Splintered World

Every time I breathe, wood creaks and glass tinkles. I'm lying on the floor, with half the hutch pinning down my right arm. The glass from the door is smashed, and I suddenly become afraid to move. Shards of glass decorate my hair, and I feel something warm running down my neck.

I put the pieces together in my head. He brought home some ground beef, and I made mashed potatoes.

Oh. I forgot to put the salt on the table. I remember being screamed at, that I was stupid. I guess I am. How hard is it to put salt on the table? I got lost in the thought of eating real food, and I forgot. He sent his plate flying across the room, smashing into the wall beside the table holding up the old hutch top. He found it in the garbage and thought we could use it. I scrambled to clean up the food before he yelled at me to do it. I looked up to see him push the hutch top off the table, falling over slowly, onto me. Now, I just lie here for the longest time, numb.

The babies! I listen for the babies, and I remember they are asleep for the night. I listen for him, and I remember the back door slamming.

He's gone. And I wonder how much time I have before he returns. With my free hand, I push out from under the hutch. The glass crunches where I move, and makes me wince when I step on it. I feel defeated. I massage my painful arm. His disapproving voice rings in my ears, "Can't even put salt on the fucking table!" I feel my face turn red with shame.

In the bathroom, I sway before the mirror and clean up the blood. I have more bruises than cuts, and the face looking back at me mocks me. See what happens when you don't pay attention?

I return to the living room with a broom and dust-pan. I put what's left of the hutch back on the table. If I remove the other door, it can be used for shelves. We have so little, and the hutch makes the house look less needy. Glass still tinkles, and wood scrapes against the floor, in a disjointed, derisive concerto, as I sweep up the mess.

Then, in the pile of dirt, glass and debris, I see the food he pitched across the room. On my hands and knees, I begin to pick up bits of ground beef, mashed potatoes ... and I eat them. I am careful there are no bits of glass and I push the cold, greasy food into my mouth.

It tastes like salvation.

My mouth is not as quick as my hands, and I rock back and forth on my knees, mouth too full and hands holding on tightly to one more morsel of congealed burger and cold lumps of potato.

My stomach feels sick from eating so much, so fast. In despair, I have to leave the rest; it breaks my heart. I wash the floor and then me.

I remove the remaining door on the hutch, and aside from that it looks like nothing happened, like nothing is different. But something is very different this night, as I heave the mattress, throw it on the floor and make my bed.

This night, as I lie still in the darkness, the terrors do their infernal dance. He will be back and soon. My own soul is splintered and empty but my stomach is full.

Running for Time

I feel a rush of heat when I touch that orange. I pick it up and inhale its fragrance; it is the smell of promise and places far away. I think I will weep. I have twenty dollars in the pocket of my thin jacket. He expects me to feed two babies and us on twenty bucks. I'm hungry for this orange, but I can't buy it. A bag costs two dollars, and I will have to account for such frivolous spending. The last time he gave me twenty dollars, I made the mistake of buying the babies each a pair of slippers. The floors are so cold. I instinctively put my hand to my face. The bruise is gone but the memory lingers.

The babies sit quietly in the cart while I find milk, bread, butter, a bag of potatoes. I'm sick of eating pan potatoes, morning, noon and night. He gets pissed at me for not making anything else yet he doesn't eat anything else. I only have twenty dollars. What am I supposed to do?

I buy cheap macaroni and cheese. Four boxes for a dollar. The kids never complain. They love it. They'll shovel it in with both hands and look like chipmunks if I don't watch them.

I look up at the clock above the door, and my heart begins to pound. We live across the street from the supermarket, and he times me when I leave. I have thirty minutes. Exactly. Thirty minutes. He watches me from the living room window. Last time, I was six minutes late, and he accused me of sleeping with someone from this crappy supermarket. Like who? The greasy, yellow looking manager who spits when he talks? The old doll with the bleach bouffant a foot high and fuchsia lipstick smeared on her mouth? The pimply bag boy who fidgets and stares? My stomach turned, and I started to scream.

"Do you know how hard it is to run with a rickety stroller with two kids and bags of groceries?" "It's not my fucking job!' he reminds me.

"And being timed by some ..."

I got a slap in the mouth for my trouble.

Now that damn clock says I have twelve minutes to get home. It looms large and menacing over the very the doors I want to run out of right now.

At the checkout, an elderly lady is ahead of me. I watch as she chats with the cashier.

"The weather is getting so cold," she chirps, "and with my arthritis, well I just don't know how I will manage." The cashier chews her gum, bored and smiles when necessary.

Eleven minutes.

I want to push my cart into that old woman.

Ten minutes.

She chats and laughs and pays for her purchases with every single coin she has in that purse. I watch in disbelief as she counts them out, and then goes back because she's talking and forgets where she left off.

The sound of coin after coin being placed on the counter mimics the ticking of the clock, and I want to yell "Shut up old woman!" She pulls more change out of her ratty coat and adjusts her red knitted hat, tied under her shin. She has those moist eyes and, for a moment, I see what she must have looked like in her youth. Kind of like me. The cashier shuffles from one foot to the other, adjusting some invisible pin in her hair.

In my head, I have added up the total of her bread and milk and cat food, and I pray to God she has enough money to pay for this. The babies start to fuss. They want out. So do I!

Eight minutes.

I'm sweating. It trickles cold down my neck, and my heart is pounding in my chest. Unwittingly, the babies are acting out a small version of the events and my feelings. Getting frustrated and fractious, starting to whine, and trying to escape. I want to yell at them to stop and yell at the old lady that my life is hell, and she is contributing to it with every penny she counts and with all the endless, stupid chatter she just needs to indulge in! I just tell the babies to be good, and as I turn from admonishing them, I watch as the old lady finally leaves. For a second, I don't move from the surprise. The cashier rings up my meager offerings, and now actually stops chewing her gum and tries to make small talk. With me!

"Such cute babies," she coos at them. The babies just glare, kinda like me. She fishes around in the pocket of her less-than-clean uniform, where I know she keeps lollipops. I start flailing my arms around like I'm drowning and croak, "No! No!"

She looks at me like I'm nuttier than the old lady and goes back to checking out my stuff. The sweat is running down my back. You can't give them lollipops because then I have to explain, and no matter the truth he won't believe me and ... I see the clock and break off the dialogue in my head; I stand very still and just smile. I can't speak. I'm so afraid I'll throw up.

Seven minutes.

She hands me my twelve cents change. I can't stop to count. I need to run.

Six minutes.

The blast of cold November air makes me feel like I'm waking from a dream, as I push that stroller once more, trying to make the light at the corner. Please, merciful God, let the light stay green ... please. I beg you.

Four minutes.

The light stays green. My stomach hurts so badly, and everything is sticking to my sweaty back, icy and miserable. I see him in the window.

Two minutes.

He almost looks disappointed as I clamber up the driveway. I barge in the back door and look at the clock on the stove as I tumble in, breathless. Dear mother of God, I made it.

As I take the babies out of the stroller, unbundle them and let them loose, I watch as he takes out the purchases, bought from the very list he himself wrote, tossing them on the counter in disgust.

"Always the same shit," he snorts.

That night, I lay awake in the darkness, waiting. The babies sleep. I don't know where he is. I keep thinking how much I want to buy that orange. But then that would mean that I would be somewhere else. A place far away from here. A place with promise.

Damaged Goods

I'm being dragged across the street to the strip mall, to the doctor's office. I'm carrying two children. I'm not moving fast enough so he's pulling me along, by the collar of my sweater. The babies chatter to each other, and I watch every step in front of me. I'm afraid to fall and hurt these babies. He's not even thinking that far.

I'm being dragged, by the collar of my sweater, to the doctor's office because he's decided that I am "too big" down there. The doctor is to send me to the hospital to have me "tightened up" because he says so.

How did I get here? Where did I take a wrong turn? What day was it exactly? What year? What time? I'm dying of humiliation. I wish the earth would open up and swallow me. The babies start to squirm which makes it harder for me to carry them. I hoist and shift, hoist and shift. I feel just like the clouds above me, leaden, gray and heavy. It's the end of November. Snow will be here soon. Too big down there. I don't even know where that comes from or what it means exactly. I don't want surgery! He wants a "tight" woman, like a teenager. But I am a teenager! I'm all of nineteen!

"Tight," he snarls. Leave me alone!

We are at the doctor's office too soon.

"We have no appointment," he smiles at the receptionist, "but my wife here really needs to see the doc."

"Is this an emergency?" she asks.

"Yes, kind of," he counters, still smiling.

She looks at me, standing behind him, and I shake my head ever so slightly ... no ... He turns to look at me; I hold very, very still, my face a bleached-out mask. His eyes, that look. He turns back and convinces the receptionist this is urgent, and she fits us in.

I wonder which is worse, going through with this or risking his rage had she refused us. When we are called in, I think I will faint. I like this doctor; he's good to me and the babies, and now I'm standing before him, dying. My husband does not mince words.

"She's getting loose like a cow down there and I want her fixed," he says like he's ordering breakfast. Two things happen. Waves of heat from the embarrassment run up and down my body, and I briefly wonder how he knows what a cow feels like.

"A man can't get much satisfaction from a woman like that, right Doc?" he chuckles. The look on Dr. Wilson's face makes me want to cry. He knows there's something not right.

"Let me take a look at you," he quietly says and agrees to examine me. My body is like jello. I'm afraid I won't be able to stand up. The babies want to come with me, and they start crying when I tell them they have to wait a minute, with Daddy.

I promise them a game, or to read their favorite book, if they are good. They eye me suspiciously. I'm always so afraid to leave the babies alone with their father. Always afraid he will take them and vanish, and I will search the rest of my life for them.

He just sits there, arms folded, like he has won some mental war. I start to shake, as I slowly and fearfully, hand them over to their father. Everything in me is screaming. Run, run, run. But my jello legs, just barely hold me up, as walk into the exam room, with the sounds of the babies cries in my ears.

* * *

I'm lying on the exam table, half of me naked, shivering, feet in stirrups, spread eagle; my tears run into my ears, and I am chocking on the humiliation of fingers and metal invading me. "May as well get a pap smear," says the doctor, trying to make amends for this horror.

When it's over, I can't get dressed fast enough. I run out of there, wiping my face free of traces that this is killing me. I'm so cold.

He is holding each baby by a sleeve of their jackets, and they are not moving a hair. Until they see me come out. They tear away, running at me like wild animals. "Mommy, Mommy! Mommy read Nokiyo!" They don't forget and Pinocchio is on the reading list this night. For a moment, his face is blank as he takes it all in. Then he remembers his mission, and he pushes all of us into the doctor's office.

Behind his desk, the doctor looks from my husband to me and back again. The babies on my lap are quiet and sleepy. I hide my burning face in their hair, in the comforting smell of babies.

Dr. Wilson's clears his throat and talks. Words echo around my head and for a minute I don't understand.

"There is nothing wrong with your wife ... hmm, she is not "too big," as a matter of fact, she is rather small for having had two children, one of them just over a year ago."

I could cry with joy. He then seals my fate by saying, "It's not Neoma that's too big ... hmm, it's well, you know, maybe you and your wife are not a good fit ... which is normal for many men."

Please God don't let me laugh out loud.

From behind my shield, I glance sideways. I can't see his face, but I see and feel his body tense, and I know what's coming. He knocks over his chair as he gets up and wordlessly hustles us out.

* * *

For the second time, today, I'm being dragged by the collar of my sweater. On the way home he's screaming for the entire world to hear.

"That doctor is an asshole! You're a fucking whore! Probably screwing him too!" he screeches. He suddenly pulls me up so fast, my knees almost buckle.

"Are you fucking that quack!" he screams in my face.

The babies start crying, their little red faces scrunched up. I hush and sooth and want to cry with them. We are in the middle of the street in front of oncoming cars, honking furiously. My heart is going to give out. He yells at the drivers who swerve to avoid hitting us; he gives them the finger, and tells them to fuck right off. "YOU bitch; you are never to go back to that bastard quack!" And he yanks me again. But I'm not "too big" down there.

* * *

I cannot say that I am in the safety of my home once again; there is no safety here. I try to make the time of feeding, bathing and putting down the babies, last as long as possible.

As they splash around in the tub, two little girls chatter about "Nokiyo," and my body feels as fragile as their little ones. I want to climb in with them, let the water soothe the discomfort of the unwanted invasion, the doctor's imprints. How lovely it would feel ...

A loud CRACK makes me jump. I realize it's the snap of a leather belt on furniture. And he screams my name. My hands tremble, I breathe faster. Hell, is waiting. He is waiting.

I hasten to tuck them in, and I try to get through the short version of Nokiyo. The babies fall asleep fast, peaceful, unknowing. I close their door, and again that loud crack makes me jump. I stand there for a moment hugging myself, knowing.

My face hurts from the terror I feel etched into it. I rub my jaw. It feels like storm clouds gathering inside. I want to disappear. And again, he screams my name. Even beatings are impatient.

"Neoma! Goddammit!"

But I'm not "too big" down there.

I have to go now.

Angel Kisses

The padding of little feet is a morning ritual. The minute the sun rises, one wakes the other, and they play in their room, with the few toys they have. When they get hungry or have to pee, they come running. They have pajamas with feet, and the sound they make is unmistakable; the sound that is music to my heart. They usually jump on the mattress, and Zoe will giggle "Hungwy Mom," and Jaz will echo everything Zoe says, "hungy Mom."

This morning they hesitate and whisper. They see my face.

"Mom has a booboo ... booboo." "Zooey kiss a booboo, Mom.. Jazzy kiss a booboo, Mom." And the gentlest of angels' kisses, light as angel feathers, cover my swollen face. I'm chocking back the tears. They cannot see me cry.

"Peanuf buller toes! ... buller toes!" squeal the angels, and I wish I had a real bed. Getting up from the floor sends pain shooting through my body. I help Jaz into her chair, and I watch them settle in at their little table. I want to laugh. They look like two little old ladies waiting for the early bird special. I check the bread for mold, and I toast two slices on a bent hanger, on the stove ring.

A quick check reveals a split and swollen lip. I raise my shirt and wince when I touch the gash on my side from the belt buckle. The meager pieces of toasts are ready.

I put on the peanut butter, cut each slice into four small squares and bring it to my waiting ladies. I fill their little cups with milk. "Sank you Mom ... sank you Mom."