protagonist—or maybe, on a somewhat loftier plane, this is Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex.
Though knowing— She has never touched her child in anger still less has she abused her child. Or any other child.
Kimi sits up, indignant. Kimi tugs her sweatshirt down over her fleshy midriff. “ ‘Hurting me’? You mean—making me cry? Making me feel bad ?”
“Yes. Well—no. I don’t mean ‘hurting’ your feelings—exactly—but ‘hurting’ you. Physically.”
Kimi squirms and kicks, this is so—ridiculous! Candace sees a paperback book on the bed—Kimi’s English class is reading To Kill a Mockingbird and this is consoling, to Candace.
“Mom, for God’s sake! That is so not cool .”
“Sweetie, this is serious. You are saying that no one has hurt you? No one at your school? Or—anywhere?”
“No one, Mom. Jeez!”
Yet Kimi’s voice is faltering, just perceptibly. You would have to be Kimi’s mom to hear.
“Will you—let me examine you?”
“Examine me!” Kimi laughs hoarsely, an uncanny imitation of her mother’s braying laugh. “What are you—a doctor? Psychiatrist? Examining me?”
Nonetheless, Candace is resolved. The roaring in her ears is a din of deranged sparrows.
“Will you let me look, Kimi? I promise that—I—I won’t be—won’t over-react. Dr. Weedle said something about a head injury—”
Kimi is scuttling away, crab-fashion, on the bed. Stuffed animals topple onto the floor with looks of mute astonishment.
“You hit your head on a—locker at school, and cut it? Did you go to the school nurse? Did you tell anyone? Did you tell me ?”
Kimi would swing her hips around to kick at her mother but Mom has captured her, kneeling on the bed. The mattress creaks. Another stuffed animal falls to the floor, and the paperback To Kill a Mockingbird. Candace is panting gripping Kimi’s head between her spread fingers—not hard, but hard enough to keep the girl from wresting free—as Kimi hisses, “Mom, you smell ! Disgusting cigarettes, wine—you smell !”—as Candace peers at the girl’s scalp through a scrim of fine feathery pale-brown hair at first seeing nothing, then—“Oh! My God”—Candace sees the dark zipperlike wound, something more than a simple scratch, about four inches long, at the crown of Kimi’s head.
Candace is stunned, staring.
Feebly Kimi protests, like a guilty child.
“I didn’t mention it to you because it’s just nothing, Mom! I was stooping to get one of my shoes, in the locker room, after gym, and banged my head on the edge of a locker door—it didn’t even hurt, Mom. It’s just nothing .”
“But it must have bled, Kimi—head wounds bleed . . .”
“Well, sure—but I didn’t just let it bleed . I had tissues in my backpack and some girls brought me toilet paper, I just pressed it against the cut. After a while it stopped bleeding. Scotti had some kind of disinfectant, we went to her house after school, and she put it on the cut with an eyedropper.” Kimi smiled, recalling. A guarded look came into her face. “Scotti’s going to be a doctor, she thinks. Neurosurgeon.”
“Is she! I wouldn’t doubt, that girl could do it . . .”
But Candace doesn’t want to get sidetracked into talking about Scotia Perry, whom Kimi hero-worships. Not right now.
Staring at the dark wound in her daughter’s scalp, that had existed for how many days, without Candace knowing, or in any way suspecting, beneath the feathery child’s-hair, Candace feels a sensation of utter chill futility—emptiness: the way she’d felt, just for a moment, in the women’s restroom where she’d seen the poster with the photo of the bruised and battered girl— ARE YOU A VICTIM OF VIOLENCE, ABUSE, THREAT OF BODILY HARM? ARE YOU FRIGHTENED ?
How awful the world is. No joke can neutralize it.
She has failed as a mother. She has not even begun to qualify as a mother.
Maybe just, oh Christ—cash in your chips. Tune out.
Suicide: off-self. Candace has
Though knowing— She has never touched her child in anger still less has she abused her child. Or any other child.
Kimi sits up, indignant. Kimi tugs her sweatshirt down over her fleshy midriff. “ ‘Hurting me’? You mean—making me cry? Making me feel bad ?”
“Yes. Well—no. I don’t mean ‘hurting’ your feelings—exactly—but ‘hurting’ you. Physically.”
Kimi squirms and kicks, this is so—ridiculous! Candace sees a paperback book on the bed—Kimi’s English class is reading To Kill a Mockingbird and this is consoling, to Candace.
“Mom, for God’s sake! That is so not cool .”
“Sweetie, this is serious. You are saying that no one has hurt you? No one at your school? Or—anywhere?”
“No one, Mom. Jeez!”
Yet Kimi’s voice is faltering, just perceptibly. You would have to be Kimi’s mom to hear.
“Will you—let me examine you?”
“Examine me!” Kimi laughs hoarsely, an uncanny imitation of her mother’s braying laugh. “What are you—a doctor? Psychiatrist? Examining me?”
Nonetheless, Candace is resolved. The roaring in her ears is a din of deranged sparrows.
“Will you let me look, Kimi? I promise that—I—I won’t be—won’t over-react. Dr. Weedle said something about a head injury—”
Kimi is scuttling away, crab-fashion, on the bed. Stuffed animals topple onto the floor with looks of mute astonishment.
“You hit your head on a—locker at school, and cut it? Did you go to the school nurse? Did you tell anyone? Did you tell me ?”
Kimi would swing her hips around to kick at her mother but Mom has captured her, kneeling on the bed. The mattress creaks. Another stuffed animal falls to the floor, and the paperback To Kill a Mockingbird. Candace is panting gripping Kimi’s head between her spread fingers—not hard, but hard enough to keep the girl from wresting free—as Kimi hisses, “Mom, you smell ! Disgusting cigarettes, wine—you smell !”—as Candace peers at the girl’s scalp through a scrim of fine feathery pale-brown hair at first seeing nothing, then—“Oh! My God”—Candace sees the dark zipperlike wound, something more than a simple scratch, about four inches long, at the crown of Kimi’s head.
Candace is stunned, staring.
Feebly Kimi protests, like a guilty child.
“I didn’t mention it to you because it’s just nothing, Mom! I was stooping to get one of my shoes, in the locker room, after gym, and banged my head on the edge of a locker door—it didn’t even hurt, Mom. It’s just nothing .”
“But it must have bled, Kimi—head wounds bleed . . .”
“Well, sure—but I didn’t just let it bleed . I had tissues in my backpack and some girls brought me toilet paper, I just pressed it against the cut. After a while it stopped bleeding. Scotti had some kind of disinfectant, we went to her house after school, and she put it on the cut with an eyedropper.” Kimi smiled, recalling. A guarded look came into her face. “Scotti’s going to be a doctor, she thinks. Neurosurgeon.”
“Is she! I wouldn’t doubt, that girl could do it . . .”
But Candace doesn’t want to get sidetracked into talking about Scotia Perry, whom Kimi hero-worships. Not right now.
Staring at the dark wound in her daughter’s scalp, that had existed for how many days, without Candace knowing, or in any way suspecting, beneath the feathery child’s-hair, Candace feels a sensation of utter chill futility—emptiness: the way she’d felt, just for a moment, in the women’s restroom where she’d seen the poster with the photo of the bruised and battered girl— ARE YOU A VICTIM OF VIOLENCE, ABUSE, THREAT OF BODILY HARM? ARE YOU FRIGHTENED ?
How awful the world is. No joke can neutralize it.
She has failed as a mother. She has not even begun to qualify as a mother.
Maybe just, oh Christ—cash in your chips. Tune out.
Suicide: off-self. Candace has
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