The Pain You Hide

Day 38

I stifle a yawn as I refresh my email. Last night, the feeling of being watched returned when I was getting ready for bed. A full search of the house turned up nothing, but I still didn't get much sleep. When six o'clock hit, I was still awake, so I decided to get a head start on my work. Everything I needed to do was done before noon. Not wanting to sit around with my thoughts, I decided to get out of the house. I went for a jog for the first time in forever and stopped by the store to pick up some food. My mother's presence was everywhere. In the flowers growing in the park and in the ice cream section in the freezer ile. She was even in an old dress in my closet. I was in desperate need of a distraction.

I glare at the inbox icon. No new emails.

"C'mon," I mutter, sipping my second cup of coffee. "Give me something."

A new email from my team pops up. Thank god. It's just one task--sending the designer the final changes on a poster they wanted done--but it was something. Curious to see how it's coming along, I download the attached image. A woman, tears streaming down her face, sits in a dark corner and glances at something fuzzy in the foreground. Time stops and goes in reverse. Each breath is harder to take as a specific day in college plays out in fragments in my mind.

My english class is critiquing my paper; it's boring, too monotone, hard to follow, sleep inducing. My professor asks to see me. He advises I should drop the class. My work isn't good enough. It's never been good enough. I run back to my dorm room. My roommate isn't home. Voices in my head. Not good enough. Same old thing. I want them to stop, but they don't. I want my mom. I want her to help me. No phone. Dropped it in the toilet and the new one's not here yet. Forget it. She doesn't need to know I'm no good. Not good enough. Not like her. Make the voices stop. My roommate has something. Sleeping pills? Will they make it stop? Maybe. Maybe sleeping will help. As long as it stops.

I come out of the memory when my phone beeps. The battery is dying. I take a deep breath, hold it for ten seconds, and let it out. The panic eases somewhat, but it's still there. I can feel it just under the pain in my chest. I close my laptop and grab a glass of water. My hands are shaking. I thought I would be over it by now. I thought it was behind me. I'm not that girl in college any more.

"Am I?" I whisper to myself.

The last time I thought about my mental break in college, I was sitting with my mother in the hospital after her stroke. I had no words for her then. Still don't. All I could think about was if I had the same expression on my face when I was in the hospital. She looked so empty. I wondered what she would have said to me if she had known--if I had let the school and doctors tell my mother what had happened. Would she be lost for words too? Or would she know just what to say? I was envious of the words she might have said--a part of me still is. Now I see her how she really was that day--how I was all those years ago in college: broken. Too embarrassed and ashamed, I never said anything. Everything was fine. I wanted everything to be fine.

I know you're scared, Margret. I bet your mother is too.

I glance at the time. There'll be traffic, but it shouldn't be too bad if I go now. My hands hesitate to grab my keys. What if she's still that. . .thing? What do I do then? Fear twists up my spine and settles in my chest. I bite my lip and leave before I change my mind. When I pull into her driveway, excuses to turn back find their way into my head. What if she's asleep? What if she kicks me out? What if she's not home? Standing before the door, the fear already in my chest doubles.

"One thing at a time, Margret." I knock. No answer. I ring the doorbell. Still nothing. With each second she doesn't answer, I can feel my heart rate climb. I pull out my key with shaking hands, crack open the door, and call out.

"Mother?" I say before remembering our last encounter. "Cathy?" Nothing. Taking a deep breath, I walk in.

Her house is a wrech.

The couch is in pieces as well as any other furniture she had. Knick knacks and books--some destroyed, some intact--are thrown everywhere. Shredded clothes litter the floor. I can't even begin to guess what the splatter is on the walls. Are those claw marks? I can feel myself hyperventilating as I travel further into the house. The rest of it looks much like the living room. I arrive at my mother's door and hold my breath. A faint noise reaches my ears. Is that whimpering?

"Mother?" I say, knocking lightly. No response, but I can still hear the whimpers. Moving slow, I open the door and peek inside.

I don't see anything at first. Her room seems to be the least destroyed. As I look closer, I notice a figure huddled in the corner. I yell, backing into the wall. The figure is a ghost. It must be. Why else would it's body be transparent? My body tells me to run. Leave and don't look back, but something keeps me from moving. The whimpering. I've heard it before. Often enough to know in a heartbeat who it belongs to. With small steps, I enter the room, my heart pounding. My screaming didn't seem to startle the figure; it's still sitting in the corner, head in it's knees. When I'm as close as I dare to be, I crouch to it's level.

"Mom?"

She looks up, and I clap a hand over my mouth to keep from yelling. Tears spring to my eyes as I look at her. Her eyes are sunken in and her cheekbones are prominent. Long white hair cascades around her face and her skin is a transparent grey. She looks nothing like how I remember, but I know she's my mother. The first of many sobs escapes me. I sit there and cry until I cry myself to sleep. I don't wake up until I feel the sun's rays on my face the next morning.

Déjà vu comes over me when I pick up the sounds of a flute. I push myself off the floor, adrenaline rushing through my veins, and head to the backyard. I expected to see her sitting under the tree, but that doesn't stop my heart from skipping a beat at the sight. I know if I step closer, I'll see the horns. She was a ghost yesterday. How is this happening? A dream? I pinch myself; I barely feel the pain. Whether that's because I'm dreaming or because of the adrenaline, I'm not sure. As the melody she plays ends and my fear creeps in, I promise myself one thing: I'm not leaving her alone this time.