“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.
I lead her over to the sofa and motion for her to sit down while I take a seat in the armchair. We're both quiet as we study one another. I’m completely captivated by her. She looks professional yet approachable in her grey suit and pink camisole. The fact that she wears bright pink matching heels makes me think she is a fun person—as if I would know about that sort of thing.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” she begins softly, watching my reaction carefully. I feel like I am a specimen under a microscope. My skin begins to crawl, and I feel like sending her away so I can go shower.
“Well, me too, I guess,” I reply. I didn’t mean to slip out the last part, but it happened. Something about Tina makes me want to tell her things.
“You guess?” she queries.
Yeah, this woman doesn’t miss a thing.
My eyes begin to dart around the room as I try to determine how to back myself out of that one. Finally, I sigh and meet her eyes.
“She wasn’t exactly nice to me. It’s sad, but I almost feel relieved.” There, I said it. After living eleven years with a mother who abused me, I suddenly feel happy to have said the words.
Tina looks at me sympathetically and nods her head. The gesture is one that sparks something inside me. Like maybe it’s okay for me to feel this way?
“Sweetie, what’s your name?” she asks me.
“Sidney. Sidney Hunter.”
Her smile at my answer has me beaming once again in response. What is it about her that makes me do that?
“Well, Sidney, it is very natural for someone to feel that way if they have been in an abusive relationship. Do you feel that you were abused by your mother?”
Here is the moment of truth. Admitting what I knew all along. My mother was terribly abusive—not just physically, but mentally as well. From what I read in the library books and on the Internet, I was the recipient of abuse. No brainer there. Problem was, I always had trouble figuring out what to do about it.
“Yes. I know that I was abused by her. I’m glad she’s gone. I don’t feel terrible about it either. In fact, I can’t wait to start my life,” I rush out quickly before I lose my nerve.
Her face is sad and full of compassion as she regards me. I’m not used to seeing someone look at me in such a way. Momma was the only one who ever really looked at me, and it was definitely on the opposite end of the spectrum.
“Sidney, what kind of abuse?” Her eyebrows furrow as she asks the question.
I decide that I am taking control of my life. Hopefully this woman will help me.
“Uh, let’s see. Mostly just whippings with her switches. Those are manageable. The baths—the baths are horrible,” I confess, and a shudder racks my body at the thought of one. Tears fill my eyes, but I force them away by blinking wildly for a moment.
“You are speaking in present tense. Sidney, she can’t ever do those things to you again. You’re safe now. Together, we’re going to get you through this.”
And for the first time in the past eleven years, I am suddenly filled with a very foreign feeling—a feeling of hope.