Two Days and One Night

There was a time when you pulled me out of bed, swinging me up in your arms. You tell me not to worry, mother is at work and then you make me breakfast. It is eggs with cheese scrambled together covered in salt and butter. It is forbidden by mother but you don’t care, I am daughter. You give me toast and let me taste your coffee and you tell me your secrets. It is this I remember most. You and me at the early morning breakfast table, the rest of the world fast asleep in their warm beds, the cold morning against my skin. You turn on the heater and sit with me across the grate with our knees making triangles.

On the morning when it happened, you did what you always do, so how would I know? You made breakfast and told me your secrets. This time they are about my clothing and what I will need. They say, don’t worry. They say you are the one who knows me better than anyone else. I am sure you mean it. I know I am your favorite.

We get in the car. I want to know where mother is, but am afraid to hurt your feelings by asking you. We drive through the streets of Los Angeles. We go to your brother’s house where you and he smoke something from pipes talking and laughing. I play with my doll. I make her talk and walk. I pretend I am at the top of the hill where I see the lilacs. I pretend you aren’t saying bad words. I pretend mother is with us her eyes looking at me. Her mouth saying I am beautiful.

Then we are off again. You tell me it’s okay, be a good girl, don’t cry, nothing bad is happening. We sing in the car, the song my Grandmother taught me.

Amazing Grace

How Sweet the Sound

That saved a Wretch Like Me

I once was lost

And now am found

Was blind but now I see

Mother was always dressed in white. That’s how I remember her. I didn’t know you wanted to leave forever. I am a good girl. I keep my mouth quiet. Keep the careful things I want to say hidden inside. We drive all night. We drive the next day and the next. I am good and try to hold my pee inside so you don’t have to stop. You tell me it’s okay. We will be okay. You reach over and hold my hand and I fall asleep with my hand in yours. I pee while I am sleeping.

You rage at me as if I were the devil. You say I ruined the car. I cry, but I couldn’t hold it. I am hungry, you tell me tough luck.

One day we get to a town. Where it is I can’t be sure. There are long fields of wheat and crows flying overhead. The sky becomes dark like a tornado. I am afraid and tell you so. You say, “Don’t worry, angel.” But still I do. “What about that show I saw about tornados?” You tell me it isn’t close enough to where we are to worry.  “But the little girl flew away and they found her later on the ground bloody and dirty.” You say, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”  I tell you I am hungry and you tell me to wait. I wait forever until the hunger turns into something else. Something I don’t know how to say. I have to pee again, but am too afraid to tell you. I think the pain might kill me. You pull over to get gas and I get out and go in the bushes. I don’t know how to find the man with the key. I am afraid you will leave me there. You start the car and don’t even look for me.

We go to a house. You talk to a man. He has long white hair and a beard like Santa Claus. I am introduced and he is kind. He invites me in and makes me hot chocolate. I don’t mention mother, I don’t want to make it real that she isn’t here. The man gives me a gift; it is a locket worth money you tell me. I would put a photo of mother inside, only I don’t have one.

My room is very cold. I don’t have enough blankets, but there aren’t more blankets you tell me. I walk around the yard and make the dog crazy by staying just out of his reach. His name is Brad Pit-Bull. You laugh when you hear his name. I don’t laugh I am afraid of his flashing teeth and drooling mouth.

I tell you it’s time to wash my hair. You say you will help me. I need to get into the bath. So, I do that. I get into the bath and I sit with the bubbles, but you never come. I have a duck in the water, I am relaxed, but I miss mother. She used to lean me back into the sink and my hair would go down the drain. She would scrub my scalp too hard and I would say, “You’re hurting me.” And she would laugh like she did. You never got to learn how to wash my hair. You were only there in the mornings.

I wait in the tub until the water runs cold. Every once in a while I yell out to you, “Father? Did you forget me?” You never answer though. The old man doesn’t answer. No one is there. I finally after what seems like too long to be safe. Get out of the tub and I look for you, but you are both gone. I am here in this house without you.  I get into my pajamas and walk around the house. The floors are wood and they smell of lemons. The curtains on the windows are white cotton see through like mother would have.

I am hungry and I look for food in the kitchen, but everything is locked. I find some bread on the top of the fridge and pull over a chair and climb up. I take out a piece of bread, careful not to leave crumbs. I am scared to make you angry. You have been angry since we left.

I decide to call her. “I miss you,” I say. Mother starts crying, begging me really. “Where are you my darling?” But I don’t know how to tell her where I am. I am somewhere, two days and one night away, with an old man, like Santa. Mother tells me to go outside and look at the house and find the number and come back and tell it her. So, I go onto the porch, but Brad Pitt-Bull is out there. I forgot about him. He is very loud and frightens me and I run back inside.

“I can’t make it past the dog,” I tell mother, but she begs me to go back. “It is a pit-bull, he isn’t tied up, I’m so sorry, I can’t.” I hear you and the man coming up the walk laughing out loud like this was the best time in the world and I quickly hang up. I try to hide my worry, but I am standing in the middle of the world. Right there for everyone to see and I begin to cry.

You tell me to get back in the tub, what am I doing. I say, “I miss mother, I want to go home.” You promise to take me in the morning. I believe you after crying out all my tears. The old man lights a cigarette and tells you he’ll wait. “I have to wash your hair,” you say and I nod and you draw another bath. It is warm. I get in and wait for you in the bubbles that you made.

You come in and you lean me back and you wash my hair, but you are too rough. I ask you to stop and I start to cry again. You say, “Shut up.” But I see something in your eyes that I don’t recognize. Your breath is sour. It makes me scared. You tell me to keep quiet. And I do. And then you lean me back and hold my head under water until I can’t get any more air. I wish for mother, but then, I am gone.