Alone (11 page)

The arguments with my mother were physical at first. She would throw me against the wall and tell me she wished I was dead. She would smack the back of my head and call me stupid. There was more than one occasion where she backhanded me in the car because I was “too quiet.” I never fought back, I believed her words and thought I deserved what I got. I guess I was thirteen when she pushed me up against a wall and hit me so hard I fell to the floor because I had forgotten to take out hamburger in the morning to defrost for dinner.

The realization that this behavior was not okay flooded my mind and I got up off the floor in a fury. I pushed her up against the wall and with such venom in my voice it frightened even me, I told her that if she ever put her hands on me again, I would have her arrested. I meant it and she knew I wasn't bluffing. It was the last time she had touched me.

However, the verbal abuse never ended, and truth be told, that hurt much more than any bruise she left on me. I had done a painting called Sticks & Stones that was very simple. It was simply a pile of sticks and stones on a background filled with red words of hatred. The whole time I was thinking the childish taunt, 'sticks and stones might break my bones but words will never hurt me.' How ridiculous that rhyme is to me still. I never could defend myself when she would tear me down. I guess in some ways I wondered if she was speaking the truth.

I know now that family is where your heart is. Blood might make you related to someone, but it didn't make them family. Mrs. Schneider, Miss Morgan, Aaron, Mike and especially Sara were my true family. Picking me up when I didn't want to go on. Encouraging me, challenging me, teasing me, doing all the things a real family would do. The group of friends I had now was all the family I needed.

Any comfort I was feeling in my friendships was pushed away the moment my mother showed up. I let her into my apartment and immediately felt the ball of negativity she brought along with her. She set her bag next to the door and sat on the couch.

“
Still no TV?”

“
Nope,” I responded shortly.

“
Well, what am I supposed to do while you're out being Miss Willow artist?”

“
Whatever you want to do. Go out to the shops or something.” I tried to be pleasant in my words, but I still think they came off pretty rude.

“
I suppose I'll find something,” she said too pleasantly, trying to break the tension.

“
So, did you get everything for our Thanksgiving meal?”

“
Yeah, everything is in the fridge.” I felt like I was walking on eggshells with every statement I said. I never knew what was going to set her off on a warpath. I hated that she could make me feel like this, in my apartment no less.

“
So do you really think that your art thing will get you through the rest of your life? I mean, you don't think you need to get a real job?”

“
It's gotten me this far,” I mumbled.

“
How far is that Willow? You still live in the same town you were born in.”

Part of me wanted to lash out at her and tell her about the great potential I had with the upcoming art show. She still didn't know about the show. Then I decided it would be pointless to tell her anything. It wouldn't make a difference. Nothing I said would make her see that I was actually doing well for myself.

I decided to take her to the gallery and show her my paintings on display. I thought if she were to see it for herself, I wouldn't have to defend my career path to her anymore. She, of course, gave no words of encouragement, simply nodding each time I explained where my inspiration came from. I expected that so it didn't hurt too much.

I was literally counting down the minutes until it was time for her to leave. I didn't offer her my bed, if she was going to come and interrupt my life, I wasn't going to make her comfortable in doing so. It was my silent revenge.

My mother started making our Thanksgiving meal early the next day. If there was anything good I could say about my mother, it was that she did make the best turkey in the world. Somehow the skin was always nice and crispy but the meat was never dry. She peeled and cut the potatoes and got them ready to be cooked when the turkey was near done, and then she found her way back to the couch. Most of the time she read which made it easy to avoid conversation. I spent my time looking through the watercolor book or writing short rants about her being there.

“
Well, why don't we eat now that everything is taken care of,” she said after I had finished mashing the potatoes.

I sat down at the table and started serving myself some turkey. I wished it was already over and she was finally gone so I could concentrate on more important things. She'd only be here one more day and then I could get my life back to normal. She really hadn't done anything out right awful in the last day and a half, I just couldn't stand the way I felt with her around. Every time I would look at her, I couldn't help but feel disgusted.

“
You're awfully quiet Willow.”

“
Not much to say I guess,” at least to you, I added in my head.

“
When you were younger, we used to say what we were thankful for. Why don't we do that?”

“
I must've been really young because I don't ever remember that.” I paused for a moment thinking about past Thanksgivings with my mother. “I do remember you pushing me out of the kitchen while you cooked all day, making yourself a plate and then going to the living room to watch football with your most recent boyfriend,” I said honestly. I didn't know where I was getting the courage to speak to her like this, but it certainly felt good.

“
Willow, I may not have been the best mother in the world, but I tried my best.”

“
No, you didn't. You didn't try at all.”

“
Of course I did!” she yelled. Then, in a calmer voice she continued, “I don't know how things got so bad between us Willow.”

“
I do. I was thirteen and you told me I was nothing and you said you hated me,” I wasn't holding anything back now. “Of course you had said it before then, but it was the first time I truly believed you.”

“
I've never said that Willow. Why would I say something like that?”

“
Mom! Are you serious?!” I was screaming at her now. “Two weeks ago you left a variation of that exact statement on my answering machine!”

“
I was upset. You had been ignoring me.”

“
You think that's an acceptable excuse to tear me down?”

“
Let's stop this right now Willow. Can't we just put the past behind us and try to get back on track?”

“
Back on track? When were we ever
on
track?” I stood up from the table, the anger beginning to overpower me.

“
Please. I'm asking for another chance. You are older now. Surely we can find a way to establish some type of relationship.” I had heard this speech before. She was feeling guilty and was trying to fix it. Not our relationship, but the fact that she was feeling guilty. She'd be a model mother for a week or two and then she would disappear only to return in about a month with a vengeance. It was always short lived.

“
Absolutely not. It's too late. You've missed out. You have no idea what's going on in my life and I like it that way. You can't interfere that way. You can't go to my art teacher and tell her I was no longer allowed to participate in the Art Club. You can't tell people that I'm buying paintings with drug money and I had never created a damn thing!” I yelled remembering just a few times she had interfered with severity.

“
How dare you bring that up! You know I was going through a hard time then!” She was standing now too, meeting my gaze with just as much anger.

“
Listen to yourself! How many excuses can you come up with mother?” I didn't like that I was so angry. I had spent enough energy in my lifetime fighting with my mother, it was time for this to be put to an end. “I'm going to my room. I will come out in about an hour and when I do, you are to be out of here. I don't want you here anymore.” As I walked past her, she grabbed my arm and tried to pull me back. I looked into her eyes and whatever she saw on my face, she knew not to say anything more or it would really push me over the edge.

I shrugged out of her hold and walked to my room enraged. I couldn't believe she had the audacity to make excuses like every other time. She could never admit she was wrong, could never apologize. There was always a reason, an excuse. I locked the door behind me, went to my closet and pulled out the box. Sitting on my bed, I took out the knife and pressed in against the skin of my left forearm.

“
No!” Sara said. I dropped the knife, startled. I looked at every corner of my room expecting to see her huddled somewhere, but she wasn't. It was just my imagination. I sighed and put the knife back into the box and went to lie on my bed to stare at the ceiling.

To my surprise, my mother left before I returned to the living room. I was finally relaxed again, ready to get my life back to some normality. Her coming here had affected me for at least a week before her actual arrival, it was time to wash that away.

I made two plates of food for myself and for Sara and there was still enough to feed a small army. I took out some paper plates and kept making plate after plate of food. As much as I loved Thanksgiving food, there was no way I could eat all that was left. I decided to take the plates of food to the building where
City Woods
was. Sara had told me during one of our visits that people were starting to go there to hide out. I hadn't been there since the morning I went to find Sara and I was curious how the painting was holding up. I put the plates into a box and grabbed a couple bottles of soda along with some paper cups.

I decided to take my Jeep to the building so I didn't have to carry everything. When I got there, I grabbed the box of food and my bag carrying the bottles of soda. I turned around to face the entrance and there was a young girl staring back at me. I lifted the box and said, “Hungry?” Her face lit up and she nodded excitedly. I handed her the box and my bag so I could crawl through the window.

“
How many people are here?” I asked wondering if I had enough.

“
Just five. Most people went to the shelter but we heard they were turning people away because they didn't have enough to feed everyone.”

“
I definitely have enough to feed you guys.”

“
Thank you so much. There's this painting on the third floor. We're all just hanging out there.”

“
A painting?” I asked surprised.

“
Yeah, you've gotta see it. It's of these trees and it's just... I can't even describe it.” I followed her to room 27 to where the group was all huddling in ragged blankets. “Hey, someone came to bring us food.”

“
There's more than enough for everyone,” I said handing out the plates. “Do you mind if I stick around?”

“
You're not some religious nut here to tell us about the path to heaven?” a guy asked me.

I couldn't help but laugh. “Absolutely not.”

“
Have a seat. It's not very comfortable but the view is great,” a girl said pointing to the painting.

I sat down in their circle in a spot where I could look at
City Woods
from where I was. It had been over a month since I had painted it so I was happy it was still untouched. “Pretty good painting,” I said coolly.

“
It's awesome,” the girl who let me in responded.

“
Personally, I've never seen anything like it. It's made quite an impact,” another girl said.

“
What's your name anyway?” the guy asked me again.

“
Willow,” I said hesitantly, but didn't appear as though anyone noticed the connection between my name and the signature on the painting.

The girl who let me in and the guy introduced themselves as Chris and Becca. The others didn't offer their names and I didn't feel I should ask them. I wondered if Chris and Becca were a couple, he seemed protective of her somehow. I sat and talked for an hour or so while I watched them eat the free meal. They were all very appreciative of the food which made me feel good. They told me a bit about what they do during the day and how they survive on the streets. It sounded like an impossible life, going from one shelter to another to sleep or eat. Most of the shelters around here had hours where you could come and you had to leave at a specific time in the morning. I never knew that. I always thought that shelters let you stay until you found a permanent residence. Listening to their stories showed me just how ignorant I was about street life.

I learned a lot about their way of life. They told me that most people stayed away from shelters because it was basically a welcome mat for body lice and staying at a shelter was a good way to get robbed. They explained the reason they wore so many layers at once wasn't just because it was cold. The clothing served as sort of a body armor in case someone decided to stab them. They told me how they would rummage through garbage cans not for food, but for clothing. People would throw away clothes without a second thought and it was a homeless person's jackpot when they found such a can.

“
Oh my god!” one of the girls burst out. Everyone looked alarmed at her outburst. “You're Willow!” She was pointing at the painting again. “You painted this!”

“
Uh, yeah,” I said nervously.