A Very Hard Life

My mother lived a very hard life. I knew this because she told me often.

"I used to be a pretty woman," She'd say. I had no memory of this. I watched as she carried herself carefully down the hallway, holding on to her cane as if it were a mighty staff. She trusted it with the weight of her frail body, which had become, over time, large and misshapen.

The hallway had once been filled with photographs of me as a child, alongside images of my mother and father, young and full of life, frozen in their still embrace. I'd examined them many times, hoping to someday be kissed the way that he kissed her. His lips touched her glowing face as she smiled at the camera. These moments captured on film served only to remind my mother of the way things had been, which was nothing like the way things were.

I'd noticed the photographs had been taken down and placed in a box in the hallway closet, left in the dark with an array of floral linen. "Why did you take them down?" I asked.

"They make me sad." She said.

My father liked to leave town for days at a time. When he was home, he hardly spoke to me, although he once had. He merely appeared on occasion, smelling of smoke and liquor, to collapse quietly on their bed. My mother gazed at him with heavy eyes, like a weary spirit, forever ignored. Father stepped sternly through the house, removing his coat and leaving it on the chair beside her. I liked to hold it in my arms and breathe his scent, recounting memories of him holding me in his lap and telling me stories about his childhood. I wanted to hear more of them.

When he wasn't around, I asked my mother where he'd gone.

"He's working." She'd say. "I don't know when he's coming home."

My father's absence didn't seem to worry my mother, who spent entire days hovering over the telephone, dialing numbers she'd memorized, waiting anxiously for an answer. She lit cigarettes and finished them, one by one, meanwhile sending me to the grocery to retrieve bread and milk and medication.

"You see, I'm cripple." She said, relentlessly into the telephone, to anybody willing to listen. The phrase sickened me each time I heard it. I'd hide in my room to avoid hearing her speak. "I've had a hard life." She'd say, "It all started when I lost my baby."

At the age of five, my mother informed me that she would be having a baby. She could walk better, then. She pulled my old bassinet from the crawl space and put it together in the bedroom she shared with my father. She listened to the radio as she sat at the sewing machine, piecing together a quilted blanket with colored fabric and thread. The baby's name was going to be either Langston Charles or Lauren Caroline. I nervously pondered my responsibility as an older sister. My mother quickly taught me how to properly wash a diaper, and warm a bottle in a pot of hot water.

The morning after the baby arrived, my mother laid her out on a blanket across the bed.

"She's too thin." She said. Lauren Caroline remained curled in a tight ball. Her tiny hands and toes were a shade of lavender and cold to the touch. I covered her with a blanket and blew warm air onto her pale face. She hardly opened her eyes, but when she did, I peered into them with wonder. They were dark, and seemed to gaze into nowhere.

It seemed, to me, a problem with a simple solution. She needs more milk, I thought. I made this suggestion to my mother, who cradled the baby in her arms, wearily. She pushed me away with her own, fragile hand.

It was not long after Lauren Caroline arrived in the world that she left, abruptly. It was a cold and quiet morning. My mother screamed and went down the steps and into the yard in the midst of winter, wearing only her nightgown.

My father wrapped Lauren Caroline in the quilt my mother had made, and placed her in my old bassinet, which now stood in the foyer of our home. My aunts and uncles came to the house with their own children in tow, carrying plates of food and baskets filled with freshly baked bread. My mother remained in her bedroom with the lights out, laying motionless at the edge of the bed. I moved from the foyer to the bedroom and crawled into the sheets beside her. I wrapped my arms around her and held her. Somewhere within my sadness, I wondered if there was something I could have done to prevent my mother from suffering such pain.

Before she was taken away, I peered into the bassinet, topped with a lace shade that cast patterns of sunlight onto her still face. I lifted the fabric and reached my hand out to touch her. Her skin, once soft and supple, now felt cold and firm. I wondered where my sister had truly gone.

"Get your hands out of there!" My father hissed, slapping me away with his heavy hand. Ashamed, I ran into the dark bedroom and climbed back into bed with my mother.

We buried Lauren Caroline at the edge of our property, beneath my favorite magnolia tree. It's arms were long and empty, and I lay flowers on her grave and spoke to her as if she'd never left. "In the Spring," I said, "this tree will bloom just for you."

The next year, my mother began feeling pain in her legs. She was unable to leave her bed now, so Dr. Holloway came to see us at home. He gave her medicine and told her to keep warm. He said the pain would pass, but it didn't.

Each time Dr. Holloway visited my mother, he also visited with me. He came to my room and sat down on the floor with his hands in his lap. He asked me to introduce him to my doll collection. My father had given me one doll each year for Christmas, and I'd kept them pristine and well cared for. When they weren't rested on their individual stands, they were sleeping in my arms. They were my babies, and I'd vowed to never let anything happen to any of them.

"How do you like going to school?" He asked.

"Oh, I enjoy it very much."

This was true. My outdated school building felt to me like a place in a dream. It was well-lit and warm, and everywhere you looked, you found life. At school, I would find myself smiling and laughing, as if I'd forgotten, for a moment, that I'd ever have to go back home. I packed my bag each night as if I were preparing to go on a vacation far away. In the morning, I'd skip to school joyfully with my lunchbox. I didn't have anyone to walk beside me, but I'd made a few friends that year. One in particular was Caroline. I didn't mention that her name held any significance to me, though I'm sure it was part of why I liked her so much. She had very rosy cheeks, and a loud, obnoxious laugh. Caroline invited me over to her house often, and so I'd follow her home after school.

Caroline lived in a house that was much smaller than mine, and on the other side of town. She had many brothers, all rambunctious boys with boisterous voices. They picked at us and called us names, but we didn't care. I appreciated the attention, and would have given them each a hug, had they ever allowed such a thing. I liked to imagine that I was their little sister, someone they'd call names, but would also be willing to fight for, if necessary. I wanted them to grab me by the neck and dig their knuckles into my scalp while I kicked and wailed, like they did to Caroline.

Caroline's family didn't have many fancy things, but she did have a rope swing in her backyard. She'd climb onto it with her dirty, bare feet and I'd push and pull her in all directions. I told her she looked like a monkey, swinging so easily, without a care in the world. Her yellow hair fell incessantly into her face, and I marveled at what it might be like to be so pretty.

Caroline's mother was a seamstress, and worked in her home. She didn't mind if we came inside, as long as we washed our feet in a bucket on the porch beforehand. She gave us towels to dry off with, and fed us biscuits with syrup and glasses of milk. Her father was a hard-working man, she told me. She called him Daddy, and sometimes he'd surprise the children by bringing chocolate home in the evening. The oldest boy, Dominique, unwrapped the candy carefully, divided it equally, then handed out the peices. I held mine in my tongue and savored it's buttery sweetness until it melted and disappeared at the back of my mouth.

As the sun began to set, Caroline's mother would tell me to go home. "Your mother is going to be worried sick," she'd say. I knew that this wasn't true. I knew that my mother would hardly notice my absence, as she seemed to do with most of the people in her life. Nobody seemed to matter much to her anymore. What mattered was that people knew of her situation, and that they felt pity for her. She never asked for anything else.

When I returned from my long walk home that night, I found my mother asleep, sitting in her chair. She held the ashy remains of a cigarette between her fingers, a clear sign she had fallen asleep with it in her hand. I switched off the lamp that illuminated the shape of her body, turning the room a silent black. I went quietly to my room and got into bed, alone with my thoughts.

The next day, before leaving for school, I asked my mother if I could stay the night with my friend.

"What is her name?" She said.

"Allison." I lied.

"Well, who's going to take care of me if you are gone?"

I promised that I would call her as soon as I arrived and give her the address of the house. She reluctantly agreed, and gave me change to bring a pack of cigarettes home the next morning. I'd never slept at anyone's house before, and I couldn't wait to tell Caroline. I ran to school as fast as I could, stopping only once along the way. I picked two tiny flowers from a rosebush that lined a picket fence I always admired along my route. I hadn't noticed the old lady sitting on her porch, and she hollered at me from across the lawn. "Hey, scram!" She said.

When I arrived at school, I handed Caroline the rose I'd picked just for her. She slid the rose into the pocket of her teeshirt. I put my own rose in my hair, behind my ear. When my teacher saw me, she told me I was creative. To my surprise, she let me wear the flower in my hair for the entire day.

After school, Caroline said we were going to the soup kitchen. This was something she and her brothers liked to do on Friday afternoons.

"Isn't that a place for poor folks?" I asked.

"We are poor folks!" She laughed. I'd never considered this before.

The soup kitchen was a small, concrete building not far from the school. We walked behind a pack of tough, older children whom I'd never seen before.

"Nice flower." Somebody said. "You look like a whore."

My face become hot with embarrassment, and so I ripped the rose from my hair quickly, and shoved it into my pocket. Angry, I crushed its petals between my fingers, my quiet attempt to hold back the tears. I was mad at myself for putting the flower in my hair, and I was mad at the little flower for even growing in the first place. I ground it to a mushy pulp, then wiped the sticky remains onto my pants.

When we reached the soup kitchen, we went to the back of a long line that stretched far from the door. We talked with some other children and took turns guessing what kind of soup we would have. I hoped for tomato soup, or chicken noodle. These were things my mother had cooked for me often, and I longed to taste them again.

As the line began moving, and subsequently grew longer, we became more rowdy and less patient. I stood with my hands in my pockets, and glanced around at the houses that lined the opposite side of the street. I'd never seen this part of town before. The houses were old and very close together. They each had tall, beautiful trees at the edge of the driveway. It was then that I noticed a car that looked a lot like my father's passing us on the street. It was a white Ford, sparkling as my father's smile.

The white Ford turned into one of the many driveways, and came to a smooth stop. I watched as a small woman exited the vehicle with two young girls donning freshly curled hair. The driver's side door opened, and out stepped my father. He was wearing a dress shirt and a tie.

"That's my Papa!" I said, more loudly than I meant to.

Caroline turned to see where I was looking. The man went to the woman's side, putting his arm around her waist. They began walking up the steps to the house.

"That's my Papa!" I said, again.

A boy in line ahead of us turned around and laughed at me. "Sure it is!"

I jumped into the air and called his name in the loudest voice I could muster. I waved my arms in the air as I yelled for him.

"Papa! Papa!" I howled.

The man turned around, looking surprised. From across the street, I could see him clearly. I recognized the shape of his chin, and his thick, dark hair, swept back and out of his eyes. When he saw me, he turned around quickly and swept the woman and children into the house, shutting the door behind him.

"That's your Papa alright!" Another boy chimed in.

When we reached the front of the line, an older lady poured me a serving of soup into a small, paper bowl. It was a thin soup, with potatoes and corn in a yellow broth. Caroline tipped her bowl back and finished it quickly, licking her pink, salty lips. I held mine in my hands, unable to find a hunger within me to have a single taste.

"If you're not going to eat that, at least let someone else have it." Another lady said, taking the bowl from my hands. I pressed my hands together in front of me, still warm from the bowl I'd been holding. The image of my father with his arms around the mysterious woman haunted me as we began the walk back to Caroline's house in silence.

When we arrived home, Caroline's mother met us at the door. She had flour on her apron, and wasn't wearing any shoes. She knelt down on her knees and kissed each unwilling child, one at a time. The boys pulled away from her, embarrassed by her motherly embrace. When all the children had run away, she came to me. I froze. I wasn't sure what to say or do.

"Give me your hands, sweet child." She said.

With this, she took my hands into her own and brushed them with her calloused fingers. She lifted my palm and placed it softly upon her lips.

"Your fingers smell like roses!" She said.

Later that evening, after washing up and getting into our nightclothes, Caroline's brother crept into the bedroom. I noticed he was once again wearing his shoes.

"Are you coming or not?" He said, whispering aggressively at his younger sister.

"Yes, I'm coming." She said, defensively. "I'm not afraid."

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Shh. You'll see."

The second oldest boy, Samuel, quietly opened the bedroom window and hopped out, falling to the dirt below. Caroline hushed him, then climbed carefully out and into the yard herself. I followed behind, allowing one of the boys to softly lower me onto the ground.

"Where are we going?" I asked again, louder this time. Once again, nobody answered me.

I followed the pack of children through the yard and into a shed, where the boys poked around in search of a shovel and a flashlight.

"We're digging up Ms. Sherry's baby." Caroline said.

With wide, unsure eyes, I watched my steps as we crept through the dark and into a patch of forest, then finally to a wide clearing. Aside from the flashlight, the only source of light was the moon, which lulled overhead, casting a warm fog. We searched the clearing until we reached a little mound of dirt. Sam shined the light onto a small wooden plaque that read, Baby Elizabeth.

In this moment, I wanted to fight the boys, tell them to go back to the house and go to bed. I knew that this was wrong. But I feared being laughed at, or pushed to the ground. Instead, I stood back and closed my eyes, waiting for it all to be over. Samuel began digging first, one heap at a time. Then Dominique took a turn. I listened to the shovel scraping dirt and gravel until it sounded as if it bounced against a hollow box. The two oldest boys reached in and pulled the box from the ground. I opened my eyes to see it, a tiny wooden coffin.

"That ain't no six feet." Dominique said. He marveled at how much easier the task had been than expected. At the request of his older brother, Samuel wedged the sharp end of the shovel into the box and began prying it open. Finally, it came apart with a loud cracking sound. All was quiet now, aside from my own, heavy breathing. I could feel the moon, now, far over my shoulder, watching me.

Within the box lay what looked like a small white doll. It was wearing a little lace gown, still white and fresh, and laid carefully onto a satin pillow. The boys stood around it curiously, taking turns poking it with their fingers. "I dare you to touch it," one of them said.

"You don't have to do it." I said to Caroline, who stood motionless with her finger already outstretched. Her hair had been braided before bed, but the braids were beginning to fall, and wisps of hair fell around her face. "You don't have to." I said, once more.

Caroline looked at her brothers, and then to me, and then back to her brothers. She stepped forward and leaned over, gazing into the tiny coffin. I imagined the man who built the coffin with his own hands. Caroline reached out slowly to touch the girl, her arm shaking.

Suddenly, Samuel shoved his foot into Caroline's back, knocking her forward and into the coffin with the girl. Together, they toppled into the hole, Carolyn and the girl spilling out and into the grave in a mess of white cloth and wild, yellow hair.

"You little shit!" She howled, climbing out and dusting herself off. "Go to hell!" I'd never seen Caroline so angry. She took off running, leaving a cloud of dust to disappear nearby. The other boys followed, laughing and calling, too amused at the sight of their brother running from a girl.

"Wait!" I yelled.

After the footsteps faded into the distance, everything was quiet. I was all alone now, with the moonlight, which glowed softly against the silhouette of the girl's sleeping face, resting in the dirt. I reached down and lifted her into my arms. I dusted her dress with my hands and brushed the dirt from her thin, whispy hair. I placed her back onto the pillow, gently arranging her in the way that we had found her.

After closing the coffin, I pushed it carefully back into it's place. I picked up the shovel and tried my best to cover her up. I patted it hard so that nobody would know that it had been bothered. I sat the grave marker in the position it had previously been in, and carried the shovel and flashlight back to the house.

The next morning, I said goodbye to my friend. I started the long walk home with my schoolbag, remembering to stop at the store to buy a pack of cigarettes for my mother. I passed my school and the house with the rose bushes. The old woman was sitting on her porch, eyeing me, so I ran by quickly. I reached my house, went up the front steps and into the foyer. I found my mother half asleep in her chair, the Saturday sun doing it's best to creep through the closed curtains.

"I'm home." I said.

"Did you bring my cigarettes?" She asked, waking up.

"I did."

I decided to tell my mother about my father over breakfast, oatmeal, which I prepared for us on the stove and served in two small bowls. She glared at me from behind her spoon, which she struggled to put to her mouth.

"You saw your father? With another woman?" She asked.

"Yes ma'am."

All was quiet for a moment.

"Why are you lying to me?" She asked.

I said nothing.

"Is this Allison girl teaching you to lie now? If that is the case, you will not be going back to that house."

My mother put her oatmeal down and lit a cigarette between her lips.

"I've lived a very hard life." She moaned. "And now i've got a liar for a daughter. You're not to go over there again."

I ate my oatmeal in silence, and decided that this was probably a good idea.