Melissa was shivering and sweating under the covers, her teeth chattering. This is the first day she’d ever missed a day of school during her two years at Berwyn Elementary, and she was proud of that. The teachers were always so nice to her. And since Aunt Beatrice taught there, she could relax a little more at school than at home.
Aunt Beatrice did all kinds of family things for Melissa, like take her to the first day of school. Mom couldn’t do it since Mom was what Daddy called “hungover.” Isn’t that a funny word? Melissa pictured a clothesline with Mom jackknifed and hanging by her waist, or tablecloths that hung over dining tables. Melissa loved making up words and pictures—especially ones that made her laugh.
Her consciousness floated back and forth from worrying that Mom would be mad at her for being sick, to worrying about what she was missing at school. Melissa couldn’t remember ever being sick before, and her dizziness and nausea surprised and scared her. She wondered if maybe this was something to go to the doctor’s for. Probably not. Mom hated taking the girls to the doctors because she always had stuff to do, and Mom was grumpy all day when she had to do it. And besides, Mom always said, “Tylenol is good enough for the common cold, and most everything else.”
Melissa heard Mom stomping down the hallway towards her open door.
“Mom, could you read to me for just five minutes?”
Mom exhaled, half groan, half sigh. “I don’t have time.” She sifted through the pile of mail in her hands, picked out a magazine, “Behavior Modification” and threw it on to Melissa’s bed.
“Here, try this.” Then she went downstairs.
Melissa flipped through the pages. It made no sense why Mom would give her these. Why would an eight-year-old be interested in or understand all that stuff about research and training people’s behavior? Was this Mom’s way of saying she wanted Melissa to change her behavior? She scrunched back down under the covers and fell asleep wondering.
The pressure and stinging of her full bladder woke her. Melissa inched her covers to the side ever so slowly since every aching muscle and bone seemed to scream at her, “Don’t move.”
As she dragged herself to the bathroom, her hand bracing her as she leaned against one wall, the kitchen phone rang. No one answered, so no one else must be home. The phone rang and rang again. Melissa thought it must be important. Concerned about whoever was calling and steadying herself on the banister, she went downstairs in case they called again. Walking down, it seemed to get colder with each step. She pulled her robe more tightly around her.
When she reached the kitchen and the phone rang again, she picked it up with one hand, holding on to the counter with the other.
It was her father. “Melissa, Mom drove to get you some Tylenol, and she got in a little fender-bender in the parking lot at Williamson’s Drugs. She’s okay, and the car bumper just got dinged. We’ll be home before long.”
Melissa’s first thought was that Mom might need something comforting. She knew Mom loved coffee, so Melissa decided to make a pot for her. She had seen her mother make coffee so many times she was sure she could do it.
The only trouble was the coffee pot and coffee canister were pushed back on the counter against the wall. Too far back on the counter for Melissa to reach. She looked around for the footstool to stand on, couldn’t see it. Oh, yes, it was still in the bathroom for Josie, her youngest sister, to stand on to brush her teeth.
On the fourth stair-step on her way back up to the bathroom, Melissa felt a warm trickle run down her right thigh. It tickled. She pressed her flannel pjs against her leg to absorb the wetness, and moved more quickly to the bathroom, still feeling dizzy. Once there, she relieved herself and retrieved the stool. She’d have to hurry now to make the coffee and then change into other pajamas before her mom got home and blew up at her.
Back downstairs in the kitchen, she climbed up on the stool, pulled the coffee pot and the can of coffee grounds closer to the edge of the counter. Melissa grabbed the can of coffee grounds and pushed and pushed upward on the edge of the yellow plastic lid. It wouldn’t budge. She pushed again with all her might and the lid flew off, landing behind the canisters, and the grounds showered the countertop and sprinkled the floor. Coffee ground aroma filled the kitchen.
Melissa moved the stool over to the sink, got a sponge from behind the faucets and wiped the grounds into her hands, ran back to the wastebasket under the sink and dumped them. The kitchen Cuckoo clock croaked, reminding her it was one o’clock and time to hurry.
A wave of nausea moved upward from her tummy. She took tiny fast breaths to make sure she didn’t throw up. That would be Mom’s Last Straw. She snatched the bottom of the coffee pot, put it in the sink, and started to fill the pot. But how far? Up to that high line? Her hand started shaking as the water filled the pot. Using both hands, she steadied the pot, but she was not strong enough to land the pot on the counter. The pot hit the edge of the counter and spilled onto the floor.
Just then, she heard the garage door open. Oh no, they’re home. She grabbed a tea towel to sop up the water and hid the wet towel in her robe. Then she plugged in the coffeepot and punched the button on. She looked at her handiwork. There, it felt good to do something helpful. Melissa waited there, hoping to see her mom’s face be happy.
Melissa’s hopes did not materialize. Mom walked into the kitchen, took one look at the counter with its remnants of coffee grounds and tiny puddle of water. She burst out crying, ran upstairs into the parents’ bedroom.
Melissa dragged herself up to bed again and into sweet sleep. A bump on the side of her bed awakened her. Her mother’s leg. Mom was standing there with a tray holding a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, applesauce, water and a Tylenol.
Melissa pulled herself up to a sitting position to receive the tray, completely unprepared for how mom would deliver it. Mom rammed the tray hard, right onto Melissa’s lap, pushing it right into her abdomen.
Melissa’s mouth dropped open. When she caught her breath, she said, “Why did you do that?”
Her words laced with vinegar, Mom said, “I want to make sure you don’t get rewarded for being sick. That way, you won’t be conditioned to want to be sick.” She stormed out the bedroom door.
Melissa was not hungry. To make her mother happier Melissa ate two bites of the sandwich, a spoonful of applesauce, and took the Tylenol. She moved the tray down to the bottom of the bed and, shaking again, dove under the covers. She’d wash the dishes later.
About four o’clock, Melissa went into the bathroom and forgot to close the door. She heard her parents talking in their bedroom, which was across from the bathroom.
She heard her mom say, “If I didn’t have to go to get the damn Tylenol for her, this wouldn’t have happened. I had a dreadful and dangerous pregnancy because of her. I couldn’t get my degree because of her, and now, I could have died in the parking lot because of her needs!”
Melissa’s tummy turned cold as ice, and as hard.
She didn’t want to hear, and she had to hear what they were saying.
“I can’t stand it another day. My life is ruined. I never wanted to be a mother. I didn’t get to become a doctor—”
“Now, Edna—“
“You don’t understand. I can’t stand it another day.” Then she started singing, wailing, “If I had the wings of an angel, over these prison walls I would fly.”
Melissa knew then what she had felt for a long time—without words for it—that mom would be better off if Melissa weren’t here. Melissa had made her mother’s pain, so it would have to be Melissa’s job to take the pain away.
Melissa decided the best thing would be to need nothing and never ask for anything from her. She must be bad for people, a pain. She had to do everything she could to make up for it. And make her mother happy. Mom had said she couldn’t stand it another day, so Melissa better start right now.
Her head felt squashed in a vise and was pounding in time with her pulse. She went back to her room, read the directions on the Tylenol bottle, took another Tylenol and saved two under her pillow so she wouldn’t bother anyone about needing one later.
Then she took the tray downstairs, washed her dish and water glass from lunch, dried them and stood on the stool to put them away. Then she took four place mats from the drawer in the dining room sideboard, placed them all around, and folded four paper napkins. She was struggling to move Josie’s heavy highchair next to Mom’s place when Mom came downstairs and saw Melissa’s good deed.
In passing her, Mom’s lips thinned into a straight line. “That’s a good girl.” She walked into the kitchen.
Melissa breathed a big breath, and her shoulders lowered. Just a bit.
Melissa heard her open a cabinet in the kitchen, and heard from the top of the cabinet, the scrape of something dragged out, then a sound of jostling liquid, a click, a sigh of relaxation from Mom, and another scrape as the object was put back. “Time to put the pot roast in the oven,” Mom said to herself.
Melissa continued setting the table, her head aching. She would tell no one about her headache. She wanted to be a good girl, to be good for something.