The book on her lap wasThe Bell Jar, spine cracked, face down. Sylvia Plath’s words absorbed in the satin of her dress.
And there she was. . .my mother.
Rocking.
Back.
And forth.
Humming the chorus under her breath.
And I knew, in that eerie, marrow-deep way only a child could, that she was waiting forhim.
For the man who should have come home hours ago.
So young and not understanding what was going on. . .still silent tears rolled hot down my cheeks as I remained in the shadows.
I remember wanting to whisper, “Mommy. . .”
But kept quiet because for some reason I always thought. . .
If I speak, I might break her.
It was always that sort of feeling throughout those years.
No one told me that she would break, but I just assumed that. . .I had to be quiet, careful, and low-maintenance. I didn’t know what age it happened, but I realized that my sadness was less urgent than hers, and that my mother’s heart was always. . .his.
There was only so much of her to go around.
Even when she held me, part of her was waiting.
Waiting for footsteps.
Waiting for headlights in the driveway.
Waiting for a man who rarely came home on time.
Then, in the dream. . .someone suddenly whispered from the opposite direction, “Ms. Palmer. . .”
The voice came from down the hallway.
Low.
Careful.
Male.
But, it wasn’t my daddy’s voice or anyone else I remembered.
Curious, I wiped my face quickly with the back of my hand, smearing tears against my cheek as I turned from the view of my mother in the rocking chair next to the window.
The voice came again, closer now. “Ms. Palmer. . .”
The sound hovered in the dark. I had to know who was there and why they were calling my mother. My feet padded forward on the cool wood. The hallway was long, longer than it had ever been in real life.
“Ms. Palmer. . .”
My stomach tightened.
