Take Me With You(26)

I take a deep breath and turn the old brass knob. The hinges yawn as I push the door open. A draft of stale air blows past me as I enter. I know she's dead, but I still expect to see her, sitting in the corner like she so often did. I don't know this room any other way. Now it's just a memorial. The best and worst of her still lining these walls. She and I were rejected by our family. A shameful secret. Perfection was necessary when you carried the family name.

I don't look at anything but the things I came in for. Going into the small crafts room connected to the bedroom, I pull out her trusted sewing machine. I had watched her so many times make something out of nothing with it. Because I didn't say much, I learned to watch. To study. People. Habits. Tasks. I learned how to sew from watching her. I run my fingers along the rolls of fabric, trying to find something that matches Vesper. I regret tearing up the night dress she was wearing when I took her. It was perfect—both sexy and demure. I don't find that exact white fabric, but I find something similar, a crisp cotton fabric with a thin line of lace in the palest pink. Like the color of her pussy before I make it flush with need.

I look through patterns, hoping to find something I can work with. I find a longer dress that I can make short, just as short as the one I gagged her with. After cutting the fabric, I sit at the sewing machine, thread it, and press the pedal. That rhythmic churning fills my ears. I haven't heard it in over a year now and my thoughts drift to the past I try to forget.

A state trooper car rolls up to the park, where I have been watching a man trim grass for the past fifteen minutes. The sound is loud and repetitive. I like it. It calms me. It makes all the anger and sadness easier to forget. But when I see the car, I know I'll be paying for the little break I took. Dad walks over to me. He used to run over. But this is getting old to him.

“Let's go,” he says sternly, curling his finger.

I don't fight him, and instead follow him into the car, sitting in the back with the metal grate between us.

“You keep doing this shit, Sam, they're going to kick you out of school. Whoopings don't help. Talking doesn't help. You can't keep running away from school like this!”

I sit quietly. Most parents would like a kid who doesn't talk back, but to my dad, nothing makes him angrier.

“Why? Tell me why! So help me god if you don't, you're gonna get a lickin' tonight. I have had it with this bull.”

I don't like whoopings. “T-t-t-they…” I stop. I don't like talking in front of him. He makes me feel bad.

Dad glances back in surprise and pulls over.

“I'm not moving until you finish your thought. Why is it that you talk to your mom, but not to me?”

Because she doesn't stare at me like I'm a disappointment. She doesn't get impatient. She doesn't hit me. She doesn't even notice the stuttering and so when it's just us, it's barely there.

I play with my fingers and look down. I don't want to tell him. He'll think I'm a wuss. My dad is tough.

“You're making your mom crazy because you're a bad boy. You're misbehaving, it's making her sick. You want to make her sick?”

I shake my head.

“So tell me.”

“T-t-t-hey c-c-c-all me n-n-n-n-names.”

He sighs. For the first time, it sounds like he feels sorry for me. He adjusts himself to get a better view of me in the backseat.

“Sam, in this world, people are always gonna see you as different. You can run away, or you can figure out a way to stay. But I'm not gonna pity you. I'm not gonna coddle you like your mom. It's my job to make you tough. Turn you into a man someday. You're probably gonna hate me for it. But it's what you need.”

He turns around and starts driving. “The school day is almost over so I'm taking you home. Mom's sick, so you go straight to your room or play out in the yard. Understand?”

I nod.

He drops me off in front of the house with a threat. “Don't let me find you running off from school again, Sam. So help me god.”

I run into the house. Save for the sounds of birds chirping outdoors, it's dead silent inside. No snacks are waiting for me. Mom's not sitting there with that look on her face of worry she has when I run off. Sometimes she gets sick. She goes into her room and doesn't come out for a long time. Dad has to make us dinner or sometimes the Waverlys next door help out. And then sometimes mom gets what we call the jitters. Her eyes go wide, she drives up to the ranch, and she sews and sews for days without taking a bath.

I open the fridge for a snack when I hear howling. Not like a wolf. It's lower and it goes up and down. I put my glass of milk on the counter to follow the sound upstairs to mom's room. The howling gets louder, but it's less of a howl and more like the sound of a ghost. The hairs stand on my neck. But I crack the door open anyway.

She's in bed alone, curled in a ball. Crying. Crying like I've never seen anyone cry before. She's making all sorts of sounds like she's in pain. But I think the pain is inside. The way mine is. Her crying is loud and makes me scared. I'm not supposed to look in there. I'm not supposed to bother her when she's sick. Dad will get mad and he's already mad at me. So I go downstairs, make my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and take it upstairs with my glass of milk. I sit on the floor outside of her door and listen to her cry as I eat. I don't know why I do it, but I have a sinking feeling and I want to make sure that she's still making noise. That if she stops, it will mean something bad has happened.