MY MOM NEVER USED to cry. The only time I had seen her cry was when her mom died. I remember that day vividly. We sat on the front steps of my cousin’s house after I slept over. I called her my cousin, but she was more of a family friend. When my mom told me that Grandma passed away, we held each other and cried for twenty minutes. My mom sobbed, sparkly tears spilling from the corners of her eyes, dropping onto the bricks one by one. I was eight then; I used to think that after a certain age I wasn’t allowed to cry anymore. That, or the need to cry would never reach my tear ducts. It never occurred to me that my mom could cry.
I used to sleep over at friend’s and “cousin’s” houses a lot when I was younger; my mom worked the night shift six days a week at a grocery store a few blocks away from our apartment. My friends complained about how we never slept over at my place. One night before dinner, my friend’s mom, Ms. Taylor, made a snide comment about how I should buy dinner for once, scathing eyes shifting from my round face to protruding stomach. I remember staying silent with embarrassment; I wished my mom worked during the day like my friends’ parents. That night, I drank water and watched everyone else fill their plates with heaps of gooey macaroni and cheese and juicy hamburgers while I pressed my hand into my stomach to stop the growling.
The day of my 11th birthday, my mom told me I was old enough to sleep alone in our apartment. At first I was relieved, I thought it was cool – I was old enough to be on my own. Secretly I felt relieved, I wouldn’t have to burden my friends anymore. The next day I asked my friends if they were allowed to stay the night alone, already knowing their answers; I got jealous moans from my friends and glances from listeners.
But when night fell, I kept every light on in the apartment, and before entering any room, I would peak my head around the corner to make sure the coast was clear. I never liked sleeping in my bed, the pull-out couch, because it was so close to the front door. On nights when my mom was out, I would sleep in her bed. When I tried to sleep, stray noises from outside startled me awake, and I swaddled myself in blankets; a habit I still keep today.
That same night, I debated whether or not to call my mom at work. She left the number for work on a notecard next to the phone in case of an emergency. I stood next to the land line, the cool phone pressed against my ear but pressed nothing. Eventually the static rang through the phone, and I put it back down and tried to fall asleep, keeping my tears at bay.
I ALWAYS THOUGHT MY MOM was beautiful. She had long, bleached blonde hair that she never kept up with, so most of the time her roots were half the length of her hair. It probably helped her feel her age. She had me young and would complain about how all the people her age were just starting to have kids. My mom was thin too, a child could wrap their fingers around her wrist and their middle finger and thumb would touch. I always wanted to look like her. I lamented the bad features I inherited and longed for the good ones. I used to stare into my mom’s mirror, hoping that everything I hated about myself would disappear.
When my mom was around, I tried to tell her how I felt about it. I walked into her small room, the wallpaper peeling from the walls and the stench of cigarettes assaulting my nostrils. I sat timidly at the foot of her creaky bed as she got dressed for a date. Whenever my mom wasn’t working, she went out. She called it “Mommy’s time.” I know now it was just time for her to unwind and fuck men she met on and off the job. I had my sleepovers, and she had hers.
My mom stood in front of a mirror, poking and prodding at her own body. She tried on combinations of the same outfits, but always came back to the same one. It didn’t matter if it was, as far as I knew she never saw the same man twice. It was a short black dress with a square neckline. She was thinner and didn’t have much of a chest or hips, so she called her decolletage her best feature. Even when she wasn’t going out, she always wore a gold-colored locket around her neck that laid gently against her prominent collarbones.
“Mommy,” I said, “do you like the way you look?”
She took her eyes from her reflection in the mirror to me and said in her rusty voice, “For the most part. I’d change some things if I could.”
I sat there quietly. Then, “What would you change?”
“I guess I want a flatter stomach, and I wish I had more shape.”
I looked from her stomach to mine. Hers made a preview underneath her dress where mine was the trailers, the movie, and the credits. She went back to the mirror, “I don’t want you to hate your body though, Honey. I’d rather you value your brain over your beauty.”
THERE WAS A MAN on our couch. I’d just come home from school and was hanging up my Rugrats backpack when I noticed him. I stayed by the doorway, nervous that I walked into the wrong apartment. I’d done that before, accidentally. I had scared my blind neighbor, Mr. Walter, when I screamed after I saw him sitting at his counter. It took me a moment to realize that I walked into the wrong apartment and apologized profusely. My mom insisted that I baked him something as an apology, so I brought him a few chunks of cornbread.
I looked around and noticed my mom’s dying pothos at the windowsill and realized that it was he that was in the wrong apartment. The strange man looked over to me and stood up, “Hey there, I’m Bill. I’m your mom’s friend.”
I looked at him skeptically. He wore a plain shirt, jeans, a baseball cap, and a wide smile. Normally Mommy’s time didn’t come back to the apartment, and my mom never really mentioned having any friends. She occasionally mentioned Lorraine from work who knew all the gossip at work. Sometimes, before my mom left for work, I would eat dinner and she would eat breakfast and tell me all about the escapades of her coworkers.
Bill stuck out his hand for me to shake. I walked up to him and put my hand in his. He squeezed my hand a bit and motioned me to sit down beside him. I sat as far as I could. I picked at my nails, hoping he would leave. He was still looking at me when he asked, “How old are you?”
“I just turned eleven,” I answered, not looking at him.
“So what grade are you in?”
“Fifth.”
He nodded, “I remember fifth grade. One time, I accidentally farted in class and the teacher got so mad at me that she sent me out of the classroom.”
I cracked a grin. That must’ve been what he was hoping for because he chuckled a bit. I spared Bill a glance and realized he was older than I first expected him to be. My mom usually went for people closer to her own age, but that didn’t mean there weren’t exceptions. He had wrinkles around his eyes and mouth like he smiled a lot. I asked him how he knew my mom and where she was, and he said they met each other while doing laundry. He told me my mom had to run to work because she left her address book there. He asked questions about me, what I did for fun, I liked to draw but wasn’t very good, if I’d ever tried photography but we only had a point and shoot camera that I wasn’t allowed to touch. He asked me where it was, but the battery died from the last time my mom used it.
Bill scooted closer to me, “You’re so pretty, Honey.”
I was caught off guard but felt something bubble up in my stomach that I hadn’t felt before. I blushed, “Really?”
He reached over and rubbed my leg. “Really,” He said and pulled back his hand, “You know, I’m into drawing too. I prefer photography but I love all art. I could give you some tips.”
“Really?” I asked hopefully.
“Of course, we’re friends now, right?”
I liked Bill. If I had a dad, I would want him to be like Bill. The closest thing I had to a dad was Mr. Walter, and the most I got from him was marital advice, and how I shouldn’t get married. After I accidentally walked into his apartment, I would sometimes go over there and hang out with him after school when I got lonely. He was lonely too. I would usually bake him cornbread or biscuits in his oven that never seemed to get hot enough. Mr. Walter didn’t cook much for himself, so he never minded if the bread was a bit soft in the middle. We got along alright, but I think we both wanted the other person to be someone else.
Bill patted his legs. “Come sit on my lap.”
Normally I wouldn’t have sat in a virtual stranger’s lap, but something about the encouraging look in his eyes made me feel like it was okay; I scooted over and sat down. I wouldn’t have ever told my mom this then, but I would thank her now.
When the door opened, my mom stepped inside, little notebook in hand. She took off her shoes before looking over at us. I don’t remember exactly what happened next. I remember my mom shouting, shoving Bill out the door, and that I cried.
MY MOM WAS GETTING READY to go out. She had done her normal routine of trying on clothes and settled on the same black dress and locket clasped around her neck. She lit a cigarette and called me into her room to gossip about her coworkers. When I stepped into her room, I could feel the smoke penetrate my brain. I felt foggy, it distracted me from the anger building inside. My mom was trying to tell me something about her job, when she noticed I wasn’t very invested in her story like I usually was.
“What’s going on, Honey?” She asked me. My mom could always tell when I was upset, I had spent the past few weeks trying to avoid her because I was afraid she would notice. It wasn’t that hard.
“Nothing, just tired.”
“Long day at school?”
“Yeah,” I said, “some boy in my class called another boy’s mom a ‘hoard.’ I thought his mom was like your great aunt you told me about, the one who collects cans, but the teacher got really angry and told us never to say that word.”
My mom shook her head, “Whore. He called his mom a whore.”
Whore. “What does it mean?”
She paused, “It’s an insulting word, usually directed towards women. About their sexual history.”
“What about their history?”
“Having lots of sex with multiple partners. It’s frowned upon, but there’s nothing wrong with it. The problem is the word.”
She stubbed out her cigarette and asked me how she looked. I said she looked fine, and she told me there was leftover spaghetti from a few nights ago in the fridge. After she left, with the last bit of sunlight I ate cold pasta on the countertop as the sun sank into the horizon. As I sat eating alone, I thought about going over to Mr. Walter’s apartment. But it was getting dark out. I cleared my dishes and dashed to my mom’s empty bed. On this particular night, I had more trouble than normal trying to fall asleep. It was nearly 12 AM when I was finally pulled to sleep.
Not an hour later, I heard the front door open. I wiped my eyes groggily and wondered if it was my mom back so soon, she usually stayed out all night. Silently, I rolled out of her bed and tiptoed over to the bedroom door and peaked out. My mom was sniffing and stumbling over to the couch. When she sat down, she rolled to the ground and slammed against the floor. I left her room and walked over to her.
I stood above her and slowly her face turned to meet mine. She looked so small. Her face was blank, her eyes staring at my nose. She smelled like vomit and nail polish remover; I sat down beside her and noticed her dress was rumpled and her locket was missing. My mom began to shake. She began to cry.
“Mommy, what’s wrong?” I pleaded with her.
She didn’t answer me and instead fell into my lap. Her arms wrapped around my waist, and I could feel her tears collecting on my pajama shorts. Her hollow sobs filled our small apartment and before I knew it I was crying too. I put my hand on her back, and she jumped and cried harder.
“Mommy…”
We stayed there for a long time before she stopped crying. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m so sorry.”
IN THE MORNING, I woke up in my mom’s bed with the blankets beside me pulled back revealing a bare mattress. I don’t know how I ended up there, because there was no way my hundred pound mom could carry me, who weighed nearly the same. I went to find her, and she was sitting on the couch, head down, wet hair falling in front of her face. I noticed for the first time her crossed legs had stretch marks running down her thighs, and I wondered if they reached her stomach. If I stretched her skin permanently, or if they would fade with time.
When she heard me, she looked up and wiped her eyes. There was still water beading in her eyes, but she smiled at me. She smiled at me like it was the first time she’d ever seen me. Like she was holding me in her arms after I was born. Like I was born out of choice, because she wanted me. She held out her arms, fingers outstretched, and I ran to her. Into her arms.
