When Moths Fall Asleep

7 - acceptance

"Dewey? Dewey? Here, put on your shoes . . ."

Outside, a dark, rumbling world slept on, headlights dashing orange over the deep blue. The dark sky whispered to him, Go back to sleep. It isn't time yet. Dewey closed his eyes and let his eyelids absorb his attention again.

"Dewey! Babycakes, I know you're tired, but we have to go now." Mama took his foot in her hand, wrestling it into the soft, broken wall of his sneaker. She ran her fingers through his hair and tried to pry his eyes open. Dewey fastened his eyelids tight together like a zipper and turn himself to dead weight until finally, she had to heave him up over her shoulder and carry him out of the apartment.

He could feel her heart beating fast and hard beneath her shirt, a volatile drum beat. "Come on," she kept muttering. "Dewey. I know you're awake. Do you want me to leave you here? I'll do it. You can just stay outside the door here and I'll go to Auntie Ellen's by myself."

Dewey physically recoiled at the idea of behind left alone. He wrapped his legs around her, beginning to cry. Mama just sighed and set him gently on his feet. "Hold my hand," she said.

Her palms felt sweaty and cold, and Dewey held both of them, afraid to lose her in the yawning mouth of the deep, pitch-black staircase. Then, even more so on the street and even once they'd settled into the taxi, warmth seeping in between his palm and hers. Dewey pressed against Mama and could feel her shivering. In the sparse light of the road, he studied the new bump on her face: purple and puffy as a plum, raised from her skin.

There was always a new bump when they went to Auntie Ellen's house. Sometimes it was a gash or a scrape, but mostly, it was the purple, blue and green bruises that made her cry when he touched them, yet when he asked what they were, she only responded, "Oh, it's just a bump."

Dewey didn't like going to Auntie Ellen's because it meant getting up late at night, usually, and it meant Mama sitting in the kitchen with her lip trembling, telling him to go in the other room. He didn't like having to share her with Auntie Ellen, who was too big and too loud and leaned down to talk to him with wide eyes.

But once they were shut away in their room and he'd resigned himself to his, Dewey didn't usually mind so much. Auntie Ellen would bring him cookies to eat, or soft candies, and said he could have as many as he wanted. He liked the dog, too, a great shaggy, golden mess of an animal. Sleepy and wary of the random human in his bedroom, the dog (Bowie was his name) just blinked and breathed quickly through his nostrils while Dewey petted and hugged him.

They got out of the taxi and Mama squeezed his hand as they stumbled toward Auntie Ellen's house, a compact but deep building packet in tightly with its neighbors. Dewey wondered how many of their apartment could fit into Auntie Ellen's house while Mama rapped softly on the door. She seemed weak tonight and her grip on his hand kept slipping. Since Auntie Ellen didn't answer right away and Mama was still shivering, Dewey put his arms under her jacket and squeezed around her waist. She ruffled his hair and didn't say anything.

Finally, the door creaked open, revealing Auntie Ellen in her fuzzy pink bathrobe and no shoes. For a moment her face was tired and old and so sad. She reached for Mama, her hand cupped under her chin. Then she caught sight of Dewey and broke into a smile.

"Hello there, sweetheart," she crooned. "You look awful cold. Why don't you come on in? You too, Mom."

Dewey looked up at Mama. She smiled and pointed inside, but the purple side of her face spasmed and the smile turned into a grimace. Dewey stepped into the warm house and let Auntie Ellen hang up his jacket. When she had his jacket, Auntie Ellen fussed over his red nose and rashy cheeks. Then she said, "Why don't you go into the living room and play with Bowie, sweetheart? He missed you."

He looked at Mama again. Mama nodded. Dewey scooted away, but he didn't go too far.

When he was out of sight, he heard the scratchy collision of Mama's windbreaker against Auntie Ellen's robe. They hugged each other for a long time, and then Auntie Ellen put her arm around Mama's waist and they went to the kitchen to be sad there, instead.

In a few minutes, Auntie Ellen came back with a tray of cookies for Dewey. When she bent down to place them on the coffee table, he saw the blue bags under her eyes, the way her short hair was sticking up around her head. Mama had woken her up just like she'd woken Dewey up almost an hour before.

Auntie Ellen left the room before Dewey remembered to say thank you for the cookies. He decided he didn't care anyway.

He could see the black, breathing outline of Bowie in the corner, snoozing away with his front paws under his snout. Dewey stepped toward him, putting his hand out. "Hey, it's me, boy," he whispered to the dog. Bowie didn't wake. Dewey patted his silky head and went to the couch to sit down.

But he didn't want to be in this shadowy, silent room alone. He longed for Mama's voice, for her reassuring arms around him. He could hear the vaguest thread of Auntie Ellen's cadence coming from the other room and followed it, feeling his way against the tinted walls. Auntie Ellen's house was so big and empty -- what did they do with all this space?

The voices grew louder, but they crested at a careful whisper that Dewey could hardly understand. He could hear Mama weeping quietly, and, as he came closer, saw the outline of her shoulders shaking. The kitchen swam in a soft yellow light, the shiny bits in Auntie Ellen's hair glistening. The ring on Mama's finger glinted like a taunt.

Dewey didn't bother to hide any longer. The whole house felt like a feverish dream, all hot and strange and moving. Dewey dashed across the kitchen and threw himself into Mama's lap. He laid his cheek on her thigh, pressing his face into her stomach. He could feel her pulse through her shirt, still alive, still steady.

"Oh! Dear God," said Auntie Ellen. "You gave me a scare, Sweetheart."

Mama didn't look at him. She didn't put her arms around him or kiss his forehead. Instead, she pushed him away and put her head in her hands. "Go play, Dewey," she groaned. "Or sleep, I don't care. Just . . . get out, please."

Tears invaded his eyes, but Dewey couldn't find the power in him to stay. He rushed out of the kitchen, unable to see through the tears. He felt his way back to the living room, his heart beating fast and his face flushed with anger. He felt Mama's words in his heart, digging and piercing like daggers.

They were back to talking, already having forgotten about him completely. Dewey wanted to scream, "Why won't you look at me? I'm here!"

The world looked red and Dewey didn't want to pet the dog anymore. He didn't want to eat the cookies or play with the toys. He wanted to wake people up, make them come in here and see him the way Mama refused to so often.

She came home and hugged him and kissed him, but the moment Rob's knuckles rapped on the door, Dewey no longer existed. The most she would say was, Get away or Stop making noise. And then, for the rest of the day, he would not see her at all.

Dewey felt the injustice of it all of a sudden, burning like poison in his veins. Everything seemed so ugly now, so useless. Dewey picked up the tray of cookie, which was heavier than he expected. The way the plate jerked his wrist forward only stoked the flames. The red jelly centers of the cookies taunted him with the prospect of their sweetness, blinking at him with empty, cyclopsed eyes. Dewey didn't realize it until a second later, but now the cookies were splayed across the carpet, crumbs sliding in between the fibers. The plate remained a glinting disc in the dim light, so Dewey jumped forward onto it, feeling the satisfying crunch of brokenness beneath as he slid to the floor, his foot caught on a broken piece of plate. His body made the loudest sound of all as he slid to the floor like the rock that ends a great brigade of snow in an avalanche.

The noise had woken Bowie, seconds before apathetic and rude. Dewey's hands curled into fists as the dog lifted his head, blinking. His knuckles collided first with the top of the dog's head, not hard enough. His hand slid on his silky coat. Dewey aimed lower next time, right for the nose. That one hit hard. Bowie gave such a howl that the entire house woke and came running and they all looked and they saw him.