Part One - Chapters 1-3

These are the first three chapters of my book, Seven Years Between. Please let me know what you think.

Part One

Chapter 1

The first time I got the death pains I was six. I was jolted awake to a disturbing uproar coming from the kitchen. Mama was hollering and Father was mumbling and every time her hollering got louder, his mumbling got smaller and farther away. I'd never heard words like that come from my mother, wasn't even sure it was her. It sounded like her voice, but didn't have the right cadence. She just wasn't given to much carrying on. She was usually deliberate, slow to speak. Succinct. Her tirade paralyzed me and I became aware of the sound of my heartbeat in my ears. I was unable to move, except to bring my hand to my chest to feel for the source of the pressure. It felt like, while a cruel force was holding me down, my heart might catapult right out of my chest.

It was still dark outside, but felt like morning. I smelled coffee. The rusty screech of the storm door signaled someone either coming or going. I listened carefully to know which it was. The door answered with an angry slam. Everything was quiet for a few seconds, then a shattering crash sent me cowering under my covers. My throat closed and my face got hot, and everything sounded fuzzy. I concentrated on breathing, because if you don't breath you'll die. Mama said that. From my cocoon I could hear mama crying and blowing her nose. I peeked out from under my blanket, fumbled for my glasses, and watched the long hand go past the twelve, two times.

A curly moan echoed from the kitchen. It was the sound Mama made when she heard a sad story, or saw a dead animal on the side of the road. I heard her blow her nose again, sniff and take a deep breath. Then everything was quiet.

"Mama?" I managed, my throat tight with apprehension.

No answer.

"Mama?" I tried again, but couldn't make my voice go very far.

Only stillness. Silence.

When my curiosity outweighed my fear, I emerged from my bed and wrapped my almost still-pink blanket around my neck. Reluctantly, I approached the door of the bedroom. The heaviness in my chest didn't fall off when I got up.

Slowly, I opened the door and peeked around the door jam, into the kitchen. It was dark except for a dim light over the stove. I didn't see my mother, so I called again, "Mama?"

"Hmmm?" a muffled voice answered.

I still couldn't see her, so I tip-toed into the kitchen. The floor was cold and a little bit wet and I stepped on something sharp.

"Mama? Where are you?"

I limped over to wipe my foot on a towel, sticking out of a pile of dirty laundry that was waiting to be washed. As I rubbed the sole of my foot on the towel it moved and I screamed. The laundry pile turned out to be my mother, curled up in the middle of the kitchen floor. She had a towel turbaned around her head that covered her face, and her blue quilted bathrobe was wrapped around her body. The kitchen table cloth, still clutched in her right hand, trailed across her legs. She was curled up like a baby, crying the cry of someone who doesn't want you to hear. I found her face and got right down next to her. With what was left of the silky part of my blanket, I dried her tears. This made her cry even louder. She wiped her nose with the table cloth, then motioned for me to lay down next to her. She spooned me into her belly and found the heavy place in my chest. We stayed like this for a good long time and when she could speak she said, "It's okay Carol. Mama's here, I'm here." Eventually her breath slowed, and her arm relaxed over me so that it was too heavy and I started to squirm. She gave me a squeeze, kissed my hair and whispered, "I miss my Mama." I kissed her wet, salty cheek, then licked it. She tried to smile and scrunched her nose.

"Don't be sad Mama, it's Christmas."

"So it is, and you are my own Christmas Carol."

2

The kitchen floor was dangerous territory that morning. Most of the glass from the the first whiskey bottle landed on the steps outside the kitchen door. But as Mama confessed to Uncle Virg later, the feeling of reeling that bottle at someone so thoroughly marinated in what had been its own contents, was so satisfying that she threw another one, half full this time. The second projectile shattered into the wall, sending whiskey and glass shrapnel into every corner of the tiny kitchen.

Mama got up off the floor and sat me on the kitchen counter. She checked my feet and plucked out a tiny piece of glass. Then she lit a cigarette and turned on the hot water and let it run for a minute as she looked out the window and I looked at her. She tested a warm washcloth to her cheek and wiped my feet with it.

She kissed my foot where the glass had been, and said, "All better. Stay there Peach, I need some different shoes." A thin stream of smoke trailed behind her as she scuffed across the hallway.

I perused the view from my perch. There was an arched opening in the wall between the living room and the kitchen. Our small Christmas tree sat on a table by Father's chair, for lack of space to put it anywhere else. The chair, a small sofa, and Mama's sewing machine competed for what little space there was. Father said a smaller tree was easier to cut down, cheaper to decorate, and faster to dispose of when the "bless-ed holidays" were over. He made the word "bless-ed" sound like a cuss word. I craned my neck to see something sticking out from in back of Father's chair and the anxiety of the morning now had a new target. I wasn't sure, but it could be. I leaned out a little farther and saw the wooden dowel of what might be a handle. It was attached to a length of black curvy metal. I leaned way down and saw what was surely the shape of a wheel. He'd brought it! My heart bubbled in my chest again, but this time for an entirely different reason. My baby buggy. The possibility of Santa actually coming through consumed me. I'd almost traded the death pains for happy anticipation, until Mama tapped back into the room. She was still wearing her bathrobe, but had wound her hair up into a sloppy French twist and was sporting her navy blue platform high heels.

"These should keep me out of the danger zone while I clean up this mess," she said. She planted her cigarette in the corner of her lips and started sweeping.

I stole glances into the living room when she wasn't watching.

A few days earlier, mostly looking at Father even though she was talking to me, Mama said dolls don't need carriages, only real babies do, and that if I wanted a buggy to schlep my doll around, I'd better be hoping Santa didn't realize how particularly foolish and unnecessary it was. She said that even a stamp was beyond our means, so if I wanted to send Santa Clause a letter, I could just fold it up into a paper airplane, throw it out the window of the Empire State Building, and hope it got to the North Pole. I thought how silly that was because it would cost way more to get to the Empire State Building than to use one stamp. So, I took it to Mr. Sorenson next door at the Market. He said if anyone passing through was going to the Empire State Building, he would be sure to give it to them for safe delivery. I suggested anyone going to the North Pole could also deliver it straight away.

I watched as Mama sweep the last bit of glass into the dustpan.

"When can we open presents?" I said, as I wiggled back and forth on the counter with my ankles crossed.

"Soon as you go pee, and I get dressed," she said, and lifted me from the counter.

I wrapped my legs around her waist and my arms around her neck like a baby Koala bear.

"Where is Father?" I whispered in her ear.

She backed up, sat down in a kitchen chair and sat me on her lap, facing her. Then she wrapped both my hands in hers and brought them to her chest and looked me right in the eyes. I could see that hers were holding back a spill.

"Your father is gone Peach. I don't know when we'll see him again. Your father is a liar, and I cannot tolerate a liar."

The death pains surged up again. They squeezed my chest, wrenched my stomach, loosed my bladder, and I peed all over my mothers legs and navy blue high heels, before she lifted me like a wet cat and carried me to the bathroom.

Mama washed my hair and I cried. The bath tub is a good place to cry because you can't count your tears and you can let your nose just drip all it wants. I bet by the time I got out of that tub it was as salty as the Dead Sea. I felt like I needed another bath just to get the sad off. Mama wrapped me in a towel, sat on the toilet seat and rocked me while she hummed the tune to Silent Night.

"I miss my Daddy," I said, before I drifted off to sleep in her arms.

3

The second time I woke up on Christmas morning I was in Mama's bed. I was still wrapped in a towel. At first I wondered why, but then I remembered about Father, and the kitchen floor, and the bath.

"You feeling better honey?" Mama was laying my clothes out on a chair.

"I think so."

"How's your foot?"

I wiggled it around to check. "Fine. My chest feels better too."

"Good. I always feel better after I've had a good cry." She kissed me, then turned in response to the kitchen timer. "My pies are ready, get dressed. Uncle Virg will be here in about an hour."

I lay there for awhile, looking at the pattern in the ceiling and the dirty smudges along the wall by my bed. I made all those smudges with my dirty feet during nap time when I'd rather tip-toe dance, than rest. There was only one bedroom in our apartment. In it there was a chair, a dresser as tall as me, my little white painted iron bed and Mama and Father's big bed. Between the beds stood a wooden watermelon box for our lamp and the wind-up alarm clock that Aunt Marion and Uncle Virg gave me for my Birthday on December 16^th. Aunt Marion said that six was a good age to start taking responsibility for part of yourself, so I put myself in charge of waking up with my alarm clock. Sometimes I liked to time myself. I made up rewards for beating the clock. Like, if I got my teeth brushed, clothes on, and bed made, in less than ten minutes, then I would have a good day and no one would ask me to do any more chores. Mama said I was a good self manager, and good for me because no one else needs to boss me around anyway.

A man on the radio in the kitchen was telling the whole world how unusually warm it was for Christmas in New York. There were way too many clothes on the chair for an unusually warm Christmas day, so I decided to forfeit the wool leggings and wear my white tights instead. I'd wear no tights at all, just cotton socks, except I saw that Mama had laid out the plaid skirt Aunt Marion and Uncle Virg had gotten me for Christmas the previous year. It was so scratchy that I couldn't stand it next to my legs. I don't know why she bought a size 6 when I was only a size 5 last year. I think people do that so a thing will last longer, but what good is anything if it doesn't fit. Aunt Marion repeatedly complained of how painfully thin I was, and tried to feed me all kinds of high calorie concoctions. Mama said I was perfect and that I should only eat when I am hungry. These are the things I liked to eat: pot roast sandwiches with mayonnaise, pork chops--especially the fat around the edges, pistachios, fried potatoes, celery with peanut butter, crumpets with coddled cream--which I only got at my grandmothers house, egg salad sandwiches, and chocolate cake. Those were my favorites. I despised sweet potatoes, okra, lemon bars, chicken legs, and biscuits and gravy.

I tried on the skirt and it fit. Mama said I looked like a private school girl and helped me tuck in the white blouse--which helped with the itchiness, and straighten out my tights. I felt cute, but stiff, even without putting on the sweater and bulky, wool coat that still hung on the back of the chair.

The next thing on my list was to get my hands on that baby buggy. Mama said I needed to eat before presents and that there was oatmeal on the stove. Oatmeal was not my favorite, nor was it something I hated. I just ate it because if she made it and I didn't eat it, I'd get nothing. That's just how we did it here. If I went to Aunt Marion and Uncle Virg's house, all I'd have to do is look at the oatmeal with a sad face and Uncle Virg would make me cinnamon toast and chocolate milk to dip it in. Uncle Virg is the nicest man I've ever known. The oatmeal that day had raisins in it which made it more interesting, but I had to be careful not to over-raisin any one bite so that they would last until the end. It worked out perfect.

I heard Mama walking down the hall in her high heels and was mortified to think that she was still wearing those piss shoes. She turned into the kitchen, stopped in the doorway and put both hands on her hips waiting for me to say, "Who's the most beautiful woman in the entire nation?" like Father always did.

"Why, thank you so much Peach, and I do not deny it," she said, "if you can't look in the mirror and say you're beautiful then nobody else will."

My mother had a confidence that was comforting. Her beauty came more from the inside, than outward adornment. When she looked in the mirror and told herself she was beautiful, it was almost like she was trying to talk herself into it. She always wore a hat when we went out, even to the market. She owned two and today she wore her church one, with three feathers on the side. I scooted my chair away from the table and looked under it to assess the condition of her shoes. She knew as much and said, "There is no harm done from a little bit of pure, sterile urine, and don't you say one more thing about it Peach. It wiped right off and these shoes are perfect with this skirt."

Then she walked directly into the living room, crawled in back of the sofa, and plugged in the Christmas tree lights. I climbed into the chair, knowing full well that my present was right in back of me. I waited for her to bring it out, and practiced in my mind how I would act surprised.

"Alright then," she announced as she sat on the floor, reached for the ash tray, and lit the half-smoked cigarette that was sitting in it. "Let"s play Hot and Cold, to find your present."

We played this game a lot so I knew to stand in the middle of the living room, close my eyes, and turn around a few times before I started forward with my hands out in front of me, like blind man's bluff.

"Cold, cold, cold."

I turned around.

"Warmer..."

I turned left.

"Cold, colder, freezing!"

I giggled and turned around again, covering my eyes with my hands. The temptation to open them was almost more than I could bear. I walked forward and my knees bumped into Father's chair.

"Hot!"

I climbed into the chair and felt all over the seat and up the back, pretending to be curiously stumped.

"Almost boiling!!"

I stood up on the seat cushion and reached over the back of the chair…

"Boiling hot, steaming, burning, hot-hot-hot!" Mama yelled.

I felt the wicker hood of the carriage and opened my eyes, "Oh Mama!" I scrambled over the arm of the chair and maneuvered the treasure out of it's snug hiding place. "This is just like a real buggy, with rubber wheels!"

There was a card on the soft white pillow in the carriage. I opened it. "For Carol, with love from Father," I read slowly. I looked at Mama, "Santa didn't bring it?

"Why no Carol, Santa doesn't bring presents, parents do," she said absentmindedly as she gracefully rose from the floor and proceeded into the kitchen to find her coffee cup. "You might as well know the truth now Peach, nothing comes for free, and most costs more than it's worth. Uncle Virg will be here in a few minutes, did you brush your teeth?"

"Yes, Mama." I was mortified. I even considered she might be lying.

I went to my bed and found Jesse, my doll. I swaddled her and tucked her in the fancy new buggy. They were a perfect fit for each other.

"Can I take Jessie and my buggy to Uncle Virg and Aunt Marion's?"

"If Virgil has room in the car, and it fits, sure. If not, Jessie can come, but the buggy will have to stay. Your suitcase is by the door, we're staying a few days, so put your toothbrush in there, and a book if you want."

I had a toothbrush at Uncle Virg's already, but I packed three books.