Tucked Away

Part One

ONE

       Had my father had things his way, I wouldn’t have made it past my first day of life. Mama told me later that he wasn’t supposed to be at my birth in the first place, that there’d been some sort of order to keep him away. I guess he’d charmed some hospital nurse and schmoozed his way in anyway, and my mother was too busy and exhausted from labor to argue.  She didn’t have to put up with him long.  One look at my twisted features and he threw a fit big enough to get him thrown out of the maternity ward.  The hospital staff tried to stay professional, but Mama said she could see the pity in their faces, and she stunned them all into silence by looking into my face and smiling with unabashed pride. 

        “Isn’t my little girl just beautiful.”

        They say a mother’s love knows no bounds, and Mama proved herself again and again, starting in that delivery room and ending on the day that she died, on the day of my startling birth, sixteen years later.

       “Mama?”

       Bouncing down the stairs in my fluffy white robe, my thoughts were filled with the Annual Birthday Breakfast ritual, which always included hot cinnamon rolls and lots of nearly burnt bacon, my all-time favorite. My fingers slid down the bannister, eager to dig into some delicious grub and hoping I could talk Mama into letting me have a cup of coffee with my roll.  She wasn’t crazy about me having caffeine, but I figured a girl’s gotta have some sort of natural stimulants in her life and besides, there’s nothing like coffee with a sweet, gooey cinnamon roll.

        I never wore my facemasks when it was just Mama and me in the house, but I usually had one close at hand in case someone came to the door or otherwise surprised me. In the pocket of my robe was a birthday-themed mask, one of dozens Mama had made for me over the years. She had used a soft fabric featuring a birthday cake and streamer pattern.  I checked for its presence again with my fingers, and the feel of the cloth reassured me.

        I was confused when I reached the kitchen, because Mama wasn’t there, and although there was a homemade sign that read “HAPPY SWEET SIXTEEN, MIRA,” there was a noticeable lack of breakfast scents.  No cinnamon, no bacon, no Mama. I wandered into the living room, but only Shakespeare, our thirteen year-old tabby cat was there, stretched out on the floor like a striped rug.  Shakespeare was great at cuddling but not so great at baking, so I was mostly uninterested at the moment. Even so, I stroked his head a few times, knowing if I walked by and ignored him he’d chase after me, clinging to my leg.  Shakespeare’s attachment issues were worse than mine.

       “Mama,” I called again, heading down the hallway towards the master bedroom, surprised that she would sleep in on such an important day. Opening the door I was forever changed by the sight of the horrors before me.  I surveyed the room first, refusing to look directly at the bed.  The bedside lamp on its side, the burgundy curtains torn and pulled askew, many drawers open with their pretty, girly contents spilling onto the floor. I began to shake and I could hear a strange, high-pitched wailing noise.  It was getting louder and louder and it never registered that the noise was coming from me, because at that moment I had to see what was in front of me, and it was far more than I could bear. 

        My beautiful Mama, slumped against the headboard, legs splayed. Her eyes were open, and although she was looking in my direction, for the first time in my life she wasn’t seeing me, and I knew then that no one would ever truly see me again.