Drumbeats into My Heart

49. Seth and the Memory

Bolstered by Aunt Stacy's words, I return to the living room to face Mom. She's stacking patties onto a tray with a wooden spatula. I glance around, hoping my best friend is around for a little moral support, but everyone else seems to have cleared out.

I don't blame them.

"Where's Tai?" I ask.

"There you are," she sets the tray down. "I told him it was best if he left. You and I aren't done talking."

Damn. I guess I'm going to have to do this alone. A heavy lump of resignation weighs in my chest and I sink into a recliner.

"Tell me, what's the deal with this Jordi?" She stands in front of me, wooden spatula still in her hand. "Is she in trouble at school?"

"No! I mean, I don't think so." I pick at a loose thread on the armrest to give my nervous hands something to do.

"You don't know." Her voice is flat, like she doesn't believe me.

I shrug, unsure how to respond to that.

"What do you two talk about?"

I lift a shoulder. "Music. Star Trek. Random stuff."

"You don't talk about school at all?"

"It's summer, why should we?"

Her mouth thins to disapproving line. "You should always be thinking about your future."

I roll my eyes, an action I haven't dared since I was little. Thinking about Jordi makes me feel brave. "Mom, there's more to life than education."

Her grip on the wooden spatula tightens, and I immediately regret the words. And the eye-roll.

She points the spatula at me. "You never acted this way before meeting her. You're going to throw your life away over a girl?"

The regret dissipates at her ridiculous accusation. "What are you talking about? I'm not throwing anything away! I got straight A's last year. What more do you want?"

"Don't you raise your voice at me!" She advances a step so she towers over me, spatula still pointing at me.

I press myself into the recliner, wishing I could dematerialize into it. My breath quickens and my whole body tenses for a blow. She hasn't hit me in years, but the impulse is still there. I can tell. She wants to smack me. My mind reels and I can't stop myself from raising a defensive arm over my face.

I'm seven again. I'd just kicked a ball into Mom's favorite lamp, which sent a picture frame flying... straight into the brand-new television, cracking its screen. It had been a spectacular feat, even for a seven-year-old.

My mother had stomped out from the kitchen, a wooden spatula in her grip. She saw all the damage and flew into a furious, shrieking rage. "What is wrong with you? How many times have I told you never to kick a ball inside the house? Look what you did! Look at it!" She grabbed me by the collar and dragged me to the cracked TV. "Do you know how to fix that?"

When I didn't answer, she increased her volume. "Do you?"

"No," I sobbed, tears beginning to flow.

She let go of my shirt and began waving the wooden spatula as she spoke, whipping it through the air to emphasize certain words. "Your father is doing the best he can to provide for this family. Do you know how much this costs?"

"No." The tears fell with greater intensity.

"Why are you crying?" Her voice held no sympathy. Only fury.

I swallowed hard and my bottom lip began to tremble.

"Crying is not going to get you out of trouble. You did this on purpose. I can't believe what a willful little demon you are. Hold out your hands."

I lifted my tearful eyes from the ground. They were wide with fear. "It was an accident."

"Don't lie to me. I know how little boys are. You asked for cookies earlier and I said no, and this is what you do. Now, give me your hands."

Her cold, steely eyes made me tremble. "I'm not lying!"

Her hand flew out and slapped my face. I wobbled on my feet, stunned. She grabbed my arm, which I had thought was to steady me.

I was wrong.

She yanked it up, hand tight on my forearm.

Whack!

The flat head of the wooden spatula smacked against my knuckles, and I yelped in pain.

Whack!

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to pull away.

Whack!

I cried out, begging her to stop. Why was my own mother hurting me like this?

Whack!

The last blow hit so hard, the spatula snapped in half.

At last she let me go, saying, "Next time, you do what I tell you. Understand?"

I was crying too hard to respond.

"Do you understand me?"

"Yes," I hiccupped, trying to control my sobs.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Finally appeased, her expression softens slightly. Very slight. "Good. Now go clean yourself up while I deal with this mess."

I ran to the bathroom and threw myself onto the floor, the fluffy little rug the only comfort for my uncontrollable sobs.

I'd never been so scared in my life.

"Seth?"

I blink myself back to the present and peek around my raised arm.

She had set the spatula onto the coffee table, a pained expression in her eyes. "Seth, I..." She reaches out to touch my hair.

I automatically recoil.

She draws back as if stung. Her arms drop to her sides, and for a brief moment, she looks contrite. Then it all becomes shuttered, as if she's drawn a curtain over her features. "I don't want you seeing her anymore, and that's that."

She spins around and stalks to her room, slamming the door behind her.

I spend a good long minute staring at that spatula on the table. It's various shades of brown, stained from years of use. She'd bought it right after breaking the other one.

I stand, reaching for it to return it to the kitchen, but pull my hand back instead, absently rubbing my knuckles. I swallow. My hand had stung for hours that day. The bruises eventually went away, but the scars that formed aren't the kind anyone can see.

The line between discipline and abuse can be a blurry one. Even votes can't clear it up.