My Evil Mother: A Short Story(9)

“Tell me you were making it up,” I said. Now that I was asking directly and not in anger—a thing I’d never exactly done before—surely she would admit it.

“Made what up, my treasure?”

“The hair burning. The pointing. All of it. It was like my father being a garden gnome, wasn’t it? Just fairy tales?”

She sighed. “You were such a sensitive child. So easily wounded. So I told you those things. I didn’t want you to feel defenseless in the face of life. Life can be harsh. I wanted you to feel protected, and to know that there was a greater power watching over you. That the Universe was taking a personal interest.”

I kissed her forehead, a skull with a very thin covering of skin. The protector was her, the greater power was her, the Universe that took an interest was her as well; always her. “I love you,” I said.

“I know, my treasure. And did you feel protected?”

“Yes,” I said. “I did.” This was somewhat true. “It was very sweet of you to invent all that for me.”

She looked at me sideways out of her green eyes. “Invent?” she said.



And so I come to the end. But it’s not the end, since ends are arbitrary. I’ll close with one more scene.

My eldest daughter is now fifteen, the talk-back age. A tug-of-war is going on: she wants to go running, in the dark, with some jock I’ve barely set eyes on. Running! Girls didn’t used to run, except at track and field. They ambled, they strolled. To run would be undignified and lollopy; who knew about sports bras back then?

My daughter is wearing skintight pants and a stretchy top; her arms are bare, with three tattoos on each, all of them birds and animals. I’d explained the difficulty of removal should one change one’s mind later, but to no avail.

“No running in the dark,” I insist. “It’s too dangerous. There are prowlers.”

“You’re not the boss of me! There are streetlights, for fuck’s sake!”

No use at all to say, “Vulgar language” or even “Potty mouth.” That horse bolted long ago. “Nevertheless. And with your, your friend . . . Boys can get carried away.”

“Carried away, fuck! We’ll be fucking running! It’s not like he’s a rapist! I mean, he can be a bit of a dick, but . . .”

Bit of a dick? I sometimes need a dictionary. “I’m saying no.”

“You’re such a bitch!”

“Don’t make me point,” I say. I’m beginning to get angry.

“What? Don’t make you point?” She rolls her eyes, laughs. “Fuck my life! What’s pointing?”

“It’s a hex thing,” I say, straight-faced. “You wouldn’t like the results.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” she sneers. “A hex thing! Are you insane?”

“Your grandmother was a witch,” I say, as solemnly as I can.

This brings her up short. “You’re shitting me! You mean, like, really?”

“Really,” I say.

“Like, what kind of witch things did she do?”

She’s not altogether convinced, but I have her attention. I drop my voice to a confiding whisper. “I’ll tell you when you’re old enough,” I say, evading the immediate pitfall. “But no running at night, not until you’re ready. Witches can see things at night that other people can’t see. Dead people, for instance. If you’re not instructed and prepared, it can be scary.”

“I’m not a witch, though,” she says uncertainly. She’s considering the options.

“You may not realize it yet,” I say. “Your grandmother believed the talent is passed on. It can skip a generation. I’m sure you’ll grow into it. When that happens, you must be very, very careful. You mustn’t abuse your power.”

She hugs herself. “I feel cold.”

She’s thrilled. Who of her age would not be?