shadow had legs and arms, but its head was hidden, even in shadow.
"Come here to me," I told the shadow. It didn't move. "I need to ask you some things. Nothing awful. It's all ... off the record."
The shadow moved, but with a step back, not a step forward. I pretended I didn't see it.
"Are you dead?" I asked. "I really need to know."
Things are distorted in shadow, and the longer I stared, the more I realized this manifestation was Chris as a younger kid. A lanky younger kid, and his legs were trembling under his jeans, sending little shudders into the shadow.
"Come out," I said, and when the shadow didn't move, I added, "Are you dead?"
The head appeared on the shadow as he pushed back a little from behind the tree, and the head nodded yes.
Yes, yes, yes. Dead, dead.
"I don't believe you," I whispered, and went on a rant that came out as a whisper also, despite my anger. "It's not a 118 great story if you're dead! If you're dead, you're an accident. You're a pity. You're not a hero. I can't write a great story about a kid who is worms. Do you read me?"
The shadow didn't move. I supposed he didn't care about me or my writing. Why should he?
"Well, if you're not going to help me, then get the hell out," I said, louder this time. The shadow leaned in to the tree but didn't totally become part of it. He wasn't helping me at all.
Might as well be dead.
"You're a wimp," I told him. "I've always thought that."
He didn't answer, but I realized his fingers
were
moving. He was making little sign language symbols, the ones I'd learned just this year in a sudden blast of empathy for other people with disabilities. He was making little letters of the alphabet, and I had to stare with all my ability to read them. L-O-O-K O-U-T B-E-H-I-N-D Y-O-U.
I froze, feeling her breath on my neck, too close, as always. I could feel myself shrinking, or maybe Mom was growing. I could smell her, smell laundry detergent, smell the acid breath of someone who drinks early and bends over your bed at midnight. She had a hatchet. I don't know how I knew that.
"You can't touch me. You can't hurt me. It's only a dream," I said.
"But I'm your mother. Your
mo-ther
" she said, as if mothers move in and out of dreams, in and out of real life with ease. "And you know the truth, my favorite. You always were my favorite, my precious. If I can't have you, nobody will have you."
"Leave me alone. Stop touching me."
She hadn't actually touched me yet, but I could feel it coming, and suddenly her hand cupped my neck, my cheek, where she always put her hand, where I swore if another person ever touched me I would punch them out.
Nobody
touched my cheek, my neck, my ear like she always insisted on doing—not ever. Her hand felt cold and scabby. When I turned, her eyes were her own, but the rest was the rotted flesh of a semirecent corpse. The skin on her arm dangled in tatters and only bones and corroded flesh touched the side of my face that had been her favorite stomping ground.
I ducked and threw my arm up to block her, but her bones flew into fifteen pieces in the air, then joined back together and touched my face again.
"Don't, don't," she crooned. "Come over to that flat stump. Let me do it in one clean blow. Don't fight me..."
I spun and looked for Chris, but he was gone, evaporated.
Little wimp. You never thought of anybody but yourself. It's good I never got a chance to write about you.
"I'm tired, Mom. I'm so tired."
"I know, darling. Come over to the stump. Just lay your little head down, and I will sing you to sleep."
I did it. I was there suddenly, kneeling, laying my head on the stump, just to get her slithering fingers off the crook of my neck. I could see the hatchet, which she laid just in my view, and she started to sing.
Don't cry, my baby, don't cry this eve
,
The fairies are coming from make-believe.
Her favorite song from when I was little. I'd loved that song when I was three, but she was still trying to sing it when I was ten.
"Come here to me," I told the shadow. It didn't move. "I need to ask you some things. Nothing awful. It's all ... off the record."
The shadow moved, but with a step back, not a step forward. I pretended I didn't see it.
"Are you dead?" I asked. "I really need to know."
Things are distorted in shadow, and the longer I stared, the more I realized this manifestation was Chris as a younger kid. A lanky younger kid, and his legs were trembling under his jeans, sending little shudders into the shadow.
"Come out," I said, and when the shadow didn't move, I added, "Are you dead?"
The head appeared on the shadow as he pushed back a little from behind the tree, and the head nodded yes.
Yes, yes, yes. Dead, dead.
"I don't believe you," I whispered, and went on a rant that came out as a whisper also, despite my anger. "It's not a 118 great story if you're dead! If you're dead, you're an accident. You're a pity. You're not a hero. I can't write a great story about a kid who is worms. Do you read me?"
The shadow didn't move. I supposed he didn't care about me or my writing. Why should he?
"Well, if you're not going to help me, then get the hell out," I said, louder this time. The shadow leaned in to the tree but didn't totally become part of it. He wasn't helping me at all.
Might as well be dead.
"You're a wimp," I told him. "I've always thought that."
He didn't answer, but I realized his fingers
were
moving. He was making little sign language symbols, the ones I'd learned just this year in a sudden blast of empathy for other people with disabilities. He was making little letters of the alphabet, and I had to stare with all my ability to read them. L-O-O-K O-U-T B-E-H-I-N-D Y-O-U.
I froze, feeling her breath on my neck, too close, as always. I could feel myself shrinking, or maybe Mom was growing. I could smell her, smell laundry detergent, smell the acid breath of someone who drinks early and bends over your bed at midnight. She had a hatchet. I don't know how I knew that.
"You can't touch me. You can't hurt me. It's only a dream," I said.
"But I'm your mother. Your
mo-ther
" she said, as if mothers move in and out of dreams, in and out of real life with ease. "And you know the truth, my favorite. You always were my favorite, my precious. If I can't have you, nobody will have you."
"Leave me alone. Stop touching me."
She hadn't actually touched me yet, but I could feel it coming, and suddenly her hand cupped my neck, my cheek, where she always put her hand, where I swore if another person ever touched me I would punch them out.
Nobody
touched my cheek, my neck, my ear like she always insisted on doing—not ever. Her hand felt cold and scabby. When I turned, her eyes were her own, but the rest was the rotted flesh of a semirecent corpse. The skin on her arm dangled in tatters and only bones and corroded flesh touched the side of my face that had been her favorite stomping ground.
I ducked and threw my arm up to block her, but her bones flew into fifteen pieces in the air, then joined back together and touched my face again.
"Don't, don't," she crooned. "Come over to that flat stump. Let me do it in one clean blow. Don't fight me..."
I spun and looked for Chris, but he was gone, evaporated.
Little wimp. You never thought of anybody but yourself. It's good I never got a chance to write about you.
"I'm tired, Mom. I'm so tired."
"I know, darling. Come over to the stump. Just lay your little head down, and I will sing you to sleep."
I did it. I was there suddenly, kneeling, laying my head on the stump, just to get her slithering fingers off the crook of my neck. I could see the hatchet, which she laid just in my view, and she started to sing.
Don't cry, my baby, don't cry this eve
,
The fairies are coming from make-believe.
Her favorite song from when I was little. I'd loved that song when I was three, but she was still trying to sing it when I was ten.
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