IAN, AGE NINE
Ian watched the bus disappear over the rise of the road before facing the dusty white farmhouse he called home. Parked off to the side was his mom’s silver Pontiac station wagon.
He blew out a steady breath, inflated cheeks shrinking like depleted tires. She was home. At least, he hoped it was his mom, Sarah, and not her other, Jackie.
For as long as Ian could remember, his mother had erratic mood swings. She’d forget what she was doing from one day to the next, sometimes from one moment to the next. And Ian would have to remind her. He’d walk her through her tasks as his mom stared at him, childlike, wide-eyed, and bewildered.
It wasn’t until a year ago that his dad had tried to explain to him his mom’s bizarre, and at times volatile, behavior. She’d gone missing for two days only to return home with her clothing torn and dirt-stained, her cheek slit open and eye blackened. His mom had no recollection of the previous forty-eight hours. She wanted to sink into a hot bath and go to bed, but Ian’s dad insisted on taking her to the hospital. Three days later she was discharged with stitches in her cheek and a diagnosis for her mind. Dissociative identity disorder.
Ian didn’t really understand what that meant or why she had it. His dad wouldn’t tell him. But he did learn other people lived inside his mom. That’s how his dad initially described his mom’s condition to him. The doctor knew of one, Jackie. He warned there might be others. Ian hadn’t noticed yet if there were, but he and his dad were all too aware of Jackie. Jackie had been making appearances since before Ian was born.
The doctor referred his mom to a psychiatrist and prescribed her antidepressants and mood stabilizers, which Ian had overheard her telling his dad she didn’t want to take. She didn’t like being controlled, and that’s what the pills would do. As for following up with a doctor, Ian rarely saw her go and his dad wasn’t around enough to make her go. Ian hadn’t seen any appointments scheduled on her daily planner either.
A fly landed on Ian’s elbow. He shook his arm and scratched at his skin where the bug had made him itch. He opened the mailbox and retrieved bills stamped OVERDUE and embroidery catalogs. He stuffed them in his backpack and slowly walked up the driveway. Gravel crunched under his beat-up Vans. A breeze thick with the smell of fertilizer stirred around him, ruffling his mop of hair. Bangs spilled over his eyes. He pushed them aside and crossed his fingers on both hands.
Please be Mom. Please be Mom, he recited in his head with each step.
He had too much homework to worry about Jackie getting his mom into trouble again. Three months ago, Jackie had withdrawn the cash in his parents’ bank account, leaving no funds for the bills. That’s why they were behind in payments.
Ian stopped in the entryway, the front door slamming behind him, blown shut by the wind. His mom looked up from her embroidery machine in the dining room and smiled. Ian smiled back and the tightness in his shoulders eased under the heavy weight of his backpack. She was Sarah. Jackie’s smiles weren’t as nice.
The house smelled musty, the air stale and warm, making his nose twitch. He rubbed around his nostrils and looked at the windows in the room. All four were closed, the curtains drawn. Dirty dishes and half-empty cups, interspersed with teetering piles of team uniforms and Scout shirts, cluttered the table like a city skyline.
“How was your photo expedition?” Sarah asked.
It was great. Yesterday, Ian thought.
“OK,” he said out loud.
Ian had spent Sunday morning walking through the fields taking pictures of ants and magpies with a camera he found in his dad’s home office. It was much better than the one his dad gifted him on his fifth birthday. His mom hadn’t been home when Ian returned for lunch, and she still hadn’t arrived by dinner. Ian ate cold spaghetti left over from the previous night, watched an hour of Sunday-night football hoping to spot his dad on the sideline with the other sports photographers, then stayed up late waiting for his mom to come home. He finally drifted into a fitful sleep at three a.m., hiding under his blankets, after he heard the floorboards creak under his mom’s high heels. Though, it wasn’t really his mom. Sarah didn’t wear heels. Jackie did.
His mom glanced at the wall clock. It was 3:45 p.m. “You were gone a long time. Did you get some good pictures?”
“I think so,” he muttered. He hadn’t developed the film yet like his dad had taught him.
“Hungry? I made a ham sandwich. It’s in the fridge.”
Ian slipped off his backpack and let it drop to the floor. His mom’s gaze followed. Her smile fell.
He unzipped his pack and gave her the mail.
She hesitated before taking the stack, then stared intently at the sealed envelopes in her hand. “What day is it?” she asked in a voice just above a whisper.
“Monday.”
Her shoulders dipped. Her gaze swung over the pile of cheerleading uniforms beside her. She embroidered decals for local sport teams and Scout troops. She’d once told Ian the money she made paid for his clothes and sports equipment so he wouldn’t have to shop at the secondhand store.
“These are due in an hour. I’m not going to finish on time. I thought it was Sunday.” She glanced through the mail in her lap. After the fourth bill, she tossed the lot onto the table, turning her face away as though disgusted by the envelopes’ contents. Her head lowered, and long light-brown hair spilled over her shoulder like vertical blinds. For a few moments, she sat unmoving, her spine curved into the shape of a crescent moon.
“I’m sorry, Ian.”
“It’s OK.” He looked down at his scuffed Vans. He should have woken her up before school and told her. But the fear he’d be waking Jackie rather than Sarah kept him from knocking on her door.
Ian shouldered his backpack. “I have homework. I’ll be in my room.”
He shuffled into the kitchen on his way upstairs. The room smelled of molding bread and sour milk. An opened carton of half-and-half sat on the counter, forgotten. Beside it, his mom’s planner lay open to Sunday. Yesterday.
If the heels on hardwood last night hadn’t already confirmed it, the planner opened to the wrong date did. Jackie had been the one who came home last night. Ian guessed she was also the one who woke up this morning. His mom must have shifted back to Sarah earlier today. She’d have twenty-four hours of lost memories from the time Jackie was dominant, and no awareness that the date had changed.
Ian flipped the page in the planner. On the line by five p.m., his mom had penciled CHEER SWEATERS DUE TO COACH TAMMY PENROSE. A phone number followed. He left the planner on Monday, then opened the fridge. Fermenting vegetables assaulted his nose. His nostrils twitched and he pinched his nose to stop the sneeze. He grabbed the plated ham sandwich and went upstairs, passing his dad’s home office on the way to his room.
He stopped and backed up a few steps.
Pinned to the bulletin board beside the desk was a Kansas City Chiefs calendar opened to October. Red Xs crossed off the days through the seventeenth. Last Thursday, the day his dad left to photograph the Chiefs game against the Saints. He’d be home late tonight.
An idea formed in his head like an image revealed on instant Polaroid film. Dropping his pack, he set down the sandwich and sat at the desk. He opened drawers, removing paper, a ruler, and pencil. He drew a grid that mimicked the calendar, writing OCTOBER at the top. He added a few more details, then returned downstairs.
In the kitchen, his mom hung up the phone. “Mrs. Penrose gave me an extra day to finish. I have to work late tonight so we’ll eat early.” She filled a pot with water, intermittently dabbing the corners of her eyes.
“Don’t be sad, Mom. You know how you sometimes forget what day it is?” Ian tacked his makeshift calendar to the fridge door with a magnet.
“What is that?” she asked.
“A calendar. Mrs. Rivers makes us cross out the days in our school planners so we know what day it is. Dad does it, too.”
His mom traced Sunday’s bold red X, then made a fist, hiding her finger. She brought her hand to her chest.
“I’ll cross out the days on this calendar. That way you’ll know what day it is and you can cross them off on your calendar.” Ian pointed at the Monday, October 21, square, then tapped the same box on his mom’s planner.
His mom looked at him. Her eyes welled.
Ian glanced away, fixing his eyes on the dishes left from breakfast still on the kitchen table. He’d upset her. She didn’t like his idea. “I’ll take it down.” He reached for the magnet.
“No. Don’t.” She touched his shoulder.
Tears burned his eyes. He pressed his mouth flat. He scratched his head, then folded his arms tightly over his chest.
“I’m sorry I left you alone last night. I’m sorry I keep making mistakes. I’m so sorry.”
His mouth twitched. He clamped his lips tighter, holding in the sob. His mom always apologized. He hated how she forgot things. He wished she could be normal like the other moms.
His mom cupped his jaw, forcing Ian to look up at her. He noticed that her cheeks were blotchy and her nose red. “I’m sorry I didn’t make you breakfast,” she said.
“It’s OK.”
“No, it’s not.” His mom lowered to her knees and clutched his shoulders. “I should have seen you off to school. The thought of you waiting alone for the bus . . .” She inhaled deeply. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Ian was used to feeling alone, something else he hated. He flicked the calendar. The corner caught under his thumbnail. He pressed against the paper’s edge until the tender nail bed burned. “What time will Dad be home?”
“Late, after you’re in bed. Do you wish he was home more often?”
Ian nodded, his attention on the spot of blood blooming under his thumbnail. He wouldn’t feel as lonely if his dad didn’t travel as much. But he had to work. Medical bills had to be paid and mouths fed.
Ian could feel his mom watching him, but he couldn’t look at her. He’d cry and that would upset her. It might make her shift and forget again. The pain of the paper cut helped keep the tears from falling.
“I’m doing my best to take care of you. You know that.”
He slowly nodded even though he didn’t always feel like his mom did her best. How could she? With hours, even days, missing from her life, the constant shifting from her to Jackie, Ian felt like he spent more time caring for her. If only she could be normal like other moms. He wouldn’t feel so worried all the time.