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My frown deepens. “I vaguely remember that.”
The pieces slowly come together.
I used to call Uncle Reginald a superhero because the monsters disappeared when he came along.
In my small mind, I used to categorise Ma’s manic episodes as monsters. She wore white, hugged me to death, and took me to the lake. When she was white Ma, she never smiled and always seemed out of this world.
She was a monster.
However, when Uncle Reg came along, she wore her red dresses and put on red lipstick and makeup. She was stunning. She smiled more and had so much energy it baffled me sometimes.
She took me outside and played with me. She read me stories, laughed, and joked.
She was my ma.
My eyes widen and my heart nearly hits the grass.
Does that mean Ma only became cheerful when Uncle Reg brought her a boy from the streets?
“What did she do to them?” My voice is so haunting, it scares the shit out of me.
“Hug them and tell them she’s glad her Eli was home.” He sighs. “She never hurt them, so I allowed her to keep that habit.”
“You allowed her?” I squeak.
“They came for lunch and stayed with her for a few hours. When the day was over, they took money and clothes and left. It was a win-win. The boys had a meal and shelter for the day and your mother was happy.”
?
?Wouldn’t it have been better if you took her to a shrink?”
“I did. I even left her in a psychiatric hospital under their recommendations, but she got worse and started cutting herself. I had to bring her back. At the time, I was still grieving Eli. I couldn’t lose Abby, too.”
Abby.
He still calls her that even after all this time.
I mull his words over, but I can’t form clear thoughts. For a moment, Dad and I watch the distance, the freezing wind and the darkening clouds.
Those grey, grey clouds.
Screw you, clouds. Why do you have to add to my misery?
“Ma hurt them at some point, didn’t she?” My voice is barely audible. “Aiden was tortured, Dad.”
“At first, she only had lunches with them and talked to them about their day. Those street urchins loved her. Abby was kind and patient and had a knack in dealing with children.”
“What changed?”
He runs a hand over his face and wipes his forefingers over his brows. “I don’t know. She escalated, I think.”
“Escalated?”
“One day, I came home and found her sitting in the bedroom. She was singing and brushing her hair with blood all over her hands. I ran straight to your room, scared she did something to you. Thankfully, you were sleeping safely.”
“W-What happened?”
His jaw clenches and I recognise the gesture as anger. Dad doesn’t show his emotions often, and I probably got my blank façade from him. “I found two children in the basement. They were on the verge of famine and their knees were scraped and cut horizontally. It was horrific.”
