible memories of the day my mother finally accepted the monster she inadvertently brought into our lives. I run my rough palms along the matted fur, my calloused, weathered skin catching on the fibers. I wonder if my mother sleeps with it at night.
“What are you doing!”
The shout has me looking up at my mother. Her face is no longer serene, mottled red in rage. She moves back to the wall, cowering when I step forward, holding out my hand.
