LatinosUSA

It was after midnight, and the clock ticked monotonously on the wall as the eight-year-old approached her mother’s door and pulled it open a crack, allowing a spear of light to penetrate the darkness. It fell upon the dresser, and for a moment, she could see her reflection in the mirror. The door creaked on its hinges. She heard  the scuffling of bedclothes and a sudden intake of breath, then the staccato voice of her mother,

“Alanna, shut that door!”

Instead of doing that, the girl said, “I can’t sleep.” It was almost a whimper.

“Why?” demanded her mother. “What’s wrong with you?” Impatience in the grown-up voice.

“I’m scared,” said the little girl.

She heard a disgruntled muttering from another, deeper, male voice in the room. The voice said, “What the shit?”

The woman arose from the bed, the box springs screaming as she shifted her weight. “It’s okay,” the woman told him coaxingly. “I’ll put her back to bed.”

More unhappy words, and then the woman’s bare feet treaded across the floor. Arriving at the door, she swept it wide, then closed it completely, as if making a statement. She asked Alanna, “What the hell is going on?” 

Alanna looked at her feet, said nothing. Then she murmured, “I’m scared.”

“Of what?” demanded her mother.

Alanna seemed to turn this over in her mind for a moment, then replied, “I’m scared my dad won’t ever come home again.” There, she’d said it.

She could see her mother’s face tighten, the way it did. The woman huffed angrily. “We were divorced nearly two years ago, Alanna. And he’s not your real father; he’s your only stepfather.”

“I want my real father,” she whimpered.

The woman stamped her foot. “I haven’t got time for this. Get to bed, right now, and don’t let me hear another word out of you, do you understand?”

Alanna turned and walked toward her own bedroom, which was filled with a bunkbed, stuffed toys, collectable dolls, and what have you.

“And when you wake up in the morning, I want you to clean your damn room!” exclaimed her mother.

Alanna halted in her tracks, remembering. “My bed is wet,” she said plaintively.

The woman bristled anew. “Who made it that way?” she demanded.  “You did. So, you can just sleep it in.”

Alanna began sobbing. “Can’t I sleep with you?” she whined.

“No! Do you think I want pee in my bed, too? From now on, no drinks two hours before your bedtime, do you hear me?” She reached out and roughly turned Alanna to face her. “Control your bladder, goddamit!  Now, get to bed!”

“You’re a mean mom,” muttered Alanna sullenly.

“Yeah?” said the woman flippantly. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”  The woman extinguished the hall light, slipped inside her own bedroom, and asked the unseen figure coyly, “Now, where were we?”

Alanna stood and stared silently at the closed door. Her eyes were glistening with tears of despair, but she refused to let them fall. Repeated rejection was making her hard.

Originally published in “Children, Churches and Daddies”