Apartment 2B (2 page)

She burnishes my skin, meticulous in removing every single perceived contaminant.
My skin burns as the bleach and slowly cooling water irritates the raw places. Every
single place she can reach, she does her ritualistic cleansing. Momma never goes above
my neck.

“I think we managed to take care of your dirty little problem. Now I suggest you finish
up in here and get off to bed. Momma’s tired from all of this hard work,” she says
without any indication that what she has done to me is wrong. No, Momma doesn’t see
anything unusual about her behavior, which only solidifies how sick in the head she
is.

“Yes, Momma,” I agree softly, not looking at her.

“Very well then. Goodnight, love.”

Her words are just that—words. She may call me “love” or “baby,” but they are empty.
There is absolutely no feeling behind them. Momma has deep-rooted psychological problems
for which she’s never received any type of professional help. In my many trips to
the library, I have read through tons of books looking for her disease. There isn’t
anything in those books about cleaning your child in bleach because of imagined germs—at
least not as far as I could find.

After she exits the bathroom with her supplies, I drain the water and stand up. The
cool air washes over my skin, much to my delight. Once the last bit of water disappears,
I turn on the shower to the coldest setting I can handle. The spray of icy water cools
my burning flesh and rinses away the bleach, finally making it easier for me to breathe.

There has to be a way I can escape her sick abuse, but I don’t know how. Everything
was fine until Daddy left us a few years ago when I was ten. The moment he left, without
a word of goodbye, I watched my momma slowly morph into a monster. In the beginning,
she just started using the switch on me frequently. Whenever she was upset about missing
Daddy or had a bad day at work, she would punish me by beating the stew out of me
with her switches. My body is littered with scars over scars from those painful lashings.

The summer after sixth grade is when she upped her level of crazy. A client accused
her of stealing and fired her. At dinner that night, she snapped and decided that
I was dirty. That first bleach bath was horrifying. Now that I am used to them, they
are at least not surprising. I eventually learned her patterns and triggers over the
next few years, always attempting to stay two steps ahead of her. However, trying
to understand a mentally ill person is a fruitless endeavor, and I still, like tonight,
landed on her radar.

It made me sick the day she told me that I would no longer be going to school, that
she would take care of my schooling from home. Until that point, it had been my escape.
I still remember crying so hard that I vomited. That was when I met Nurse Momma. The
shudder that courses through me brings me back to the present.

Washing my hair, I wince as the shampoo burns my raw skin when it runs down my shoulders
and back and quickly rinse it away. I turn off the water and locate the towel on the
hook. Ever so softly, I dab the water from by skin. After making my way to the mirror,
I swipe it to see my reflection. My blue eyes seem hollow and vacant. Dark circles
ring them, an indication of the stressful life I lead. Pouty lips, which look much
like Momma’s, frown back at me.

Carefully, I pull the hairbrush through my shoulder-length chocolate-colored hair.
When I accidentally graze the shoulder of the injured arm, I yelp in pain. I place
the hairbrush back down and exit the bathroom, the towel wrapped loosely around me.
After glancing nervously down the hallway, I dart into my room and quietly close the
door behind me.

My fan is humming above me, and my body shivers delightfully as the air chills my
stinging skin. I drop the towel and open the window to let more cool air inside. Because
of her punishments, I am developing my own obsessive tendencies, much to my dismay.
For one, the fan always has to be on and the window open, no matter the temperature.
Two, I absolutely will not sleep with anything but a simple sheet draped over my skin.
And finally, I sleep naked, which is unusual for a fifteen-year-old girl.

Up until the bleach baths, I was every bit the normal girl who got occasional beatings
from her mother. Since the baths started, my skin screams for relief. It’s absolutely
necessary for me not only to heal from them this way, but also to have the control
over my body that I don’t have when Momma is around.

Sliding in between the sheets, I finally relax in my safe haven. If I knew where to
go or if I had money, I would just leave in the middle of the night out the open window
that begs to release me to my own devices. But I am scared. Momma rules the only world
I know. Until I can figure out a way to seek help or manage a life on my own, I am
tethered to her in ways I wish I weren’t. I absolutely hate her and this life I’ve
been dealt.

“911, what’s your emergency?” the dispatcher on the other line calmly asks.

I’m shaking as I stare at Momma’s lifeless form on the floor. The woman on the line
repeats herself and I am brought back from my trance.

“Uh, yeah,” I begin, voice trembling, “I think my mother is dead.”

“Stay calm, ma’am. Can you help me out? I need you to check for a pulse. Do you think
you can help me with that?”

I gulp as I hesitantly make my way toward her. Kneeling, I pull her over to her back.

“What do I do? How do I check for a pulse?” I question the woman. Momma’s eyes are
open and unblinking. I’m suddenly feeling nauseated.

The woman proceeds to tell me how to check for a pulse, but once I tell her about
the temperature of her skin, the stiffness of her body, and her open eyes, she eventually
ends up just staying on the line with me until the medical responders arrive.

Upon entrance, one of the two men pulls me to the side.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” he asks gently, and I feel his gaze fall to my bare arms.

When I got up this morning to eat breakfast, I tossed on a tank top along with some
shorts, not expecting to find Momma dead on the kitchen floor. Immediately, I squirm
under his gaze as he blatantly notices my scars and sores.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I say shortly, hoping to divert his attention elsewhere.

“Ma’am, I would like to take a closer look at those lacerations. May I?” he questions
in an easy manner, much like the way you would coax over a scared puppy. When he reaches
for me, I flinch and take several steps away from him.

“I said I’m fine. Please,” I beg, wanting him to just leave me alone.

He sighs and frowns over at me before turning back to handling my deceased mother.
The other fellow speaks up and I listen attentively. My mind is racing about how scared
and happy I am at the same time. The two warring emotions are making me dizzy.

“It would appear that your mother had a heart attack. Of course we won’t know for
certain until after an autopsy, should you decide to proceed with one. I’m so sorry
for your loss. Is there anyone we can call?” the younger EMT asks me.

I blink rapidly as I try to conjure up anyone I could call. We aren’t close to any
family. My father left us long ago. The only friend I have is the librarian, and that
would be a stretch.

“No. I don’t have anyone.”

He, too, frowns at me and gives his partner a look I wasn’t meant to interpret. I’m
going crazy wondering what they are silently saying about me. I just want them to
leave and soon.

“Ma’am, we’re going to call a counselor. It might be best if you could talk to someone.
I know her really well. Her name’s Tina Caldwell. Can I call her for you?” the younger
one asks. They are being so gentle with me, as if I might bolt out the door at any
second. I’m seriously considering it.

“Um, is that customary with this sort of thing?” I question, nervous at the idea of
these people suddenly injecting themselves into my life.

“In your case, I think it would be very beneficial. She can help guide you on what
to do now that your mother has passed on. It would appear that you live with her.
Am I correct? You seem a little young, so I thought maybe you could use some advice.”
His words are calm, but I can tell that he isn’t revealing everything to me.

“I’m twenty-one,” I tell him defiantly, as if that makes me suddenly capable for handling
such situations.

He smiles at me and stands from his position on the floor. When he approaches me,
I once again shrink away from him. Thankfully he stops and withdraws a phone from
his pocket.

“Tina, it’s Joey. I really need you to help me with something. I’ll text you the address
and some information, but we could
really
use you right now.” His emphasis on the word ‘really’ causes me to shiver nervously
as if I’ve done something wrong. I also note that this probably isn’t customary considering
his informal nature with her. I suspect he could be a friend or boyfriend of Tina.
“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later,” Joey says gratefully before hanging up the phone.
Yes, definitely more than acquaintances.

“We’re going to finish up here. Tina will be over after her last appointment, probably
around three. Will you be okay until then?” he questions, concern lacing his voice.

I nod emphatically, hoping to drive home the point that I will be fine. For once in
my godforsaken life, I will be fine. He watches me for a little longer than I am comfortable
with, and I feel myself squirming again, much to my dismay.

“Okay then.”

The knock on the door pulls me from my daze. I have been sitting in the same spot
in a kitchen chair, watching the area on the floor where Momma died. The reality hasn’t
set in yet. I’m not really sure what to do with myself once it does.

I stand up, stretching my aching legs, and make my way to the door. Peeking through
the peephole, I see a pretty blond woman close to my own age. She reminds me of the
women on the covers of the romance novels I love to read. Her hair is long and straight,
not a strand out of place. It makes me self-conscious about my simple brown hair.

Swallowing the anxiety that is encouraging bile to rise, I slowly open the door and
slip my head through the crack.

“Can I help you?” I squeak at her.

She smiles, revealing perfect white teeth, and I find myself studying her shiny, pink
lips. I’m pretty sure she has lip gloss on. Lips aren’t that shiny naturally.

“I’m Tina Caldwell. Joey said that you might like someone to talk to,” she informs
me as she grins, and it feels infectious. Returning her smile feels foreign, but I
can’t help myself. When I do, her green eyes glitter with happiness. She seems so
joyful.

“Oh, yes. Please, uh, come in,” I say nervously, opening the door and gesturing her
inside.

When she walks past me, I smell a lovely floral scent that makes tears spring to my
eyes. The tears are ones of sadness and loss. Tina appears to be every bit of a normal
woman my age, and it only solidifies that I am not.