The years that spanned my life from the fourth through the fifth grade in school are jumbled in my mind. I remember spending a portion of the fourth grade in Pearl, Mississippi. My mom moved us to a little house in a quaint neighborhood with her new boyfriend, Austin. Austin had the stature of a bear. He wore stained clothing and smelled of alcohol and stale sweat. He had a daughter that we saw on occasion. Other than a few brief encounters when crossing paths in the hallway, we never saw much of each other. I remember being so amazed by living in a place where I could get ice cream from the ice cream truck and was allowed to paint my room purple. Other than that, I only remember my return from the ice cream truck at the road’s end one day to find my mom in a crumpled heap on the floor of our living room. Her car was gone from the driveway, so her boyfriend must have made a hasty departure following whatever had ensued between the two of them. When she slowly brought her eyes up to meet mine, I could see the swelling in her cheek and cut on her eyebrow beneath the smeared mascara and flowing tears. She snapped at me to go to my room. I could hear her stifled sobs as I closed my door behind me. I didn’t quite understand then what had happened.
These occurrences became more and more frequent. I would arrive home from the bright halls of my new school to find my mother with fresh bruising to accompany her yellowing marks. I’d learned by this point to avoid any confrontation by heading straight for my nearest chore. My mom could be a frightening woman when angered. I never witnessed any of these altercations between Austin and my mom. He was always gone by the time I arrived. This relationship only lasted a few months. We were packing our belongings in the same boxes we had yet to discard and on our way to the next place before long.
We made our newest home in a tiny house right on Highway 589 near Oak Grove, MS. My brother and I were enrolled once again in our previous school at Oak Grove. Friendships resumed as if we’d never left. I was pleasantly surprised to find I lived right down the road from a classmate of mine. My brother and I would ride our bikes to her house and spend our free time there. It was easier to do this than face the stranger our mother was becoming.
We met Jason, Mom’s shortest-lived relationship, soon after moving back to Oak Grove. He was in the military and had a pleasant, clean appearance. His haircut and clean-shaven face along with kind eyes made him a pleasant change from the previous man with whom we were forced to reside. He stayed with us for a short while. Jason and my mom, however, had differing personalities that made living together difficult. My mother’s explosive temper became too much for Jason to handle. He chose to leave in the quiet of the night, while my mother slept. I only know this because I woke to my mother shouting profanities into her phone. “Answer your goddamn phone! What the fuck are you thinking? If you don’t call me back, I’m fucking done. Don’t bother coming back,” my mom screeched into the phone. It was obvious from the absence of his belongings that he had already decided against returning.
It was the lull between relationships that I loved the most. Mom would eventually waken from the stupor of her loneliness to realize she had children whom she loved with every fiber of her being. She would make us breakfast, laugh, and sing terribly to Shania Twain in our own private concerts. She and I would take turns playing with and styling each other’s hair. She would let me clamber up into her bed to snuggle while watching Harry Potter. Eventually, though, she would find someone else to fill the hole in her heart. Chat rooms provided ample opportunities for virtual flirtations to evolve into physical meetings.
She was starry eyed and entranced by the words John wrote to her through one of these chat rooms. He was able to say all the right things to convince my mom he was her fairy tale prince. His bad boy charm and dark hair and eyes would cause her heart to stutter. She told me all these things as she described him to my 10-year-old self. She would dreamily tell me how we were going to be a wonderful family. I only remember thinking to myself, we’re already perfect. When Mom introduced John to us, he was able to charm his way into our hearts as well. He was funny and had horses. That was all it took for me. I had never ridden a horse, and all my books involved knights and princes on horseback. Their happy bubble lasted quite some time before popped by reality. We moved to a place in Alcorn County, MS. The house was two stories and painted red. I can still feel the excitement my brother and I shared. We dashed up the carpeted stairs to ride back down on a flattened cardboard box. We would crash into the door at the bottom before running back to the top to do it all over again.
We lived in this home when we lost Emma and when Hurricane Katrina tore through Southern Mississippi and neighboring states in 2005. Everything seemed relatively normal. I vividly remember the smell of what I thought was a skunk. I asked my mother one day what the smell was, and she explained that the plumbing in the old house was messed up. I didn’t realize until my own encounter with weed later in life that she’d been lying to me. Mom and John would sometimes disappear for long periods of time ranging from just one night to days at a time. My brother and I had been taught a great deal of independence in our early years. I knew how to cook and clean as well as a 10-year-old could. I loved making “nachos” the most. I would layer tortilla chips on a cookie sheet and sprinkle a generous amount of shredded cheese on them to melt in the oven. This was the meal I chose to make most often, as the grocery options were generally limited. Sometimes we ran out of viable options before Mom and John would return.
Mom and John’s relationship became a bit rocky during this time in the red house. My brother and I were ordered to play outside as screaming and crashing would sound from the interior. Our trampoline provided adequate distraction from the chaos that raged in our living room. The slamming of the front door followed by the sound of a car’s engine signaled the end to the festivities. My brother and I would wait at least a few minutes longer before reentering the home. We always hoped Mom would have already isolated herself to her room by the time we went inside.
The cause for our next move is unclear. All I can recall is the groans that ensued when my brother and I were told to pack our things for yet another relocation. We were both exhausted by the seemingly endless school changes. We’d already been to three different schools over the previous year. Every school varied in their curriculum and teaching methods. While I was able to manage well enough, my brother, who has always struggled academically, gradually fell behind. When we turned from a highway in Iuka, Mississippi onto the rocky driveway, I laid eyes on this new “home” and gasped with shock. The trailer was discolored and looked patched together. The yard was littered with mounds of garbage and broken things. We carefully held on to the splintering two by four that paralleled the rotting steps to the entrance. My brother and I followed meekly behind my mom as she strode through the place, stepping carefully to avoid a small crater in the living room floor. The interior mirrored its outside appearance. My senses were assaulted with smells of stale, moldy air while my eyes struggled to take in the filthy rooms we reluctantly explored. I let out a hysterical giggle. By the time I reached the bathroom to find a bathtub that was apparently being used as a toilet by stray felines, I was convinced it was an elaborate prank. I was prepared for my mom to begin cackling with glee as she realized she’d successfully played her trick. I turned find my mom waiting expectantly behind me in the hallway. She shood me out of the trailer and ordered me to continue unloading our boxes from the bed of the pick-up truck. I mumbled “yes, ma’am” dejectedly as I hung my head and rushed to do as I was told. Defiance would only worsen the already miserable situation I’d found myself in. My brother was already tearfully carrying his box to his new “room” beside mine. He’d made the mistake of expressing his disgust at our new living arrangements in front of John. His threats of a belt to the behind and worse served to cow my brother into submission.
Once we’d unloaded all our things and set them outside the front door, my mom ordered us to begin cleaning and unpacking. She said she would be back to inspect our work before we knew it. We both knew she meant it. We’d learned our lessons early on in life with our rooms. My mom expected our rooms to be “mommy clean.” If she inspected our rooms to find that we’d fallen short of this expectation, we risked facing a fit of rage that ended in everything being strewn to the floor. Mom preferred a belt or switch, but she would use anything at hand to punish our disobedience. While my brother rarely experienced this due to his neat habits, I was forever facing Mom’s wrath with my messy room. As I hurried to begin the impossible task set before me, I tousled my brother’s hair in encouragement. We’d gotten through so much together before. This would be no different.
Hours later, I sat on the tattered couch with a huff, releasing a pungent odor that suggested the bathtub had not been the only object used as a toilet. I panted slightly as I endeavored to recover from the work I’d completed. I swiped my damp hair from my face as I surveyed my surroundings. Nothing could be done about the ill repair of the place, but my brother and I had bagged garbage and scrubbed surfaces until our hands were chapped. My stomach churned as I recalled the state of the bathtub. Thankfully, the power was turned on just before the sun set. I distinctly recall the relief as the lights flickered to life above me. I decided to check on my brother to see if he needed help unpacking his things. I discovered him cheerfully plugging the various Playstation cords into the tv and wall outlet. We both released a pent-up breath as the loading screen for our beloved game system appeared on the screen of our television. I left him deciding between a Nascar game and Spyro to unpack my own things. The place wasn’t as bad as it’d seemed while covered in filth. Clearing the rooms and washing all the surfaces revealed an aged trailer that had seen years of neglect. I quickly realized how useless it would be to allow the situation to overcome me entirely. I could join my brother for a two-player game. My thoughts wandered as my eyes drifted closed.
I clearly remember blinking away sleep as I took in the scene around me. I felt a moment of panic as memories of the previous day flooded through me. I stretched my overused muscles and stood on aching feet. I stepped over the hole in the floor as I went in search of Mom. Her room was untouched and empty of all but the boxes I’d placed on the floor and a stained mattress. My brow furrowed as I turned on my heel and sped to my brother’s room. He was sprawled on a pile of blankets with his controller on the floor next to him. I hastily tiptoed out of his room and pulled the door closed behind me. I felt a familiar flare of anger at my mom for continuing to forget her own children. At least, I hoped it was simple forgetfulness. The alternative was darker and even more cruel than a child should experience. I shrugged off those unwanted thoughts and searched for something edible to fill the void in my stomach. I had last eaten something when we grabbed some McDonald’s for breakfast the day before. The thought coincided with the gurgling sounds my empty stomach emitted. I searched the cupboards only to find some canned tuna that was edible. Anything else I discovered was inedible. I waited for my brother to awaken in case my mom appeared with groceries before we were forced to choke down the plain canned fish. He enthusiastically devoured the meal with his little fingers, licking them clean when he’d finished. I picked up his discarded can to toss outside with the rest of the garbage we’d cleared. I decided to join him in front of the television to pass the time with our Sims game. We laughed and joked as we took the ladder from our sims’ pool and set their kitchens on fire.
The sound of tires on the gravel snatched my attention from the screen. I passed the controller to my brother as I raced to the door. All feelings of abandonment and rejection dissipated as I set my eyes upon that angelic face. I nearly tripped as I leapt from the doorway to assist my mom with the grocery bags. All was forgiven in that moment. Such is the nature of a child who loves her mother unconditionally.
This tale continues in a similar fashion taking many turns along darker paths. For now, I'll give you a break in reading this story of a pitiful child who refused to believe her mother was anything but an angel sent from God to comfort and protect her.
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