I stood at the door, waiting for an answer. The morning sun was already blistering my pasty skin. Fall couldn’t get here fast enough. Texas in August was a miserable place to be.
“What the fuck, why are you knocking?” Sara rolled her eyes with a chuckle as she flung her front door open.
“Because I don’t live here.” I smirked and brushed past her, throwing my shoulder lightly into hers.
“Mi casa es tu casa, motherfucker.” Sara stretched her arms out, welcoming me into her new house.
I couldn’t help but giggle. She was this perfect little thing—jealousy-inducing curves in all the right places. Her long, black hair curled naturally and big chocolate eyes shined all the time. Her skin was stunning and flawless along with her style. And she had this little button nose covered with light freckles. She appeared so innocent but had the mouth of a drunken sailor. And she had zero filter—her language wasn’t censored for anyone, not even the doctors we visited frequently.
“It looks really good!” She had an eye for decorating, and since her new home was finally finished being built, she could show off her skills.
“Thanks! I worked my fucking ass off to make it just right. Luckily, I had Jake and his muscles to help with the heavy stuff before he went to the field this week.”
“Oh yeah, how is he?” Sara married Jake a little over a year ago and had a relationship that books were inspired by. They had a whirlwind romance, and he swept her off her feet and treated her like the princess she deserved to be. The trash-mouth little princess.
“He’s good. Bitching because it’s hot, but that’s normal.” She smiled brightly as we walked down the hall, leading to my reason for coming over so early on my day off.
“Is she awake yet?” My voice got quieter as we got closer to the last door on the left.
“Yeah, she hasn’t eaten breakfast, though. Maybe you can convince her.” Sara let out a sigh before opening the door gently. “Mama?” Her voice was soft and gentle, much different from just a few seconds ago.
The usual silence followed as she opened the door wider, and we both stepped into the room.
“Mama, Rachel’s here.”
I leaned to the side, getting a glimpse of our mother sitting up in her twin-sized bed, staring at the wall in front of her. “Hey, Mama,” I whispered, kneeling close enough to kiss her on the forehead.
She lowered her lids in a long blink, her way of acknowledging my presence. We didn’t get much more from her these days, so I took what I could get.
“How are you feeling today?” I asked, even though I knew I wouldn’t get an answer.
But she looked good. She wasn’t crying, and she wasn’t ignoring us, so that was a good sign.
“Mama, I have to run a few errands, but Rach will be here.”
Some days I felt really guilty that Sara took on the majority of the responsibility for our mother. But she was able to stay home with her full time, without financial worry, and we were both thankful for that. I also made sure to come over at least three nights a week after work and on the weekends—even more if Sara needed me. And if I were honest, I think Mama preferred it this way. She and Sara always had a special bond, one I couldn’t compete with.
And now, I didn’t like to leave her alone for even a little while. We didn’t think she would try to hurt herself, but she hadn’t spoken in almost five years, and we weren’t sure if she ever would again. We couldn’t take the chance of her having an accident and not being able to call for help.
After months of doctor’s visits, no one could really find a reason why she had stopped talking. But after Duane’s accident, she just declined. She went through the motions of trying to take care of us, but the depression was too deep. She cried a lot and took too many pills. I assumed it was to numb her pain, physically and mentally. But deep down, we always wondered if head trauma was the cause of her silence. Duane had hit her on more than one occasion, and I was convinced she’d had her share of concussions. But without any direct confirmation from a doctor, we would never really know. So, we just took care of her the best we could.
And some days, she even smiled, which was nice. Today didn’t seem to be one of them, but I would make the best out of our time together.
I missed my mama, even though I still saw her frequently. I missed her laugh—we didn’t get to hear it nearly enough. I missed her hugs and the way she would place her hands on my cheeks when she wanted me to really hear what she had to say. But I didn’t miss the weeping I heard from her room or the cries of pain that he inflicted on her.
I tried to shake those memories from my mind, refusing to let him occupy a moment of my time. He got exactly what he deserved, and I’d never feel any differently about it. I just prayed that it stuck.
“Do you want to try to eat some breakfast?” I ran my fingers through her reddish-gray hair, thin to the touch. She gave me a solid blink, which made me smile.
“Well, okay then, how about some French toast? With fresh strawberries? I got them from the farmer’s market on my way over.” I hoped that one day, she would—or could—engage in our conversations.
“I’ll turn it on the country countdown to keep you company while I cook.” I kissed her cheek and flipped the remote on the TV to her favorite station.
She had always been a big fan of country music. Even now, when the music started, she would sway slightly, closing her eyes, taking it all in.
The slow drawl of a female voice I wasn’t familiar with filled the room, drawing Mama’s eyes to the television, and I knew it would keep her occupied while I cooked. So I hurried to the kitchen and began whipping up the only breakfast food I remembered my mom enjoying.
Once Mama had eaten a few bites of her French toast, and I cleaned my mess in the kitchen, I returned to her room to find a book sitting on her lap. I knew which one it was.
It was funny how I had so many horrific memories of my childhood, but one thing stood out. Mama always read to me when I was little, and I was sure that instilled my love of words. That was before Duane invaded our lives and made each day a nightmare. The memories were too distant and hard to remember. But I did my best to hold onto them because that’s when we were safe.
“You want me to read to you?” I pulled the book from her fingers, and she gave me a little smile, causing my vision to blur from the emotions threatening to fall. I ran my fingers over the cover and forced the tears way down deep, determined to give her what she asked for. For the hundredth time, I read the title out loud.
“Shel Silverstein is pretty great, isn’t he?” I noticed the bookmark holding the spot where we left off last time, so I turned to that page to continue. I nuzzled myself beside Mama, and she leaned her head on my shoulder before I started to read aloud.
I stared at the page, recognizing the words immediately.
“I like this one,” I began, kissing the top of her head before I continued.
I read to her and let the words that were so familiar to me, seep into my soul.
I recited from memory more than anything else as the words flowed.
I read about the voice inside of us that whispers all day long. I read the poet’s words about feeling what is right for us and knowing what was wrong. We just have to listen to the voice that speaks inside of us.
My voice cracked during the last line, and I had to take a ragged breath to keep myself together. When I looked down at Mama’s face, I noticed her eyes were closed and a peaceful glow rested upon her.
I let out a shaky breath and wished that one day, Mama would use her voice to speak. I’d give anything to hear her, even just once more.
I got her settled for her nap and made my way to the recliner in the corner, wishing God would give Mama a chance and make her whole again. I wanted her to forget the horrid things she’d been through. She deserved peace. She deserved a voice.