Face Of The Monster

12 - Glimmer

I wake to a sharp tap on my shoulder and a sour smell.

A last kernel of pleasure left over from my dream is still alive on my tongue. It was a wonderful dream, the best I've had in months. I keep my eyes shut, trying to hold onto it for a second longer.

"Mom," Cande snaps. "Hello?"

"Just a second," I murmur into the cold, sticky surface on which I fell asleep about half an hour ago. I'm at the kitchen table, my calendar open in front of me. It's cluttered with names and times, the events of one day dripping into the next.

She pokes me with her long nail, heaving a big, teenage sigh. "I have lacrosse tonight. Remember?"

I groan to myself, picking my head up off the table. Blood rushes away from it, leaving me a little dizzy. "I thought that was tomorrow."

"Nope."

She's right. It's Saturday, lacrosse day, soccer day, usually hang out with the girls day. Four days since Tara and Jerry's house, three days since I saw my husband, two days since I last touched Phoebe.

When she flashes across my mind, I realize that she was in my dream. It was she and I together somewhere, I don't remember where exactly. I don't remember what we were doing or if we were doing nothing at all. I just know that I was with her and we were happy.

It's all too strange to think about, especially with my daughter standing right beside me. Her grandmother is in the next room, cooking dinner. Her brother is in his room, crying, but I have no idea why. Her aunt is in the living room, trying to corral her little devils into their jackets. They're going to the hospital in the rental car.

I look Cande over. She's wearing a ragged old t-shirt and some equally beat-up shorts. Her hair is stuffed in a mushroom-like bun that barely contains it. I never ended up cutting her hair when she came in the other day. It's gotten so unruly.

"What time does it start again?" I ask.

"Five. It's four forty five now."

"Goddammit," I mutter. "Why didn't you wake me sooner?"

"I dunno. Didn't know you were asleep. And you know Ti has soccer, right? At five thirty? He's not dressed."

I feel a little flare of anger at these words coming out of her mouth so cruelly, so matter of factly. "Do you think you could help him?" I ask.

Again, she sighs at me. "I'm really tired," is her excuse.

"Then maybe you shouldn't be going to lacrosse," I shoot back. I close my calendar and stand from the table. "Go help your brother get dressed."

"I don't want to," she whines.

I can't take it. My heart feels like an overheated furnace, ready to combust. "Look," I snap. "I'm trying my best here, Cande. I need you to meet me halfway."

"It's not my fault you fell asleep!"

My eyes are wet, hot tears making me feel heavy. My face starts to crumple, collapsing like foil. I can't cry in front of her, can't, can't, can't. I'm going to see Phoebe tonight, I remind myself. I can cry with her. I won't inflict it on my daughter. I smooth out my face as best I can and take a breath. "I'm sorry. You're right, that was my fault. I just, I need your help, okay?"

"Are you crying?" my daughter demands, her voice tight with something like disgust. She almost sounds amused, actually. Like she's suppressing a giggle. "Oh my god you're crying!"

I want to slap her right across that baby-fat round face. "I'm not crying. And it's not funny."

With a shrug, my daughter turns around and stamps away, leaving me hot with embarrassment and fury. When did she stop listening to me? When did she stop caring about me? I am crying, now.

Duck pads into the room, his sweet, innocent face tugging at my heart. I love him, at this moment, more than anyone else in the house. I squat down and take him into my arms. "Hey, baby," I mutter into his silky fur. "How was your day? Did anybody feed you?"

"Emma!" yells Isabel's voice. "Could you help me find the boys' shoes, please?"

I sit down beside the kitchen table. All of a sudden, I feel heavy as lead. "I love you," I tell the dog. He squirms in my lap, lifting up his paws onto my shoulders. His eyes are huge and milky as a baby angel's. "You would never hurt me." As if agreeing, he licks my neck and settles back down in my arms. Wouldn't it be nice if it was just Duck and I, no other mean, complicated people to spoil our days? I don't want to cry, but I can't help it.

"Emma," Isabel calls again. "Where are you? I need help with the kids, please."

Her voice is nasally and condescending. My dog rubs his soft head against my stomach.

"Mom!" Cande yells. "Seriously, we need to leave. We're already late."

I want to scream at them, scream about how much pain I'm in. It's all too much. I need a day or two of quiet and calm, just to get myself back. But as it is, I'm never going to get that. I lift Duck to my face and wipe my cheeks on him. He doesn't mind.

After a second, I resign myself to the rest of the day. My kids are loud and needy, sure, but I love them just as much as the sweet, quiet old dog in my arms. I give Duckie a kiss on the top of his head before letting him go.

If I'm thinking about everything, I know there is absolutely no way I can get through the rest of today. Instead, I put all of my problems out of my mind. I'll have time for them later. Right now, I need to be on autopilot.

I leave the kitchen, listening to Tiago's wailing grow louder. Isabel's kids are chattering incessantly, nearly drowning him out. I zip through the living room, looking down as if they won't see me as long as I don't see them. Sadly, that isn't how the world works. Isabel catches sight of me and grabs my arm.

"Emma!" she says like it's a pleasant surprise to see me. "Do you think you could help me get the kids in the car? Thank you so much." She grins, her lipstick too bright and her eyeliner too bold. I want her out of my face. I mutter something about maybe in a second and slip out of the room to find Tiago.

He's in his room, as usual, but what's unusual is that he isn't on his bed playing or sitting on his bean bag chair with a book. Despite my bouts of annoyance at him, Tiago is a generally tranquil child and, as far as third graders go, rather productive. He likes to draw in the sketchbooks I buy him from A C Moore and read the magazines and chapter books he picks out at the school library. When he's not reading or drawing, he's playing with his toys or the Xbox or building marble tracks out of the plastic set my mom bought him for Christmas last year, designing and redesigning them until the marbles sail down the primary colored chutes with the ease and complexity of cars on a network complicated highway ramps.

But today, he's not doing any of those things. instead, my son is curled up in the corner between his bed and his nightstand, sobbing his little curly head off.

"Oh, Sweetie," I whisper. He lets me lift his chin, giving me full view of the giant, purpling bruise on his cheek. I try not to look too horrified. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Tiago sniffles, hiccuping out, "Juan pushed me and I falled into the dresser and Aunt Isabel says me to go in my room and think about what I done."

"Wait, Juan did this to you?" I brush my fingers over the bruise. The warmth of his skin doesn't affect me, so I cup his face in my hand, realizing with relief that I can still touch my children. My son doesn't burn my flesh the way everyone else does.

He seems to see that I'm upset. He gives me a sweet, brave smile. "I'm okay, though, Mommy. I don't even hurt so bad now. See?" He pokes himself in the face, cringing hard when his finger collides with the bruise.

"No, no, don't do that." I sigh deeply. I'll have to get him some ice and have a talk with Isabel. I can't have her children abusing mine. I won't stand for it. I'll slap the little bastard myself if I have to. "Maybe you should stay home from soccer tonight, okay?"

"Okay."

"Come to the kitchen with me," I tell him. "I'll get you some hot cocoa."

He brightens. "Can I have one of the big marshmallows?"

"You can have two."

He jumps to his feet, accidentally bonking his head on the nightstand, and I think to myself, it's all going to be alright, probably.