Chapter 1

A collection of memories over time documenting the journey of a stay-at-home mother in an abusive relationship.

 I am three, maybe four years old.  It’s spring, maybe early summer.  I can’t tell because all time is the same at three or four years old. It’s my favorite time of day when the lights comes streaming in through the screen door and casts a large, warm square on the floor.  I like to sit in the square. As it moves, I move. 

Our carpet is dark green.  I pretend I’m sitting in the forest and streams of light are coming in through the trees.  Little flecks of white dance in the warm rays and can’t help but think it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, like glitter or fairy dust.  I close my eyes and pretend Tinkerbell is sprinkling her fairy dust on me so I will be able to fly. I wait to get the tingly sensation that lets me know I can try out my new flying abilities.  I sit Indian style (that’s what we called it in those days), leaning back on my hands for support.  I wait a few seconds, eyes pinched shut, head tilted back, my ponytail tickling the middle of my back.  Nothing.  I open one eye just a slit to check and make sure the pixie dust is still there.  Yup.  I snap my eyes shut so as not to disturb the magic.  Then it happens.  My nose starts to tickle.  I stand up, squat down low, lean forward on my toes, arms behind be.  I swing my arms nice and big to help the take off process.  In one fell swoop, I shoot energy down through my legs, push off the floor, swing my arms forward, and take a big leap. Hrrrrmmmph.   My feet barely leave the floor.  I look down at my shoes to see if something is holding me down.  I lift one foot, then the other.  Everything seems to be in working order.  I give it another go.  No success.  I shrug my shoulders.  I guess Tinkerbell got some bum fairy dust. 

The sunlight catches my yellow dress and I give a big spin.  It looks beautiful.  I spin again and sit down quickly so I that my dress puffs up around me.   I giggle gleefully because I look like a big yellow cupcake.  I do it again and again until I get tired.  I sprawl out on the warm spot on the floor, putting my head down on the carpet and feeling the warmth radiating up into my cheek .  The carpet smells dusty and old, but then, it is dusty and old.  My mother tries desperately to keep things clean, but in an old house, the dust comes up from the earth.  The sunlight moves ever so slowly.  It seems solid.  I try to reach out and touch it, but when I try, I feel nothing but air.  The little flecks of light dance more furiously.

 Just then my mother passes by, stepping over me as I roll on the floor, grabbing at air. She stops, laundry basket perched her hip.

“What are you doing?” She asks.

“Catching the sun. Isn’t it the most beautiful thing ever?” I reply. I sing ‘beautiful ‘ for emphasis. “Look at the pretty pixie dust, Mommy!” I flap my arms to make the flecks dance in the sun.  She laughs. 

“That, my little peanut, is just dust.  It means the house is dirty.” That’s my mother-always kind, always practical. She gives me a hug.  She smells warm and clean, like the laundry. 

“I love your imagination, little one.” She says as she smiles at me. My mother is beautiful when she smiles.  Light radiates out of every pore of her face when she smiles.   I wish she would smile more.  She isn’t sad, she’s just serious.   Being a mommy must be very serious business.  I like it when she looks at me like that, with her head tilted and her eyes crinkled.  When I grow up, I am going to look at my kids like that all the time.  I don’t know what imagination is, but she says it nice, so it must be a good thing.  When I grow up, I want to be just like my mommy and say nice things and carry laundry baskets on my hip. But I am never going to clean my house so I can dance in fairy dust anytime I want.

                In the background there is music playing.  It’s Peter, Paul and Mary.  “If I had a hammer…”  I can’t figure out why anyone would want to hammer all day long-that sounds pretty boring to me-but their music is soft and pretty, like a lullaby, so I lay back in my spot and listen.  

There is always music playing in my house.  My father loves music.  To the right of our front door is a large rectangular piece of furniture where my father plays his music.  The wood has a warm, orangey tone and it smells like Pledge.  The front has two big squares where the sound comes out.  If you put your ear really close, the music sounds muffled and strange, not like music at all.  The squares have the most beautiful design inside, like honeycomb. It feels bumpy when I touch it and it makes a funny sound when drag my nails across the top.   The top of the box has panel doors that open by sliding from side to side. There is a hole the size of a penny where you can put your finger to slide the door open. My fingers aren’t strong enough, so I use both my hands to tug on the top, leaving perfect handprints in the fresh wax.  On the left side are dozens and dozens of albums.  Some are new and still have plastic, others are worn and have little bits of paper tearing off at the corners.  I have been given strict instructions not to touch, but there are so many colors, I can’t help but run my fingers over the tops.  It makes a funny sound, like my xylophone or the little drummer boy.  I do it again and again.  Quickly, before my mother returns, I shut the left side and open the right side to peek at the record player, leaving more hand prints in the wax.  There are big knobs on the side and a large arm that rests on a big black plate that is spinning quickly. That’s a record, my Daddy says. I want to touch it in the worst way, but I know that would mean big trouble for me. I watch it, mesmerized by the slow movement of the arm as it is drawn towards the center, like gravity.  It catches me in a trance until I hear, “What are you doing?” My mother is standing in the doorway, looking at me, one eyebrow slightly raised in a way that says, ‘you know the rules, young lady.’  I slide the panel closed as quickly as I can and say, “Nothing.”  I run over to my warm square on the ground, jump into the middle with both feet and yell “Base!”   With this, my mother’s face breaks into a big smile.  She shakes her head in a way that lets me know I’m not in trouble and turns back into the other room.

                I am waiting for my Daddy.  I can hear the lawnmower outside and I can smell the fresh cut grass.  I love that smell, but it makes my nose tingle.  When the lawnmower stops, I know he will be coming back inside, so I wait for silence. 

 My Daddy likes to listen to music.  Sometimes he even lets me pick. He likes the Beatles or the Eagles or Carly Simon.  I like Pippin and Annie.  My parents think this is hilarious.  I secretly, or maybe not so secretly, want to be a king.  Pippin has the best king music.   My Daddy puts the record on and I march, very king-like, around the living room while my parents dissolve into fits of laughter.  I don’t know what is so funny.  It takes lots of practice to get the walk just right.  For Halloween, my Mommy says I can be a princess.  I don’t want to be a princess; I want to be a king. She tells me girls aren’t kings.  I think that sounds ridiculous. Daddy says I can be whatever I want, and I choose king.

     My Daddy says Pippin is a play and when I get older he will take me.  He says I can wear a pretty dress and my fancy Easter shoes. I don’t know what a play is exactly, but it sounds very exciting.  When I dance around, he dances with me.  I love that.  Sometimes he just jumps around and is very silly.  Other times, he picks me up and swings me around, high in the air, the flecks of light dancing with us.  My favorite is when he swoops me up and holds me close, swallowing my little hand and his while he sways from side to side. He smells like shaving cream, fresh cut grass, and sweat.  His unshaven whiskers are like sandpaper on my cheek. It hurts a little, but I like him so close. I give him a peck on the cheek.  He hums “Daddy’s Little Girl” and tells me we will dance just like this when I get married.  I can’t wait.  When I grow up, I’m gonna marry someone just like my daddy and live happily ever after.

Reviews

[Callista-Jade]

Oh this is quite long. Please separate it into different parts... I read up to the first set of three stars. I absolutely love it! I think that you are a very talented writer. The story, so far, is well written and very clearly portrayed. It paints a colorful picture in my head. I like the main character. =)