Thursday, July 19, 2012

The Generational Implications of Weak Wills


                                           The Generational Implications of Weak Wills

           She managed to keep the tears that were welling up inside her from racing down her cheeks until she heard the car door shut and the roar of the engine.  She fell back against the door and sank to the floor, wrapping her thin arms around her body in a cold embrace.  Sobs shook her bony figure as she heard over again the words that had been whispered only moments before. I love you too, Mom.  Her daughter’s voice had cracked as if it pained her to say those words these days.  Her beautiful daughter, broken and bruised, yet trying to hide it under icy eyes and bright but frigid laughter.

            Looking at Veronica was like seeing herself years earlier, lies and all.  She wiped her sticky cheeks with shaking fingers and closed her eyes, remembering the happy bells of Veronica’s childhood laughter and seeing her blonde curls bounce as she bounded through the grass like a little fawn.  She had been thin then with bony knees and features that were too harsh for her delicate little frame.  But with age, and with the mysteries of cosmetic surgery, that skinny little girl had grown into a thin but curvy young woman.

            She glanced through the living room and into the kitchen and could almost smell the homemade pizza she used to cook when her children were young, see their faces smudged from playing outside and hear their pleas for popsicles to soothe them from the summer sun.  This door that now supported her fragile weight had seen so many things, shut in so many secrets.  And it was still here for her to do what she was not strong enough to do, what she had never been strong enough to do.  A hot ball of poisonous guilt seared itself deeper into her stomach and she imagined it seeping out of her pores, another clue to the outside world of the horrors that had taken place in that once-happy house haunted by secrets too terrible to tell.

            A coo coo bird popped out of the old wooden clock to announce the hour and turned to make his own retreat behind his little square wooden door.  With resolve, she raised up her body, weary with sadness and laden with shame, shuffling through the silent house which failed to muffle the echoes of remorse that ping-ponged .

            She needed to finish the wash and mop the dog prints off the floor before he came home.  She half smiled, half grimaced as she remembered her former expectancy and nervousness for his nightly arrival.  Sometimes the king of this little castle used to come home with cupcakes and flowers, pleased with everything she had prepared and proud of his children’s sports and school successes; other times he would crash in, bringing the tempests of the day to the dinner table and to anyone or anything in his way.

She paused on her way to the laundry room and let her fingers caress the smooth rail that led up the stairs where her children used to sleep.  She closed her eyes and caught her breath as she momentarily imagined the crumpled body of Veronica lying at the base.  The blood that had once stained this wooden banister and some of the stairs was gone now, trampled in after years of use and now forgotten—but not to her, and not to Veronica.

            She knew that her daughter had her own stairs now, soaking up blood and soaking up fears.  She knew that Veronica’s heavy wooden door was also her faithful friend, muffling the arguments and drowning out the whimpers of a mistreated wife.  Her daughter never spoke of such things—Veronica learned more than great cooking from her mother, Rosaline thought ironically.  But she could see it in the tight lines of her face, in the nervous glances her beautiful eyes cast around the room.

            Rosaline turned from the stairwell and continued to where the swishing of the dryer had just stopped, shrieking out a dull buzz that brought her back to the present.  And she wondered, as she took the steamy fresh clothes out in a pile, what would he have done, had he come home one day to no dinner and to the chores undone.  What would he have done if she had taken her children, and her fears along with her—if she had left?  And she couldn’t help but wonder, would her daughter have learned that from her too?

7/7/2009

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