The Hanging Words

Muscling Memory

I've never understood why the bells in the tower bring me comfort. Perhaps they remind me of an easier time—a time when the most pressing issue in my arsenal was having to suffer through an hour of mass while wearing a bowtie. My parents were all about donning your Sunday best when it came to The Lord. That meant slacks, blazer, button-up, the whole nine yards. Which was torturous as a pre-adolescent. The issues that plague a youthful mind seem abhorrent in the moment—we can't fathom that things can be worse. I'm a firm believer that sadness never leaves us, but neither does happiness. They compound, additions to either side tipping the scale so that we are more of one or the other at any given moment. Wearing that bowtie is still down at the bottom of that bucket somewhere, but it's buried underneath death and disappointments and loneliness.

As I travel along the sidewalk with my niece, I'm reminded of this. We haven't spoken much about last night's incident. She took some coaxing, but after I sat with her for a few minutes, she fell right asleep—youthful minds might not forget trauma, but in some ways they're better at temporarily coping with it. I didn't sleep worth shit, tossing and turning on the couch downstairs and angry as hell with myself for being so awake. After all, I hadn't seen anything, but Mariana's reaction had been enough to spook me.

She turns to me now, hand yanking mine to get attention, and says, "Do you think it's because of Mommy?"

I snap out of my bell-filled train of thought. "Do I think what was because of your mommy?"

"The monster last night."

"Why would you say that?"

"Things happen, but only since Mommy died."

I pause, looking between the tiny girl holding my hand and the church maybe a quarter mile ahead of us. We'll be late, probably, which won't make Aunt Evora very happy, but I think some things are more important than being punctual.

"Have you seen the monster before?" I ask, squatting down so that we're at eye level. She avoids my gaze.

"No," she says. "But the night after Mommy died, Daddy was looking at old pictures, so I did too. And I thought something was watching me, only I couldn't see it."

"I see. That doesn't sound very nice."

She shakes her head, mouth a thin, straight line.

I try my best to sound confident and understanding. "Sometimes, when we're at our most vulnerable, we imagine things—our fears come to life. Your mommy would've never sent anything to scare or harm you. I know that for a fact, so you should believe it too. She loved you more than the whole wide world."

Mariana nods, crossing her arms, though it looks more like she's hugging herself for comfort. "I miss her a lot," she says, looking like she might start crying.

"I know you do," I whisper. "I miss her too."

"She wouldn't have let the monster near me."

"You bet."

"Daddy says she could see them too—because of her disease."

So that's what this is about. I close my eyes, letting my head fall just a little bit. The world can be such a fucked-up place. Especially for a little kid. We try to spare children the worst of it, but the universe doesn't care about age. Maybe it's because the world is so ancient; the difference between a newborn and a hundred-year-old is indistinguishable.

"Your mommy had a shitty disease, yes," I say, trying to keep myself from crying now. All I can see in my head is a vision of Dores, smiling and carefree like I remember her. No signs whatsoever that she was suffering. "But that doesn't mean you do too. It doesn't always work that way. It might...it might just be that all the scary monsters are up here." I tap my temple with my index finger.