The Long Road Home

Mrs. Brewster

I stepped outside myself to watch, like my soul left my body but I wasn’t quite dead yet. I saw everything around me clearly. The creases in my mother’s dress. My black pants and blue tank top. Every fiber of the pink shag rug. A bright red strip of yarn holding a large piece of my hair.

My mother, a towering powerhouse of a woman, stood over my frail twelve-year-old body, bamboo rod in hand, pummeling my arms and back, my shoulders, my legs, the bottom of my feet, the top of my head. The room was bright, casting short shadows across the bedroom. The raised marks on my body were angry red striped prison clothes. A small cut over my eye dripped blood on to the tip of my nose and then traveled across my cheek, down into my ear.

I felt nothing. No pain. No fear. Nothing.

My mother’s mouth puckered with each stroke of the rod and then stretched into a grimace between blows. The Hansel and Gretel tapestry the bamboo rod once held, their once innocent faces distorted and twisted as they looked on, lay crumpled on the floor between my sister’s and my bed. Tiny beads of sweat formed on my mother’s forehead, little dots waiting to be connected to share with me what was going on in her head, why she was so angry, what thing I had done that was so horrible as to deserve this.

She didn’t say anything. Her breath was hard. The rod broke.

My mother’s eyes went wide. She stepped out of the room.

I looked down at myself. Raised stripes of injured flesh lined in perfect rows along my right arm and leg. The bleeding had stopped over my eye, but the road the blood had traveled sliced my face in half.

I heard a noise and turned to the doorway.

She returned with a hairbrush, it’s white bristles facing up, the flat of the brush facing down. I watched myself curl into a ball, my back facing up, my arms and legs tucked into the fetal position. My hands wrapped around the top of my head and the brush came down on the entwined fingers and wrist.

I never made a sound. Never moved my hands, even after the second crack of the brush. My knuckles started to bleed.

The brush broke.

My mother stepped out.

She stepped back, a lilac stiletto in hand, the heel pointed down. Her hand was white as she gripped the shoe, brought it down into my back, up, down, up down updownupdown.

The heel broke off in my back.

Sweat dripped slowly, slowly, slowly down my mother’s nose. One tiny drop. Perfectly formed. Rainbow hued in the early afternoon sunlight.

I saw it land on my cheek. Splatter in slow motion.

She stood, legs spread, broken shoe in hand, looked at the shoe, at me. Her voice was a low growl.

“I wish you had never been born.”

I stepped back into myself.

From my fetal position, I moved into a runner’s stance. Butt up, legs bent. I pushed off, ricocheted off the wall outside my bedroom, bounced, down the hall, picking up speed, through the family room, through the kitchen, out the door into the carport, down the driveway, running, running, faster, not fast enough, faster. Down the block. Sun baking the streets. Turn right. Turn right again, into the woods, down the dirt road. A chipmunk ran in front of me and I slowed.

Slowed.

Slowed.

Stopped.

“Stupid,” I said. I punched myself in the face. “Stupid stupid stupid.” Punch, punch, punch.

I leaned against a slender pine tree. The needles pricked my arm. I fell back into it, slid down, bending the branches until they snapped. I stood up. Sparklers. I sat hard and heavy, breath returning to my dead body.

“Stupid,” I said again. You know better you know she hates your hair your hair in your face the yarn what were you thinking what an idiot you are so stupid you deserve this it’s your fault. The tape ran over and over in my head. Slow motion, fast forward, rewind, play again.

Stupid.

Shadows stretched. How long had I been there? My head hurt. I needed an aspirin. My eye wouldn’t open.

An aspirin.

It became a singular thought. Head. Jaw. Arms. Hand. Eye. Pain. Sharp and piercing.

Now what?

Maybe Mrs. Brewster would give me an aspirin?

***********

I almost didn’t answer the knock, since the front door is for company and my mother did not have me clean the house or make appetizers in preparation for company. I thought about how I had wasted so much time already when there are breakfast dishes in the sink that needed washing. I would have to sit the company in the formal living room to buy time and get those done.

A school mate, someone I barely knew, stood at the door. “My mom wants to know if you want to come swimming in our pool,” she said.

Anna? I think that was her name. Anna Brewster. Second name called in class when the teacher called the roll, right after Martin Anderson. Tiny Anna. Shoulder length brown hair, sundress of bright red tropical flowers, delicate hands. We had never so much as played on the playground together. Why was she here? At my house? How does she even know where I live?

“Well?” She seemed impatient.

The house was empty. My brother was at a friend’s house. My sister, Deliah was with Aunt Katherine. The maid was not due today. My mother wasn’t home. She usually wasn’t during the day especially when my father was away…and there was a new love interest to fill the void.

I was off “restriction”, a euphemism my mother used to put me in my room and out of her line of sight. No books, no toys, just sit on the floor, hour after hour. For days, weeks, months. Come out for school. Come out for church. Come out once in the evening for the bathroom. Come out once a week for a shower. No dinner. It would mean being in her line of sight. Food was a weapon. Go to your room, said before dinner. Go to your room, said before lunch. Go to your room, said before breakfast.

“Your sister has decided not to join us for dinner,” I heard her say to my sister once. “I suppose she’s just not hungry.”

I stole food at school. My mother got a call from Sister St. Anne. “Please ask her to stop taking food from other children.”

I got better at stealing.

This restriction had lasted six months. I had forgotten the reason for it months ago. Was it the missing can of tuna fish? Dust over the doorway? B on the report card? Did it matter? My six months restriction was over. Today.

I was free.

“Sure,” I said and stepped out my door. The screen door complained and slammed behind me. “Thanks.” She was already halfway down my driveway. I trotted to catch up. “I don’t have a suit,” I said.

“That’s okay. You can swim in your shorts or something.” Despite her tiny legs, she was pretty darned fast.

We didn’t say much as we walked the five blocks to her house. June in South Carolina was brutal. The air shimmered in waves on the road ahead of us. Mrs. Walters was watering her plants. She lifted a gnarled hand and waved. We waved back. “Hey Mizz Walters.”

Anna’s above ground pool was on the side of her red brick house. Almost all the houses in the neighborhood looked the same: red brick, small front porch, fenced yard. The place where the pool was didn’t have the usual metal fence and sat in the middle of the side lot just off the carport.

Anna and I talked, in stutters at first and then it smoothed out into a gentle rhythm. We talked about Mr. Holbein, the Science teacher, running away with Miss Rebecca, the Art teacher, leaving his wife and two kids behind. We talked rumors, like the one about Beebo Courtney, who started smoking weed at ten-years old and was currently spending time in juvie for stealing his stepdad’s car. We laughed over Mrs. Nadler’s reaction when she found the diet book Kyle Rittenhouser slipped into her desk, but the poor woman couldn’t walk from her desk to the classroom door without breaking into a sweat and gasping for air. Somebody had to tell her.

I started to relax a little. Just a little. I watched the sun. How much time did I have? Did I need to be home before she got home? If I went home before noon, could I grab some food? We’d been swimming for some time, maybe a half hour, when a woman appeared in the doorway just inside the carport of Anna’s house.

“That’s my mom,” Anna said. Anna’s mom was tiny like her, maybe 5′ tall in heels. Shapely in her cotton dress with small pink flowers. She smiled and waved. Anna waved back. Her mother walked toward us, petite steps but with strong purpose, hand over her brow to shield her eyes from the brutal sun. And then there she was, leaning her delicate hands on the edges of the pool.

“Are you girls having fun?” she asked. Her voice lilted a little at the end of her sentence, like she was singing a song to us.

“Yes, ma’am.” In unison.

“Thank you for inviting me to swim in your pool,” I added.

Mrs. Brewster squinted at me. She had rich blue eyes with pinpointed pupils. We held eye contact for seconds minutes hours. I felt uncomfortable under her glare.

“I know what’s going on at your house,” she said. It was loud. So loud. She puffed a loud exhale. “I know.”

I wanted to shush her. I wanted to say, “Please! You can’t say that out loud. It’s dangerous. She will hear you.”

I said, “I don’t know what you mean,” and moved backward toward the far side of the pool. Away from her. My voice shook. It always shook when I lied. “I don’t…”

“Yes you do. You know exactly what I mean. And I do know.” She looked toward my house, saw through the five blocks, through the red brick walls. She heard the stifled screams. Heard my mother’s growl. Heard the sound of flesh meeting flesh.

“If you ever need help, you come see me. You understand?” She smiled. It was such a sweet, sad smile. Then she leaned forward, her hands gripping the edge of the pool, her gentle face reflected in the water. “You come see me, you hear?”

“Yes ma’am,” I whispered. I have to go. I need to go.

“Good.” Then Mrs. Brewster turned, her dress flaring around her slender legs as she moved back to her carport and vanished into the house.

“I guess I should go,” I said. The brief respite, the moment of relaxed laughter was gone. I climbed out of the pool. Walking past the two towels hanging on a chair beside the pool, I slipped into my shoes and kept going. Eyes down, breath in, held, out, one foot forward, one foot closer. The sun baked the tar road. I felt like I was trapped in a giant bread oven. The heat smacked my head. My breath hurt. My clothes were damp dry before I stepped into the empty carport.

The fan whirred a welcome when I stepped through the backdoor, into the kitchen and then into the family room. I stepped heavily down the hall, like a herd of elephants, she always says. You sound like a herd of elephants you stupid oaf.

I moved to the bathroom and combed my thick, unruly hair. Comb. Not brush. Never a brush on wet hair. Rules. Where was my barrette? It was on the sink earlier.

Where did it go?

Not on the floor.

Sharp panic.

Down the hall. Not in my room. Not on the dresser. Not tucked into the shag rug. Not in a drawer. Not under the bed. Panic. Panic. Down the hall. Not in the family room. Not on the end table. Not tucked into the couch cushions. Sweating. In the bathroom? Was it there? No. NO. Where?

Get your hair off your face.

A car door slammed.

Get your hair off your face.

A sliver of yarn, red against the brown carpet, a small scar beside her chair. Just enough. Run to the bathroom. Tie it tight. Pull the short bangs back.

Get your hair off your face.

Into the bedroom. Bed made? Yes. Toys on the floor? No. Things tidy? Clean? Yes. Yes. Sit on the floor at the foot of the bed. Sit quietly.

The kitchen door slams shut. Steps. Steps down the hallway. Steps closer.

Then she’s in the room. She stops in the doorway, looks left, straight. Takes in the room.

I tick things off again…bed, toys, dust, books, drawer, closet…everything checked. She looked down at me. I watched the switch get flipped. I see the eyes narrow, the mouth turn down at the edges into deep, deep lines.

“What is this?” she snarls. “Are you making fun of me?” She points toward my head.

I can’t think. What does she mean? What did I miss?

“Answer me!”

“No ma’am?”

She grabs the yarn out of my hair, pulling me up from the floor, pulling a large chunk of my hair with the yarn. I cry out. It is barely a whisper, but it fuels her anger. “What is this!?” She dangles the yarn in front of my face and drops it to the floor, my hair drifting into a pile with it.

I don’t know what to say. Is there a right answer? Think. Think. What is the right thing to say?

“Yarn?” I ask. Her fist is hard across my jaw. I quietly cry out again. Something cracks when flesh meets flesh. Something inside. Something outside.

I step outside of myself.

*******************************

The woods are cool. The sandy road curls in a gentle arch. I follow the sand. I need an aspirin. If you ever need help, you come see me. My feet are each 20 lb. weights. 50 lbs. They drag, leaving snake streaks in the sand. I need an aspirin.

The carport is so cool. The wall is rough against my shoulder. I lean hard against the wall, lurch forward, and push the doorbell and fall back against the wall. She appears in the screen door, wiping her hands on a dishtowel embroidered with small yellow flowers and bright green leaves. Her dress is covered by a white frilled apron that reads Kiss the Cook in bright red cursive letters across the front with bright red lips on either side of the sentence.

She gasps.

“May I please have an aspirin?” I whisper. “I have a headache.”

“What happened to you?” Her forehead wrinkles with deep furrows and I am tempted to turn around and leave this cool carport, return to the woods. “Did she do that?” she says. Her voice hangs heavy on the word she, then sinks at the end.

“Ma’am?” I step back. I know …

“Come inside,” she says, holding the screen door open for me. It does not screech like ours. It hasn’t suffered two years of neglect from my father’s absence.

“Oh, no ma’am. That’s okay. If I could just have an aspirin, please? Do you have one? I could give you one back, maybe tomorrow?” Could I sneak one out of my mother’s medicine cabinet by tomorrow? “My mother probably has some at home,” I say, step back. “I’m sorry to have…”

“Get inside,” she says, waving her free hand. “Get. In. Side.” She is an adult. She has given me an order. Can I refuse? “Come on,” she says, “You’re letting in the flies.” I step up the two steps and into her kitchen. “Sit there,” she points to one of the yellow vinyl kitchen chairs.

“Yes ma’am.” The plastic is smooth and cool against my thighs at first but then the pain is too much. “Is it okay if I stand?” I ask although I am already standing. I look at her face, hopeful. Her hand covers her mouth. She is staring at the chair where I was just sitting.

“Turn around,” she says.

It’s gentle, but still a command. I obey. I feel her hand pull at my tank top. It sticks. Sweat. I’m hot. So hot. My shirt has melted into my back.

“My God.” It’s whispered. A prayer. I think about bowing my head to join her. “Oh my God.” A tug on my shirt. “Anna!” she yells. My head becomes a giant bass drum. “Anna!” Anna appears in the kitchen doorway. “Go in your drawer and grab a pair of shorts and a shirt for Hannah, please, and bring me the first aid kit out of the bathroom closet.”

“Ma’am?” Anna is staring at me. I don’t understand the look on her face. Confused? Angry? Upset?

“Go get some shorts and a shirt for Hannah, and the first aid kit. Shoo, shoo! Go on now.”

“Which shorts?” Anna is still staring at me. “What happened to you?”

“It doesn’t matter which shorts,” her mother says. “Just get a shorts set. Maybe the ones with the butterflies? They’re a little big on you. Go. Hurry.” She shoos her toward the hall. “And don’t forget the first aid kit,” she yells towards Anna’s already retreating shadow.

Then she turns her attention back to me. I am focused on the explosion in my head. Her voice is like the sound of a stray bullet in a dark alley, echoing around in my skull. It feels dangerous.

Mrs. Brewster hands me an aspirin. It’s the adult kind. They have appeared as if by magic in her hand. She hands me a glass with little rivulets of sweat running down the side. Like my mother’s face. My back hurts. My jaw feels odd. I can’t see out of my left eye. I’m so tired. So hot. I just need to sit. Maybe sleep. Is my room a mess? I should go clean that up. Can’t have a messy room. No ma’am. Cleanliness…Godliness…the rules.

Mrs. Brewster pulls a small white dishcloth out of a kitchen drawer, wets it in the sink and presses the wet cloth against my face. She dabs gently around my eye, my lip. I cringe a little when she wipes my jaw. She rinses the cloth, returns, dabs at my face again. I try not to cringe. “I’m so sorry,” she says. The cloth is pink. A new yellow gingham cloth appears in her hand. “Here,” she says, “hold this against your eye. It will help.” She does not sound convinced. I press the cloth against my face and feel the edges of the ice cubes press back. The cold is piercing against my fragile skin but I keep it the cloth there.

There is a new rhythm in the room. Rinse, dab, rinse. Her soft oh my’s and stifled gasps keep the beat.

Mrs. Brewster rinses the cloth again and spins me around. She dabs the wet cloth at my back this time. I don’t cry out. My mother has me well trained. She repeats this process, wets the cloth, presses it to my back, rinses it, wets the cloth, presses in a comforting dance. Each time she gently pulls at the back of my shirt. It finally breaks free and she slides it off. I’m embarrassed for a moment, but the cool wet cloth feels so good when she puts it on my back that I forget to be embarrassed.

“Turn around,” she says. I obey, covering my chest with my arms. I’m flushed. My eye begins to throb in tune with my head. Boomboomboom. “You’ll need a shower,” she says. “It’s the only way we’ll get all of this off.”

Anna appears. She pauses for a moment in the doorway. “This one?” she asks, holding out a handful of butterflies.

“Yes. That’s good. Thank you, sweetie.”

I think Sweetie. Sweetie. She called her sweetie.

Mrs. Brewster hands the clothes to me. “Do you need underwear?” she asks.

“No ma’am. No thank you. Do you want me to put these on?” I’m confused. Why am I being handed Anna’s clothes?

“I want you to take a shower and then put these on,” Mrs. Brewster says. “There’s towels in the closet in the bathroom, soap in the shower. Shampoo too. Make sure you wash your hair really well, okay honey?” Honey. It bounces around my head. Honey.

“When you’re done, come on back here so I can put bandages on some of those cuts on your back.” She looks down at the first aid kit. “Not sure what to do about that cut over your eye. We’ll put some ice on your face again and see if that helps.” She looks at me. I am dangling between staying, running, and obeying. “Well,” she says, “go on now. Go hop in the shower.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Their house is laid out the same as mine. I like their family room better, though. Toys. Books. A record player. Like it was designed to invite everyone in. To play records, read books together. Sliding doors to the backyard frame a red striped swing set. Family pictures on the wall. An over-sized chair in the same corner as my mother’s but its rich buttery color invites. My mother’s dark leather forms a giant black hole, sucking life out of the room. She sits night after night, clickclickclicking her knitting needles. She’ll donate the blanket or sweater or mittens. People will know how virtuous she is. How kind. Somewhere someone will wear the blood red sweater and bless the woman whose hands made it.

I lean against the bathroom door, hear the click behind me. Bending to remove my clothes proved hard, created explosions in my eyes and head. Finally, my shorts and underwear lie in a heap on the floor in front of the sink. I should wash those when I’m done. Mama will be furious that I got them so dirty.

Before I turn the shower on, I hear Mrs. Brewster’s voice from the kitchen, her pitch octaves higher.

“Beat that poor child half to death. Yes. No, you will not. You will come to…you haven’t seen this child!” It is not the kind voice I heard from her before. This voice is stern, sharp, demanding. “Yes. Yes. My address is…”

I turn on the shower and step in.

The blood swirls at my feet, snaking toward the drain. Has my period arrived? It’s too early. Maybe?

I mentally track my time. Five minutes. Wash fast. Five minutes. Hair washed, body washed. Five minutes. The blood flows fresher when I wash my hair. I want more time in the shower but know my five minutes are up. I don’t use a towel for fear of dirtying it. Sometimes five minutes isn’t enough.

I struggle into Anna’s too small shorts set. To be safe, I fold toilet paper and place it in my underwear.

I am so tired. So stiff. Sitting, standing, bending. Every action causes searing pain.

The water runs pink in the sink when I soap my shorts and shirt. Stains have set into both. There are small holes in the back of my shirt. My mother will be so angry. What can I do? Maybe hide them under the front porch or perhaps scrub them better later when I can get to the washing machine. Maybe when I get home she won’t notice the shorts I’m wearing, the colorful butterflies so different from my faded blue shirt and black cut off shorts.

Before I step out of the bathroom, I double check to make sure the bathroom is spotless. One tiny dot of dirt sneers at me by the side of the faucet. “Gotcha!” I say, wiping furiously with the sponge I find under the sink. I use toilet paper to dry the faucet so there are no water spots.

Even though I have squeezed the water out of my shorts, they drip down through my hands and onto the floor. I squeeze them in the toilet so I don’t have to clean and dry the sink again and wipe the floor with toilet paper.

My eye is swollen shut. I stick my tongue out at my image in the bathroom mirror, cringe in pain, do it again. One more check of the tub, sink, floor, wall, light switch. Spotless? Yes. I slick back my hair with my fingertips and step out of the bathroom. Head down, I follow the unfamiliar familiar path down the hallway, through the family room and into the kitchen.

“Oh, here she is.” I look up. “Did that help?” Mrs. Brewster is smiling. A police officer is standing next to her drinking a glass of water, the ice cubes clinking as he tips the glass up, down. He pauses when the glass is halfway to the table. His eyes go wide. “Come here, honey,” she says and gestures with her hand, motioning me forward. I step back. Mrs. Brewster follows my eyes, looks at the police officer. “Oh, no. It’s okay, honey. You’re not in trouble. This is Officer… Decker?” He nods. His big thick burly neck vanishes appears vanishes appears as he nods his head. “Yes, Officer Decker. He just wants to talk to you for a minute. You’re not in trouble,” she repeats.

But it is a trap. My heart screams. My foot moves forward. My chest tightens. Another foot forward. Can I make it past him? Past him, through the door?

“Come on. It’s okay.”

It isn’t okay. I step toward them. I can’t help it. Military brat upbringing. Adult tells you to do something, you do it.

“Turn around, Hannah.” I turn around. I feel her cold hand lift my, Anna’s, shirt. Officer Decker clears his throat. “You see?” He clears his throat again.

“Yes ma’am. I see. But I can’t just…” Mrs. Brewster cuts him off.

“Hannah, why don’t you go play with Anna in her room. It’s the first door on the right, just across from the bathroom.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Anna’s room has a huge king sized bed that takes up most of the room. She is sitting on her bed reading an Archie comic book when I come in.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Did your mom do that to you?” she asks.

“It was an accident. I’m so clumsy.”

“Oh. It looks like it hurts.”

“Yes. It hurts. But I’ll be okay. I’m just so stupid. And clumsy. It’s okay.”

“You will not send that child back to that house,” Mrs. Brewster is loud, her voice seeping into Anna’s room.

“I guess I should go home,” I say. “Thanks for letting me borrow your clothes. I’ll wash them tonight and get them back as quick as I can.” I say it like I know it to be true, but I don’t. My mother will be mad, and I’ll be put on restriction again. I’ll need to clean the blood on my bedroom floor before I can sit on it. At the foot of the bed. And wait for bedtime.

I close Anna’s door quietly and walk back to the kitchen. Mrs. Brewster and Officer Decker are seated at the kitchen table, and is if on cue, look up at me as one unit, smile that artificial adult smile as one unit.

“It’s okay,” I say, looking at Mrs. Brewster. “I’ll just go home now. Thank you for the aspirin. I’ll try to get Anna’s clothes back to you tomorrow.” My hand reaches for the door and somehow she is there in front of me, blocking the door.

“You will do no such thing,” she says.

“Mrs. Brewster, please. I have to go home. If she finds out about the police she’ll be really mad. I mean really mad. I need to go home. It’s okay.” I gasp and reel backward. I have broken the rule. THE rule. “I just slipped is all,” I say, my voice rising a decibel. “I just slipped. I’m so clumsy. I slipped on the rug and fell against the dresser and stuff. I just slipped. Please…” my voice is desperate now. “Please. I just need to go home.”

“You march you britches back into Anna’s room,” Mrs. Brewster says, softening her voice into that same artificial adult voice, the overly sweet voice. “Go on, now.”

“Ma’am,” said Officer Decker.

“Don’t you dare,” she snarls, turning to point a finger at Officer Decker. That tiny woman is fierce, I think. “Don’t you dare. You will do what we agreed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

Just like that. Yes ma’am. Standing, he is a good foot taller than Mrs. Brewster, with his thick bull neck and his meat hammer fists but all he says is, “Yes, ma’am.” My mouth is suddenly agape.

“Go on. Shoo shoo shoo! Go see what Anna’s doing,” Mrs. Brewster’s smile is blinding. It is a real smile, not the fake one. “Go on. It’s okay.” I do as I am told, but with each step away from the door I grow more anxious. It is like sticking my finger on a live wire with a low voltage that is slowly increased. My heart is heavy and my fear is electric.

“Sorry,” I say, entering Anna’s room again. Climbing over her bed, I slide into the small gap between the bed and the wall, curl into a ball, and close my one good eye.

I sleep.

The banging wakes me up. The house shakes with each bang. I hear her voice. My mother’s. The voice she uses with strangers, the “bless your heart” voice. Each muscle screams when I stand, my back and head and eye and jaw and legs and arms and everything. Anna is gone. I climb over her bed, open the door, and move as quickly as my aching body will let me, picking up speed, down the hallway, into the family room, into the kitchen. Head down. Always head down.

Mrs. Brewster is standing in the doorway, hands on hips, leaning forward toward the screen door. “I will not send that child back to you. Not now. Not ever. You get off my property or I will call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”

She doesn’t know who she is dealing with, doesn’t know the fury of my mother. “Mrs. Brewster,” I say. I have to go. I have to go now. It will be so much worse. So much worse. She’ll kill me this time. “I…” my voice cracks. “I…” it is a whisper when a roar is needed. “I have to go, Mrs. Brewster.” Still a whisper. I begin to sidle towards the door. “Thank you for the aspirin, and the clothes.”

“Get back.”

“It’s…I mean…I’ll just go now and …”

“I said, ‘Get back.’” It is the same voice she used with Officer Decker earlier.

“Hannah, time to go.” That voice. That voice that makes the hair on my neck stand straight up. “Let’s go. Chop chop.” I start to push past Mrs. Brewster, whose tiny frame blocks the doorway.

Mrs. Brewster spreads her legs wide, plants her hands on her hips, and growls. “You will not take this child.”

I don’t know what to do. I have to go. I have to. It will be so much worse. So much worse. Mrs. Brewster has no idea who she is up against. I stare at my mother’s placid face, her you have no idea what hell I will rain down on you look. I swallow hard. Mrs. Brewster has picked a battle with the devil.

She will lose.

“Now Mrs. Brewster, Laura, I don’t know what she’s told you but I’m sure you know her reputation for being a liar. You can’t believe a word she says.”

Mrs. Brewster digs her heels in deeper. Somehow my mother’s familiar lie has emboldened Mrs. Brewster even more, has fed the angry fire within her.

She does not budge.

My mother realizes this is not working. I recognize the look she uses when others do not do her bidding. She puts her hand on the handle of the screen door. “That is my daughter,” she says, her polite voice slipping, “and she will be coming home with me. Hannah? Let’s go. Now.” My mother regains her composure and smiles.

I try to slide past Mrs. Brewster. She moves her arm slowly back and across my chest, like she is stopping a child from running into the road. Then she steps back, pushing me with her, and shuts the door.

In my mother’s face.

My mother.

“Mrs. Brewster, I have to go. I have to go.” I hear it, the pleading, the shrillness of panic in my voice, and move toward the closed door. She does not budge. Through the kitchen window, I see mother moving across the side lawn. With each step, I feel the flood of emotions drown me.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Brewster says, pulling the kitchen curtain closed. “Mr. Brewster will be home soon, we’ll have some dinner, and then we’ll see what we can do about getting you settled in. This is your home for now, you understand.” She reaches to cup my face in her hand, sees my brief wince, and drops her hand. “You’re safe.”

She says it so casually.

But I know with every passing second I stay, I am closer to death.

I stepped outside myself to watch, like my soul left my body but I wasn’t quite dead yet. I saw everything around me clearly. The creases in my mother’s dress. My black pants and blue tank top. Every fiber of the pink shag rug. A bright red strip of yarn holding a large piece of my hair.

My mother, a towering powerhouse of a woman, stood over my frail twelve-year-old body, bamboo rod in hand, pummeling my arms and back, my shoulders, my legs, the bottom of my feet, the top of my head. The room was bright, casting short shadows across the bedroom. The raised marks on my body were angry red striped prison clothes. A small cut over my eye dripped blood on to the tip of my nose and then traveled across my cheek, down into my ear.

I felt nothing. No pain. No fear. Nothing.

My mother’s mouth puckered with each stroke of the rod and then stretched into a grimace between blows. The Hansel and Gretel tapestry the bamboo rod once held, their once innocent faces distorted and twisted as they looked on, lay crumpled on the floor between my sister’s and my bed. Tiny beads of sweat formed on my mother’s forehead, little dots waiting to be connected to share with me what was going on in her head, why she was so angry, what thing I had done that was so horrible as to deserve this.

She didn’t say anything. Her breath was hard. The rod broke.

My mother’s eyes went wide. She stepped out of the room.

I looked down at myself. Raised stripes of injured flesh lined in perfect rows along my right arm and leg. The bleeding had stopped over my eye, but the road the blood had traveled sliced my face in half.

I heard a noise and turned to the doorway.

She returned with a hairbrush, it’s white bristles facing up, the flat of the brush facing down. I watched myself curl into a ball, my back facing up, my arms and legs tucked into the fetal position. My hands wrapped around the top of my head and the brush came down on the entwined fingers and wrist.

I never made a sound. Never moved my hands, even after the second crack of the brush. My knuckles started to bleed.

The brush broke.

My mother stepped out.

She stepped back, a lilac stiletto in hand, the heel pointed down. Her hand was white as she gripped the shoe, brought it down into my back, up, down, up down updownupdown.

The heel broke off in my back.

Sweat dripped slowly, slowly, slowly down my mother’s nose. One tiny drop. Perfectly formed. Rainbow hued in the early afternoon sunlight.

I saw it land on my cheek. Splatter in slow motion.

She stood, legs spread, broken shoe in hand, looked at the shoe, at me. Her voice was a low growl.

“I wish you had never been born.”

I stepped back into myself.

From my fetal position, I moved into a runner’s stance. Butt up, legs bent. I pushed off, ricocheted off the wall outside my bedroom, bounced, down the hall, picking up speed, through the family room, through the kitchen, out the door into the carport, down the driveway, running, running, faster, not fast enough, faster. Down the block. Sun baking the streets. Turn right. Turn right again, into the woods, down the dirt road. A chipmunk ran in front of me and I slowed.

Slowed.

Slowed.

Stopped.

“Stupid,” I said. I punched myself in the face. “Stupid stupid stupid.” Punch, punch, punch.

I leaned against a slender pine tree. The needles pricked my arm. I fell back into it, slid down, bending the branches until they snapped. I stood up. Sparklers. I sat hard and heavy, breath returning to my dead body.

“Stupid,” I said again. You know better you know she hates your hair your hair in your face the yarn what were you thinking what an idiot you are so stupid you deserve this it’s your fault. The tape ran over and over in my head. Slow motion, fast forward, rewind, play again.

Stupid.

Shadows stretched. How long had I been there? My head hurt. I needed an aspirin. My eye wouldn’t open.

An aspirin.

It became a singular thought. Head. Jaw. Arms. Hand. Eye. Pain. Sharp and piercing.

Now what?

Maybe Mrs. Brewster would give me an aspirin?

***********

I almost didn’t answer the knock, since the front door is for company and my mother did not have me clean the house or make appetizers in preparation for company. I thought about how I had wasted so much time already when there are breakfast dishes in the sink that needed washing. I would have to sit the company in the formal living room to buy time and get those done.

A school mate, someone I barely knew, stood at the door. “My mom wants to know if you want to come swimming in our pool,” she said.

Anna? I think that was her name. Anna Brewster. Second name called in class when the teacher called the roll, right after Martin Anderson. Tiny Anna. Shoulder length brown hair, sundress of bright red tropical flowers, delicate hands. We had never so much as played on the playground together. Why was she here? At my house? How does she even know where I live?

“Well?” She seemed impatient.

The house was empty. My brother was at a friend’s house. My sister, Deliah was with Aunt Katherine. The maid was not due today. My mother wasn’t home. She usually wasn’t during the day especially when my father was away…and there was a new love interest to fill the void.

I was off “restriction”, a euphemism my mother used to put me in my room and out of her line of sight. No books, no toys, just sit on the floor, hour after hour. For days, weeks, months. Come out for school. Come out for church. Come out once in the evening for the bathroom. Come out once a week for a shower. No dinner. It would mean being in her line of sight. Food was a weapon. Go to your room, said before dinner. Go to your room, said before lunch. Go to your room, said before breakfast.

“Your sister has decided not to join us for dinner,” I heard her say to my sister once. “I suppose she’s just not hungry.”

I stole food at school. My mother got a call from Sister St. Anne. “Please ask her to stop taking food from other children.”

I got better at stealing.

This restriction had lasted six months. I had forgotten the reason for it months ago. Was it the missing can of tuna fish? Dust over the doorway? B on the report card? Did it matter? My six months restriction was over. Today.

I was free.

“Sure,” I said and stepped out my door. The screen door complained and slammed behind me. “Thanks.” She was already halfway down my driveway. I trotted to catch up. “I don’t have a suit,” I said.

“That’s okay. You can swim in your shorts or something.” Despite her tiny legs, she was pretty darned fast.

We didn’t say much as we walked the five blocks to her house. June in South Carolina was brutal. The air shimmered in waves on the road ahead of us. Mrs. Walters was watering her plants. She lifted a gnarled hand and waved. We waved back. “Hey Mizz Walters.”

Anna’s above ground pool was on the side of her red brick house. Almost all the houses in the neighborhood looked the same: red brick, small front porch, fenced yard. The place where the pool was didn’t have the usual metal fence and sat in the middle of the side lot just off the carport.

Anna and I talked, in stutters at first and then it smoothed out into a gentle rhythm. We talked about Mr. Holbein, the Science teacher, running away with Miss Rebecca, the Art teacher, leaving his wife and two kids behind. We talked rumors, like the one about Beebo Courtney, who started smoking weed at ten-years old and was currently spending time in juvie for stealing his stepdad’s car. We laughed over Mrs. Nadler’s reaction when she found the diet book Kyle Rittenhouser slipped into her desk, but the poor woman couldn’t walk from her desk to the classroom door without breaking into a sweat and gasping for air. Somebody had to tell her.

I started to relax a little. Just a little. I watched the sun. How much time did I have? Did I need to be home before she got home? If I went home before noon, could I grab some food? We’d been swimming for some time, maybe a half hour, when a woman appeared in the doorway just inside the carport of Anna’s house.

“That’s my mom,” Anna said. Anna’s mom was tiny like her, maybe 5′ tall in heels. Shapely in her cotton dress with small pink flowers. She smiled and waved. Anna waved back. Her mother walked toward us, petite steps but with strong purpose, hand over her brow to shield her eyes from the brutal sun. And then there she was, leaning her delicate hands on the edges of the pool.

“Are you girls having fun?” she asked. Her voice lilted a little at the end of her sentence, like she was singing a song to us.

“Yes, ma’am.” In unison.

“Thank you for inviting me to swim in your pool,” I added.

Mrs. Brewster squinted at me. She had rich blue eyes with pinpointed pupils. We held eye contact for seconds minutes hours. I felt uncomfortable under her glare.

“I know what’s going on at your house,” she said. It was loud. So loud. She puffed a loud exhale. “I know.”

I wanted to shush her. I wanted to say, “Please! You can’t say that out loud. It’s dangerous. She will hear you.”

I said, “I don’t know what you mean,” and moved backward toward the far side of the pool. Away from her. My voice shook. It always shook when I lied. “I don’t…”

“Yes you do. You know exactly what I mean. And I do know.” She looked toward my house, saw through the five blocks, through the red brick walls. She heard the stifled screams. Heard my mother’s growl. Heard the sound of flesh meeting flesh.

“If you ever need help, you come see me. You understand?” She smiled. It was such a sweet, sad smile. Then she leaned forward, her hands gripping the edge of the pool, her gentle face reflected in the water. “You come see me, you hear?”

“Yes ma’am,” I whispered. I have to go. I need to go.

“Good.” Then Mrs. Brewster turned, her dress flaring around her slender legs as she moved back to her carport and vanished into the house.

“I guess I should go,” I said. The brief respite, the moment of relaxed laughter was gone. I climbed out of the pool. Walking past the two towels hanging on a chair beside the pool, I slipped into my shoes and kept going. Eyes down, breath in, held, out, one foot forward, one foot closer. The sun baked the tar road. I felt like I was trapped in a giant bread oven. The heat smacked my head. My breath hurt. My clothes were damp dry before I stepped into the empty carport.

The fan whirred a welcome when I stepped through the backdoor, into the kitchen and then into the family room. I stepped heavily down the hall, like a herd of elephants, she always says. You sound like a herd of elephants you stupid oaf.

I moved to the bathroom and combed my thick, unruly hair. Comb. Not brush. Never a brush on wet hair. Rules. Where was my barrette? It was on the sink earlier.

Where did it go?

Not on the floor.

Sharp panic.

Down the hall. Not in my room. Not on the dresser. Not tucked into the shag rug. Not in a drawer. Not under the bed. Panic. Panic. Down the hall. Not in the family room. Not on the end table. Not tucked into the couch cushions. Sweating. In the bathroom? Was it there? No. NO. Where?

Get your hair off your face.

A car door slammed.

Get your hair off your face.

A sliver of yarn, red against the brown carpet, a small scar beside her chair. Just enough. Run to the bathroom. Tie it tight. Pull the short bangs back.

Get your hair off your face.

Into the bedroom. Bed made? Yes. Toys on the floor? No. Things tidy? Clean? Yes. Yes. Sit on the floor at the foot of the bed. Sit quietly.

The kitchen door slams shut. Steps. Steps down the hallway. Steps closer.

Then she’s in the room. She stops in the doorway, looks left, straight. Takes in the room.

I tick things off again…bed, toys, dust, books, drawer, closet…everything checked. She looked down at me. I watched the switch get flipped. I see the eyes narrow, the mouth turn down at the edges into deep, deep lines.

“What is this?” she snarls. “Are you making fun of me?” She points toward my head.

I can’t think. What does she mean? What did I miss?

“Answer me!”

“No ma’am?”

She grabs the yarn out of my hair, pulling me up from the floor, pulling a large chunk of my hair with the yarn. I cry out. It is barely a whisper, but it fuels her anger. “What is this!?” She dangles the yarn in front of my face and drops it to the floor, my hair drifting into a pile with it.

I don’t know what to say. Is there a right answer? Think. Think. What is the right thing to say?

“Yarn?” I ask. Her fist is hard across my jaw. I quietly cry out again. Something cracks when flesh meets flesh. Something inside. Something outside.

I step outside of myself.

*******************************

The woods are cool. The sandy road curls in a gentle arch. I follow the sand. I need an aspirin. If you ever need help, you come see me. My feet are each 20 lb. weights. 50 lbs. They drag, leaving snake streaks in the sand. I need an aspirin.

The carport is so cool. The wall is rough against my shoulder. I lean hard against the wall, lurch forward, and push the doorbell and fall back against the wall. She appears in the screen door, wiping her hands on a dishtowel embroidered with small yellow flowers and bright green leaves. Her dress is covered by a white frilled apron that reads Kiss the Cook in bright red cursive letters across the front with bright red lips on either side of the sentence.

She gasps.

“May I please have an aspirin?” I whisper. “I have a headache.”

“What happened to you?” Her forehead wrinkles with deep furrows and I am tempted to turn around and leave this cool carport, return to the woods. “Did she do that?” she says. Her voice hangs heavy on the word she, then sinks at the end.

“Ma’am?” I step back. I know …

“Come inside,” she says, holding the screen door open for me. It does not screech like ours. It hasn’t suffered two years of neglect from my father’s absence.

“Oh, no ma’am. That’s okay. If I could just have an aspirin, please? Do you have one? I could give you one back, maybe tomorrow?” Could I sneak one out of my mother’s medicine cabinet by tomorrow? “My mother probably has some at home,” I say, step back. “I’m sorry to have…”

“Get inside,” she says, waving her free hand. “Get. In. Side.” She is an adult. She has given me an order. Can I refuse? “Come on,” she says, “You’re letting in the flies.” I step up the two steps and into her kitchen. “Sit there,” she points to one of the yellow vinyl kitchen chairs.

“Yes ma’am.” The plastic is smooth and cool against my thighs at first but then the pain is too much. “Is it okay if I stand?” I ask although I am already standing. I look at her face, hopeful. Her hand covers her mouth. She is staring at the chair where I was just sitting.

“Turn around,” she says.

It’s gentle, but still a command. I obey. I feel her hand pull at my tank top. It sticks. Sweat. I’m hot. So hot. My shirt has melted into my back.

“My God.” It’s whispered. A prayer. I think about bowing my head to join her. “Oh my God.” A tug on my shirt. “Anna!” she yells. My head becomes a giant bass drum. “Anna!” Anna appears in the kitchen doorway. “Go in your drawer and grab a pair of shorts and a shirt for Hannah, please, and bring me the first aid kit out of the bathroom closet.”

“Ma’am?” Anna is staring at me. I don’t understand the look on her face. Confused? Angry? Upset?

“Go get some shorts and a shirt for Hannah, and the first aid kit. Shoo, shoo! Go on now.”

“Which shorts?” Anna is still staring at me. “What happened to you?”

“It doesn’t matter which shorts,” her mother says. “Just get a shorts set. Maybe the ones with the butterflies? They’re a little big on you. Go. Hurry.” She shoos her toward the hall. “And don’t forget the first aid kit,” she yells towards Anna’s already retreating shadow.

Then she turns her attention back to me. I am focused on the explosion in my head. Her voice is like the sound of a stray bullet in a dark alley, echoing around in my skull. It feels dangerous.

Mrs. Brewster hands me an aspirin. It’s the adult kind. They have appeared as if by magic in her hand. She hands me a glass with little rivulets of sweat running down the side. Like my mother’s face. My back hurts. My jaw feels odd. I can’t see out of my left eye. I’m so tired. So hot. I just need to sit. Maybe sleep. Is my room a mess? I should go clean that up. Can’t have a messy room. No ma’am. Cleanliness…Godliness…the rules.

Mrs. Brewster pulls a small white dishcloth out of a kitchen drawer, wets it in the sink and presses the wet cloth against my face. She dabs gently around my eye, my lip. I cringe a little when she wipes my jaw. She rinses the cloth, returns, dabs at my face again. I try not to cringe. “I’m so sorry,” she says. The cloth is pink. A new yellow gingham cloth appears in her hand. “Here,” she says, “hold this against your eye. It will help.” She does not sound convinced. I press the cloth against my face and feel the edges of the ice cubes press back. The cold is piercing against my fragile skin but I keep it the cloth there.

There is a new rhythm in the room. Rinse, dab, rinse. Her soft oh my’s and stifled gasps keep the beat.

Mrs. Brewster rinses the cloth again and spins me around. She dabs the wet cloth at my back this time. I don’t cry out. My mother has me well trained. She repeats this process, wets the cloth, presses it to my back, rinses it, wets the cloth, presses in a comforting dance. Each time she gently pulls at the back of my shirt. It finally breaks free and she slides it off. I’m embarrassed for a moment, but the cool wet cloth feels so good when she puts it on my back that I forget to be embarrassed.

“Turn around,” she says. I obey, covering my chest with my arms. I’m flushed. My eye begins to throb in tune with my head. Boomboomboom. “You’ll need a shower,” she says. “It’s the only way we’ll get all of this off.”

Anna appears. She pauses for a moment in the doorway. “This one?” she asks, holding out a handful of butterflies.

“Yes. That’s good. Thank you, sweetie.”

I think Sweetie. Sweetie. She called her sweetie.

Mrs. Brewster hands the clothes to me. “Do you need underwear?” she asks.

“No ma’am. No thank you. Do you want me to put these on?” I’m confused. Why am I being handed Anna’s clothes?

“I want you to take a shower and then put these on,” Mrs. Brewster says. “There’s towels in the closet in the bathroom, soap in the shower. Shampoo too. Make sure you wash your hair really well, okay honey?” Honey. It bounces around my head. Honey.

“When you’re done, come on back here so I can put bandages on some of those cuts on your back.” She looks down at the first aid kit. “Not sure what to do about that cut over your eye. We’ll put some ice on your face again and see if that helps.” She looks at me. I am dangling between staying, running, and obeying. “Well,” she says, “go on now. Go hop in the shower.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Their house is laid out the same as mine. I like their family room better, though. Toys. Books. A record player. Like it was designed to invite everyone in. To play records, read books together. Sliding doors to the backyard frame a red striped swing set. Family pictures on the wall. An over-sized chair in the same corner as my mother’s but its rich buttery color invites. My mother’s dark leather forms a giant black hole, sucking life out of the room. She sits night after night, clickclickclicking her knitting needles. She’ll donate the blanket or sweater or mittens. People will know how virtuous she is. How kind. Somewhere someone will wear the blood red sweater and bless the woman whose hands made it.

I lean against the bathroom door, hear the click behind me. Bending to remove my clothes proved hard, created explosions in my eyes and head. Finally, my shorts and underwear lie in a heap on the floor in front of the sink. I should wash those when I’m done. Mama will be furious that I got them so dirty.

Before I turn the shower on, I hear Mrs. Brewster’s voice from the kitchen, her pitch octaves higher.

“Beat that poor child half to death. Yes. No, you will not. You will come to…you haven’t seen this child!” It is not the kind voice I heard from her before. This voice is stern, sharp, demanding. “Yes. Yes. My address is…”

I turn on the shower and step in.

The blood swirls at my feet, snaking toward the drain. Has my period arrived? It’s too early. Maybe?

I mentally track my time. Five minutes. Wash fast. Five minutes. Hair washed, body washed. Five minutes. The blood flows fresher when I wash my hair. I want more time in the shower but know my five minutes are up. I don’t use a towel for fear of dirtying it. Sometimes five minutes isn’t enough.

I struggle into Anna’s too small shorts set. To be safe, I fold toilet paper and place it in my underwear.

I am so tired. So stiff. Sitting, standing, bending. Every action causes searing pain.

The water runs pink in the sink when I soap my shorts and shirt. Stains have set into both. There are small holes in the back of my shirt. My mother will be so angry. What can I do? Maybe hide them under the front porch or perhaps scrub them better later when I can get to the washing machine. Maybe when I get home she won’t notice the shorts I’m wearing, the colorful butterflies so different from my faded blue shirt and black cut off shorts.

Before I step out of the bathroom, I double check to make sure the bathroom is spotless. One tiny dot of dirt sneers at me by the side of the faucet. “Gotcha!” I say, wiping furiously with the sponge I find under the sink. I use toilet paper to dry the faucet so there are no water spots.

Even though I have squeezed the water out of my shorts, they drip down through my hands and onto the floor. I squeeze them in the toilet so I don’t have to clean and dry the sink again and wipe the floor with toilet paper.

My eye is swollen shut. I stick my tongue out at my image in the bathroom mirror, cringe in pain, do it again. One more check of the tub, sink, floor, wall, light switch. Spotless? Yes. I slick back my hair with my fingertips and step out of the bathroom. Head down, I follow the unfamiliar familiar path down the hallway, through the family room and into the kitchen.

“Oh, here she is.” I look up. “Did that help?” Mrs. Brewster is smiling. A police officer is standing next to her drinking a glass of water, the ice cubes clinking as he tips the glass up, down. He pauses when the glass is halfway to the table. His eyes go wide. “Come here, honey,” she says and gestures with her hand, motioning me forward. I step back. Mrs. Brewster follows my eyes, looks at the police officer. “Oh, no. It’s okay, honey. You’re not in trouble. This is Officer… Decker?” He nods. His big thick burly neck vanishes appears vanishes appears as he nods his head. “Yes, Officer Decker. He just wants to talk to you for a minute. You’re not in trouble,” she repeats.

But it is a trap. My heart screams. My foot moves forward. My chest tightens. Another foot forward. Can I make it past him? Past him, through the door?

“Come on. It’s okay.”

It isn’t okay. I step toward them. I can’t help it. Military brat upbringing. Adult tells you to do something, you do it.

“Turn around, Hannah.” I turn around. I feel her cold hand lift my, Anna’s, shirt. Officer Decker clears his throat. “You see?” He clears his throat again.

“Yes ma’am. I see. But I can’t just…” Mrs. Brewster cuts him off.

“Hannah, why don’t you go play with Anna in her room. It’s the first door on the right, just across from the bathroom.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Anna’s room has a huge king sized bed that takes up most of the room. She is sitting on her bed reading an Archie comic book when I come in.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Did your mom do that to you?” she asks.

“It was an accident. I’m so clumsy.”

“Oh. It looks like it hurts.”

“Yes. It hurts. But I’ll be okay. I’m just so stupid. And clumsy. It’s okay.”

“You will not send that child back to that house,” Mrs. Brewster is loud, her voice seeping into Anna’s room.

“I guess I should go home,” I say. “Thanks for letting me borrow your clothes. I’ll wash them tonight and get them back as quick as I can.” I say it like I know it to be true, but I don’t. My mother will be mad, and I’ll be put on restriction again. I’ll need to clean the blood on my bedroom floor before I can sit on it. At the foot of the bed. And wait for bedtime.

I close Anna’s door quietly and walk back to the kitchen. Mrs. Brewster and Officer Decker are seated at the kitchen table, and is if on cue, look up at me as one unit, smile that artificial adult smile as one unit.

“It’s okay,” I say, looking at Mrs. Brewster. “I’ll just go home now. Thank you for the aspirin. I’ll try to get Anna’s clothes back to you tomorrow.” My hand reaches for the door and somehow she is there in front of me, blocking the door.

“You will do no such thing,” she says.

“Mrs. Brewster, please. I have to go home. If she finds out about the police she’ll be really mad. I mean really mad. I need to go home. It’s okay.” I gasp and reel backward. I have broken the rule. THE rule. “I just slipped is all,” I say, my voice rising a decibel. “I just slipped. I’m so clumsy. I slipped on the rug and fell against the dresser and stuff. I just slipped. Please…” my voice is desperate now. “Please. I just need to go home.”

“You march you britches back into Anna’s room,” Mrs. Brewster says, softening her voice into that same artificial adult voice, the overly sweet voice. “Go on, now.”

“Ma’am,” said Officer Decker.

“Don’t you dare,” she snarls, turning to point a finger at Officer Decker. That tiny woman is fierce, I think. “Don’t you dare. You will do what we agreed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

Just like that. Yes ma’am. Standing, he is a good foot taller than Mrs. Brewster, with his thick bull neck and his meat hammer fists but all he says is, “Yes, ma’am.” My mouth is suddenly agape.

“Go on. Shoo shoo shoo! Go see what Anna’s doing,” Mrs. Brewster’s smile is blinding. It is a real smile, not the fake one. “Go on. It’s okay.” I do as I am told, but with each step away from the door I grow more anxious. It is like sticking my finger on a live wire with a low voltage that is slowly increased. My heart is heavy and my fear is electric.

“Sorry,” I say, entering Anna’s room again. Climbing over her bed, I slide into the small gap between the bed and the wall, curl into a ball, and close my one good eye.

I sleep.

The banging wakes me up. The house shakes with each bang. I hear her voice. My mother’s. The voice she uses with strangers, the “bless your heart” voice. Each muscle screams when I stand, my back and head and eye and jaw and legs and arms and everything. Anna is gone. I climb over her bed, open the door, and move as quickly as my aching body will let me, picking up speed, down the hallway, into the family room, into the kitchen. Head down. Always head down.

Mrs. Brewster is standing in the doorway, hands on hips, leaning forward toward the screen door. “I will not send that child back to you. Not now. Not ever. You get off my property or I will call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”

She doesn’t know who she is dealing with, doesn’t know the fury of my mother. “Mrs. Brewster,” I say. I have to go. I have to go now. It will be so much worse. So much worse. She’ll kill me this time. “I…” my voice cracks. “I…” it is a whisper when a roar is needed. “I have to go, Mrs. Brewster.” Still a whisper. I begin to sidle towards the door. “Thank you for the aspirin, and the clothes.”

“Get back.”

“It’s…I mean…I’ll just go now and …”

“I said, ‘Get back.’” It is the same voice she used with Officer Decker earlier.

“Hannah, time to go.” That voice. That voice that makes the hair on my neck stand straight up. “Let’s go. Chop chop.” I start to push past Mrs. Brewster, whose tiny frame blocks the doorway.

Mrs. Brewster spreads her legs wide, plants her hands on her hips, and growls. “You will not take this child.”

I don’t know what to do. I have to go. I have to. It will be so much worse. So much worse. Mrs. Brewster has no idea who she is up against. I stare at my mother’s placid face, her you have no idea what hell I will rain down on you look. I swallow hard. Mrs. Brewster has picked a battle with the devil.

She will lose.

“Now Mrs. Brewster, Laura, I don’t know what she’s told you but I’m sure you know her reputation for being a liar. You can’t believe a word she says.”

Mrs. Brewster digs her heels in deeper. Somehow my mother’s familiar lie has emboldened Mrs. Brewster even more, has fed the angry fire within her.

She does not budge.

My mother realizes this is not working. I recognize the look she uses when others do not do her bidding. She puts her hand on the handle of the screen door. “That is my daughter,” she says, her polite voice slipping, “and she will be coming home with me. Hannah? Let’s go. Now.” My mother regains her composure and smiles.

I try to slide past Mrs. Brewster. She moves her arm slowly back and across my chest, like she is stopping a child from running into the road. Then she steps back, pushing me with her, and shuts the door.

In my mother’s face.

My mother.

“Mrs. Brewster, I have to go. I have to go.” I hear it, the pleading, the shrillness of panic in my voice, and move toward the closed door. She does not budge. Through the kitchen window, I see mother moving across the side lawn. With each step, I feel the flood of emotions drown me.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Brewster says, pulling the kitchen curtain closed. “Mr. Brewster will be home soon, we’ll have some dinner, and then we’ll see what we can do about getting you settled in. This is your home for now, you understand.” She reaches to cup my face in her hand, sees my brief wince, and drops her hand. “You’re safe.”

She says it so casually.

But I know with every passing second I stay, I am closer to death.