Suddenly there was a loud, sharp noise, like an actual gunshot. My brother had pushed my mother with such force that her body slammed into the wall, making a loud cracking sound. I saw her frame go rigid; for a moment she appeared frozen against the wall, pinned up like a painting, her feet lifted several inches off the ground. Next thing I knew she was totally limp, as if her bones had melted, folding onto the floor. It was a split second. It was an eternity. My eyes were still fixed in place, only now I was looking at my mother collapsed in a crumpled pile on the floor. My brother stomped out and slammed the door, shaking the house one last time, and sped off in her car.
I stood there for a moment in the eerie silence. I could hear myself breathing, but I couldn’t tell if my mother still was. A chilling clarity came to me, just as a soft part of my childhood left. Without taking my eyes from my motionless mother, I pulled myself together. Picking up the receiver of our one telephone, I felt it heavy and cold, pressed against my small ear. My little fingers pushed down the square buttons in a familiar sequence. It was the number of one of my mother’s friends, whose house she would sometimes visit to hang out. Since I was only six years old, hers was one of the few numbers I had memorized.
Clearing my voice so I could be heard over the telephone’s static hum, choking on tears, I did my best to calmly tell her, “My brother really hurt my mother, and I’m home alone. Please come help.” I don’t remember what she said. I hung up still feeling focused, my eyes still fixed on my mother’s body. I went into a sort of trance.
I don’t know how long I stood there, just that I snapped out of it at the sound of a loud banging on the door. I scurried to open it for my mother’s friend, and several policemen rushed in. I couldn’t understand what anyone was saying, but I watched as they hurried over to where my mother was lying. Next thing I knew, she was moving. The moment I realized she was alive, the spell of shock broke, and a gush of fear and panic rushed over me—the dawning realization of what had actually happened, what had almost happened, and what unknown future was waiting. I tucked my small body into a ball, held on to myself tightly, and quietly began to cry. I could hear the faint sound of my mother’s voice as she stirred back to consciousness. Then I heard a crystal-clear voice, ringing out just above my head. It was a man’s voice, a voice that I will never forget.
One of the cops, looking down at me but speaking to another cop beside him, said, “If this kid makes it, it’ll be a miracle.” And that night, I became less of a kid and more of a miracle.
WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES
I don’t want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
I don’t care about the presents
Underneath the Christmas tree
—“All I Want for Christmas Is You”
My mother added a leaf to her tiny wooden table, making it almost family-sized for the day. With a few simple decorations, the table became the festive centerpiece, along with a Charlie Brown-ish tree, of an otherwise makeshift furnished living room in the run-down house where the two of us lived. Despite our circumstances, my mother wanted us to have a “wonderful life.”
The days leading up to Christmas were an event. My mother always kept an Advent calendar. We would open a new flap each day. I’d read the portion of a story or a poem printed there, and she would give me the chocolates hidden inside. The mulled wine she made camouflaged the dankness of the house with a warm spicy aroma. I was well aware we didn’t have much money, so while I never really anticipated getting any extravagant presents or popular toys, I loved that we’d make an effort to get into the spirit and do what we could to create an ambiance of joy and jubilance. We’d clean up, we’d decorate, and of course we would sing. Christmas carols sung in my mother’s operatic voice brought a feeling of spaciousness to our cramped daily existence.
Mother wasn’t much of a cook, but for Christmas dinner she tried—we both tried. We tried to put all the trauma and drama that infected the rest of our lives on hold and just have a peaceful Christmas meal. Too much to ask? I think not. I was a child craving a childhood, in a house filled with disappointment and pain.
Throughout the years, my sister and brother would rarely communicate all year, let alone come to visit where my mother and I were living. Christmas was one rare occasion when we would all
