The Chronicles of Us

нαуєѕ

I eventually
told her
about most
of my life.
No one
really has
ever known
that much
about me.
Well,
my mom
was from
the richest family
around.
She was
beautiful,
tall,
thin,
and
smart.
She was
the
real deal.
When she was
seventeen,
she
fell in love
with a
leather crafter
from a
riffraff family.
Well,
she claimed
it to be love.
But her
parents
didn't
approve
of the marriage,
they wanted
a doctor
or
lawyer
for their
only
daughter.
But they
married
fresh
out of
high school
(my mother finished high school, my father never graduated)
and
my mom
had
Olive
nine months later.
My mother's
parents
cut her off
after that.
My dad
wasn't
the best man
in the world.
He was
really abusive
to my mom.
She was
scared
to death
of her husband.
She was also
scared
to death
of leaving him.
She tried
several times,
she was going
to take
Olive
and go
far away
and file
for divorce,
but he always
caught her
before she'd
leave
and beg
for forgiveness.
She'd always
give it to him
of course,
and he'd
beat the hell
out of her
afterword.
She stopped
trying to leave
when she
found out
she was
pregnant
again.
The beating
only
got worse,
though.
As myself
and
Olive
grew,
we began
to adjust
to the
beating
of our mother.
Our father
wouldn't dare
lay a finger
on Olive,
though.
He'd
occasionally
get to me,
but usually
he'd be
too drunk
to find me
and Olive.
Our favorite
hiding spot
was in the
loose boards
behind my bed.
I didn't understand
the concept
of playing
hide-and-go-seek.
(That's what Olive called it when we were little)
I didn't get it
until I would
put
two and two
together.
My mother's
sobbing.
My mother's
bruises.
She'd try
to be quiet
when he
beat her.
She didn't
want to frighten
me and Olive.
We would
just stay
in our
hiding spot
under the bed,
or under
the tables,
or in the closet,
perhaps
even in the
bathtub,
until my mother
would find us
and rock us
to sleep,
telling us
that she
just fell
for the
third time
that week.
We wouldn't
say anything,
but she'd
just
balance us
in her arms,
Olive
a bit
bigger
than me,
me a bit
scragglier
than Olive,
in her
bruised
arms.
She would
keep
apologizing
to us.
We didn't
know why
until we
were older.
I was six
when she died.
Olive
was eleven.
She didn't
even
have
a funeral.
My father
had taken
every dime
she had
ever
worked for
and spent it
on alcohol,
so a funeral
was out
of the question.
Legally,
her cause
of death
was
an aneurism.
But I guess
it would
come in handy
to have
befriended
a medical
examiner
like
my father did.

My father
would bring
a lot of people
in our house.
He'd bring
all of his buddies
to the house
and they'd
get drunk.
Olive and I
would
lock ourselves
in my
bedroom
on the
top floor
and hold
each other
under the sheets
of my bed.
I didn't
recall it
being hard
to live
without
a mother.
It was hard
for me
to remember her.
I forgot
what she
looked like
because
my father
burned
all of her
pictures.
I couldn't
remember
what her voice
sounded like
when she
sang us
to sleep,
or the smell
of her hair
or her clothes.
My sister
hated me
for that.
Since
Olive
had five years
on me,
she was
bigger than me
for a long time.
Whenever
I'd confess
to honestly
not remembering
something
about our mom,
she'd pin me down
and
scream
at me:
"Make yourself remember, Hayes, make yourself remember mommy!"
And I'd try,
God,
I'd try.
But I couldn't
bring myself
to remember
her.
Olive would
curl up
and
weep
about it,
and
I'd try
to comfort her
because
I hated
to see
people cry.
Olive
would just
get mad
at me
for forgetting her.
I'd get mad
at myself
for it,
too.
And she'd say,
"Don't you remember The Day Of The Kites, Hayes?"
And
I'd
shake
my
head.
"Hayes, you vowed to never forget." She'd
start
to cry.
"Olive,"
I'd say,
"why don't you tell me about The Day Of The Kites so I can remember?"
She'd
wipe
her tears
away
and nod.
"Okay, I'll tell you about The Day Of The Kites."
And she'd begin.
"The Day Of The Kites was when daddy got sick. He was throwing up a whole lot. And so mommy took care of him. When he wasn't throwing up anymore, he was sleeping. So mommy didn't have to take care of him. So she took me and you to get ice cream. We got the kind that was green with chocolate pieces in it. You got chunks of chocolate in your teeth, don't you remember? And after we licked our spoons dry, we flew kites on the beach. My kite looked like a bird on fire and yours was a dragon. Mommy had a towel for us to sit on, so we watched the kites and started telling knock-knock jokes. And after you told the one about the orange, we went inside and dusted off the CD player. Then we danced for hours, Hayes; you and me and mommy. Then we all cuddled up in the bed and she told us that she loved us and made us promise to never forget that day. And we promised. And before we fell asleep, she whispered,
"Have you heard the joke about the orange?" And we laughed ourselves to sleep. Don't you remember, Hayes?"
"Oh yes, Olive."
I'd say,
"I remember."
I would
tell her that
even though
the story
was not
the slightest
bit familiar.

When
Olive
was small,
she never
brushed
her head
of golden curls.
She never
changed
her pink
nightgown
and never
washed her
feet
that always
seemed
to be
black
from
dirt.
She always
carried
around
a bear
with a
ripped ear
and a
missing
button eye.
It wasn't
until
mom
died
that she went
through changes.
I was used
to the
messy
little girl
with
tangly hair
and
playful
green eyes,
not the
tall girl
with a
curved
waist
and
cheeks
without the
chub.
My sister
was
growing up.
I wasn't
the only one
to notice.
When
Olive
turned fourteen,
she was
quite pretty.
She
reminded me
of the
vague
memory
I had
of my mother,
if it was
correct.
But my
father
had a friend
who came
to the house.
He was drunk,
and so was
my father.
My father
passed out
on the couch,
and his friend
found
my sister
in her room.
When I heard
the screaming,
I ran to her room
and found him
clinging to
Olive's body
like
saran wrap.
At nine,
it was
pretty hard
to get
a grown man
off
of a little girl.
But an
iron skillet
helped.
My sister
was okay.
She was
only
scared
to death.
The man
hadn't
even done
anything
but fall
on her
and slobber
all over her
before I
got there.
But we
both knew
his intentions.
As I got older,
my father
started
beating me
like he'd
beat
my mom.
I could
defend
myself
better than
she could,
though.
I would
never
let my father
go near
my sister,
no matter
the consequence.