bravery
It takes a certain kind of bravery to step in front of a moving train, and once your foot leaves the sidewalk, the rush of terror makes the very air lighter, less oxygenated, giving nothing of substance.
Mother only had two rules for Stepmother: spanking the children only on the bottom, and no swearing at them. Of course, as soon as Stepmother started yelling, Mother always left, slamming the side door behind her, peeling out of the driveway, leaving the children alone. Although Stepmother mostly kept to the rules, there were a few exceptions. When she called Brother an asshole, Girl stepped out in front of the train.
“Don’t you swear at my brother,” she yelled, running out from behind the living room chair where she had been hiding, standing in between Stepmother and Brother. Stepmother’s hand was still raised from striking him. Stepmother turned and looked at Girl, her face contorted, eyes narrowed. Rage turned her pale skin the color of watermelon flesh. Uh-oh. Girl was suddenly less brave than she thought she was.
“Run!” she called to Brother.
The children ran up the stairs as one four-legged animal, feet pounding the wood floor, down the hall to Girl’s bedroom—Brother didn’t have a lock on his door. Girl slammed the door and flipped the arm of her little hook-and-eye latch into its metal ring. Stepmother was only a moment behind the children, her feet already thumping across the hall. The door shook as Stepmother threw her shoulder into it.
“Open this door!” she ordered, but even if Girl was foolish she wasn’t pure stupid. Stepmother hit the door again, and the door gave just a little, the metal lock gouging a line into the wood. She tried a third time, the lock rattling, the doorknob turning uselessly. Thank God the lock held. Stepmother gave up and went downstairs. Girl and Brother didn’t come out until Mother knocked on the door.
“I told her she is not allowed to swear at you,” Mother said, as if that made everything all right. As if that evaporated the fear out of Girl’s bones. After that, Girl stayed on the curb when the train was coming. She wasn’t as brave as she wanted to be. When Stepmother degraded Brother—“You’ll never amount to anything”—or screamed at Mother for not knowing what road they should take, Girl pushed her lips together until they were hard paraffin wax, safely keeping her voice inside, and wished she were braver.
a poorly thrown punch
Stepmother punched Girl’s arm, closer to her shoulder than to her elbow. Even in the moment, Girl thought it was a stupid place to hit someone, and Stepmother did it like someone in a cartoon—she was as red-faced as a villain on Looney Tunes. Girl wouldn’t have been surprised if a thermometer popped out of the top of her head. Stepmother raised her ham-hock arm like Popeye, her little fist pulled back. Time froze when she cocked her arm. Stepmother wore two rings on her right hand: her gold college ring, and a second ring with a weird, brown, rectangular stone. Luckily, neither of her rings were sharp or scratchy.
Girl didn’t understand the fight, even when it was happening. She wasn’t trying to be disobedient. She had been responsible for doing her own laundry since fifth grade, but on this occasion, Girl went to the basement and the dryer was filled with Stepmother’s clothes. They were cold—the dryer had been finished for at least a day or two. No big deal, Girl thought, and found an empty laundry basket. She tossed Stepmother’s blouses and white cotton underpants in a basket so Girl could continue her wash. It was how laundry was always done—if Girl neglected to get her clothes before someone else needed the dryer, that person would simply pile them in a basket or on the folding table. When that got full, they’d use the top of the dryer.
When Girl carried her laundry upstairs Stepmother’s demeanor changed suddenly.
“Where are my clothes?” she accused Girl and stormed down the basement stairs. “Get down here!” she yelled up from the basement, and Girl complied.
“You took my clothes out of the dryer and threw them in a basket! Now they will be all wrinkled!” Stepmother seethed. Girl was confused. It wasn’t like she threw them on the floor or something. This was what Girl had been taught to do with laundry.
“You should have hung up my shirts. You need to iron them, now.”
“I put them in a basket, like I was supposed to,” Girl said, confused but indignant.
“When the clothes are in the dryer they are surrounded by a puff of air that keeps them from wrinkling. They were fine in the dryer, but once you take them out of the dryer they wrinkle!”
“Balled up in the dryer isn’t any different than balled up in a basket,” Girl replied. She had been doing laundry for a few years now, and Girl knew that they got plenty wrinkled in the dryer. They went around and around like this for nearly an hour and Girl still couldn’t understand what she had done wrong. Stepmother couldn’t understand why Girl was such a lazy and difficult child.
“I love you, Stepmother,” Girl finally said, trying to get by Stepmother’s anger and reach that part of her that wasn’t consumed with hatred for Girl and just be
