Childhood Fears Page 11

  Mom looked like she didn’t know whether to burst into tears or pull her hair out. The wildness in her eyes scared me. Michael was sitting in his usual chair at the kitchen table, smirking.

  “W-what happened?” I asked.

  “How could you do this?” she screamed. Flour and what appeared to be chocolate syrup streaked her face and arms. It would have been funny if I hadn’t been so scared. “What were you thinking? This is hundreds of dollars’ worth of food, Josh! We can’t afford this.”

  I cringed back against the wall, frightened of my mother for the first time I could remember. “I didn’t do it.” Even as I said the words, I knew she wasn’t going to believe me.

  “Well, if you didn’t, I’d sure like to know who did.”

  Instinctively, my eyes flicked to Michael, and that wiped the smirk off his face in a hurry. He got up from his chair, his face reddening. “I hope you’re not going to try to blame this on me, young man.”

  “I-I’m not blaming anyone. I don’t know what happened.”

  Mom was near collapse. When she’d been full of rage, it had given her energy, but now that she’d said her piece, she sagged like a deflating balloon.

  “It’s pretty easy to see what happened. You’ve been trying to cause trouble ever since I moved in,” Michael said. “I realize I can’t replace your father, and I’m not trying to, but you have to accept me as the man of the house, got it? This type of behavior is not going to be tolerated—not by me, and not by your mother.”

  I felt my eyes widen. What was he talking about? I hadn’t done anything to cause trouble. “But I didn’t do this!”

  Michael started to respond, but my mom held up her hand, cutting him off. It seemed to take all the energy she had left. “All right, let’s not fight. Josh has never lied to me, Michael. If he says he didn’t do it, I believe him.”

  Her new husband shot her a look of disbelief, and I can’t say I blamed him. Gratitude for my mother’s loyalty made me feel weak in the knees, and I was glad I was still leaning against the wall.

  “You must be joking, Eileen. Who else could possibly have done this? I certainly hope you don’t think I’d waste my own money this way.”

  “I don’t know who did it, and I don’t want to think about it anymore. All I want is for my kitchen to be put back the way it was.”

  Grabbing a rag from the sink, she filled a bucket with hot soapy water. Even I could see that it was going to take a lot more than a bucket of water and soap to clean up the mess.

  “Are you going to stand there all day?” Michael snapped at me. “Go help your mother.”

  Reluctant to cross his path, I shuffled over to where Mom kneeled on the floor, keeping my back to the wall for as long as I could. As I drew closer to her, I could see her shoulders were shaking. I wanted to hug her, but I didn’t dare in front of Michael. Instead I pulled up the garbage can and started to toss in the bigger pieces of glass and eggshell.

  “I have some rubber gloves under the sink. Put them on. I don’t want you to cut yourself.”

  She still didn’t meet my eyes, and I could feel the weight of her disappointment. I knew then that in spite of how she’d stuck up for me with Michael, she still thought I’d done this. As the only kid in the house, I was the most likely culprit.

  When I walked to the sink, I spotted something that made me shiver. In one of the piles of sugar was a small paw print.

  Chapter Five

  It got so I was afraid to close my eyes. Every single night, something awful happened. It would start with that eerie whispering.

  “Josh…Josh…Jaaawwwwossssh…”

  I began to wish that it was Michael playing a trick on me, but it didn’t sound like Michael. There was a harshness to the whisper, something inhuman about it.

  Pulling the covers over my head, I would wait, trembling, hoping whatever it was wouldn’t touch me. After a while, it would get bored and I’d hear the soft pad of tiny footsteps, followed by the sound of breaking glass. I flinched at every crash, wondering why my mother never woke up. No one seemed to hear the noise but me, but they sure were able to see the destruction in the morning.

  Windows were smashed. More food was smeared on the kitchen floor. And even worse, whatever it was had an unerring sense of what was most important to my mother. It destroyed her few precious things, breaking her down a little more each time. It hurt my heart to watch her cry. She begged me to tell her why I was doing such awful things. Was I angry with her? Had she done something to bring this upon herself? I would insist it hadn’t been me, that I would never do that to her. Just when she believed me, Michael would interrupt, sending me to my room without breakfast so they could decide on my punishment.

  When it came to punishment, Michael was becoming more and more creative. Withholding food and toys was the standard, of course, as was grounding me and not allowing me to talk to Sean or any of my other friends. But one time he made me sit in a tub of water so cold that I thought I was going to die. It hurt a lot, and tears streamed down my face as I cried and cried for my mother. I couldn’t believe she would let anyone do this to me, and it was clear she wasn’t happy about Michael’s punishments.

  “Please let him get out. That’s enough,” she said after I’d been in the icy water for ten minutes.

  “The boy needs a firm hand, Eileen. You’re not helping him by being soft. You’ve already let him get away with far too much.”

  Then he would force her out of the room and lock the door. I could hear her crying all the way down the hallway. At first I yelled for her, but Michael hit me across the face, splitting my lip. I stared at him, sucking on my wound and swallowing my own blood. It tasted like pennies, and I gagged.

  “You know!” I cried. “You know it isn’t me who’s doing this.”

  “Don’t be silly, Josh,” he said, adding more ice cubes to the bath. “Who else could it possibly be?”

  And then he slowly closed one eye and winked at me.

  I knew then, without a doubt, that Michael was a monster.

  Unfortunately for me, he decided the cold-water torture had the best chance of “straightening me out”, and he kept me in the bath longer and longer. My teeth chattered. My fingers and toes and even my nails turned blue. It was extremely painful, like a million tiny knives stabbing me all over my body, but eventually I went numb and drifted away. I imagined I saw Dad during those times. He was dressed in his one good suit, and he was surrounded by light. He held open his arms when he saw me, and his cheek was wet with tears when he pressed it against mine.

  “Hang on, son. You’ll be all right. Just be strong for a little bit longer, okay?”

  I flung my arms around him and held on so tight I would have sworn no one could make me let go, but Michael was getting better at forcing me to come back. He would pinch me under the armpits, where the skin is really tender, and once he hit me in the balls with the shampoo bottle. That made me throw up in the water, which disgusted him enough to let me go. I crawled from the tub, hands cupping my throbbing crotch, and collapsed on the bathmat, sobbing.

  One time he pushed my head under so I came back choking. The water distorted his face, but I could tell he was still grinning, grinning, grinning. I don’t think he would have let me up that time if Mom hadn’t pounded on the door.

  He knew that something was taking me away from him and the torture, that something was comforting me, and he didn’t like it one bit. It made him furious. I wished he would go too far one day, and then I’d be with my dad forever. But Dad had made me promise to hold on, and so I did. I wondered what would happen if I were gone and Michael focused his cruelty on my mother.

  Sometimes, in the rare moments when we were alone, Mom would hold out her arms for me. She would rest her cheek against my head and cry for ages, asking me to forgive her. I soaked up those little drops of love as if they were food for a starving ma
n. Gone was the independent boy I’d once been, the one who’d felt he was too old for such motherly affection. Now I’d take what I could get.

  Other days, she’d sit in her wicker chair in the corner, staring into space, some bit of mending or crocheting lying forgotten in her lap. It was more and more difficult to rouse her from that state, and as I shook her by the shoulders, I realized how thin and light she was. We were changing together, our cheekbones growing sharp against our skin, our eyes hollow and surrounded by shadows.

  The more we wasted away, the happier Michael seemed. In spite of his diet, he was rotund as always, the swell of his stomach pressing against his proper white shirt. He was all smiles as he sat down to dinner each evening, while me and Mom (if I was allowed to eat that night) only picked at our food and said nothing.

  My teachers soon noticed that something was very different about me. When I fell asleep in class for the third time in as many days, Mrs. Brinklemeir took me aside. I’d expected her to be angry with me, maybe even to hit me. Some part of me knew that teachers weren’t allowed to hit their students, but such punishment had become second nature to me, to the point that I was beginning to expect it.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?” Mrs. Brinklemeir asked, her lovely face filled with concern.

  Overcome with emotion, I could only shake my head. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

  “What’s keeping you from sleeping at home? You can talk to me. You’re safe here.”

  That was the moment I realized my beloved teacher, who I’d always thought was so smart, didn’t know anything at all. School wasn’t safe—no place was safe. If I told her what was happening at home, she’d call the police. And the police would go to Michael and tell him everything I’d said. Michael would lie. He’d tell them I’d gotten out of control, that I was acting out each night by breaking my mother’s most prized possessions. He was trying to teach me a lesson, he’d say. He was trying to take a firm hand. The police would listen to him, and then they’d talk to my mother. She would back up Michael’s story, because that’s what she had to do. It was her way of surviving the nightmare our lives had become. And the police would believe her, if they didn’t believe her husband, and they’d leave. There might be something—the suggestion of an inappropriate smirk, perhaps, or the sad condition of my mother, who had begun to resemble a prisoner of war—that would make them pause on their way out. Maybe they’d glance at each other with uncertainty, suspecting there was more to the story, but unsure of what it was. Even so, this vague niggling feeling might keep them awake that night, and for several nights to come, but it wouldn’t be enough to get them to remove me from that awful house, to take me someplace safe. Or better yet, to lock Michael away somewhere so we’d never have to see him again.

  The police would leave, and I’d be left with a man even angrier than before. So no, there was no place safe. Not for me, at least.

  A few days after Mrs. Brinklemeir pulled me aside, something happened that changed everything. Whatever was responsible for the destruction in our house finally went too far.

  It went after my mother’s cookie jar.

  The jar was very old. It had been my great-grandmother’s, and Mom had told me that she thought it must have been made in the 1930s, maybe even the ’20s. But it wasn’t its age that made it special—it was the memories it contained.

  Mom had spent her childhood summers on her grandmother’s farm. As a young girl, she had been fascinated with the jar, which was decorated with the most amazing painted cookies. She used to stare at them for hours, imagining what those cookies would taste like if they were inside the jar instead of her grandmother’s usual oatmeal raisin or chocolate chip. And I completely understood, because I used to do the same thing.

  When it came time to get a real cookie, though, Mom insisted on being the one who retrieved it from the jar. Time had made the ceramic brittle, and she worried that I would break it, destroying her childhood memories in one fell swoop.

  That morning, I was woken up by a strange noise. As I strained to hear what had awakened me, it happened again. It was the sound of hysterical sobbing.

  I leapt out of bed and tore from the room, taking the stairs to the main floor two at a time. “Mom! Mom, are you okay?”

  I stopped short when I got to the kitchen. Mom was cradling a broken bit of pottery to her chest. She was wailing.

  I wanted to go to her, but Michael blocked my path. “I hope you’re happy now. I hope you got what you wanted, because you are going to be punished within an inch of your life.”

  At his words, my mother stopped crying. Her head shot up and her eyes narrowed as she glared at him. “No! Enough is enough. You leave him alone.”

  The shocked expression on his face was the best thing I’d seen in a long time.

  “You’re still going to protect him? You’ve got to be joking, Eileen. He destroyed the thing you love most in the world.” Underneath his words lurked that threat I’d heard so much of lately. My mother didn’t flinch.

  “The thing I love most is my son, Michael. I was wrong to let you discipline him. You’re not his father, and I think your punishments have driven a bigger wedge between you.”

  A bigger wedge? If Michael and I stood on either side of the Grand Canyon, we couldn’t be farther apart.

  Michael’s face turned red, then purple. His skin got so dark I thought his head would explode. He stood there, unclenching and clenching his fists. “Fine,” he said, spitting each word from between gritted teeth. “Have it your way, but you deserve everything you get. I’m going out.”

  He stormed out of the kitchen and was gone in a matter of minutes, slamming the door. For once Mom didn’t run after him. She wept, letting the broken piece of porcelain slip from her fingers. I crept over to her, unsure of her reaction. I didn’t think she would slap me, but who knew? I was so used to being the scapegoat that I jumped if a car backfired.

  When I was close enough to touch, she hugged me with a ferocity that nearly knocked me off my feet. I pressed my cheek against her shoulder and she leaned her head against mine. We stayed like that for a long time.

  “I’ve gotten us into quite a mess, haven’t I?” Her eyes were unbearably sad.

  “I didn’t do it, Mom. You have to believe me! I would never break your cookie jar.”

  I thought I saw a faint glimmer of hope flicker in her eyes. “I didn’t think so,” she said, her words slow and careful. “I didn’t think you would do a thing like that.” She seized me by the shoulders suddenly, startling me so I gasped. “But who did, Josh? Who is doing this? Please tell me.”

  I felt the sensation of something sneaking up behind me, creeping closer and closer on silent feet. The urge to look over my shoulder was overwhelming, but equally strong was the instinct that told me it was better not to know. “Is Michael back?” I whispered.

  She frowned, but shook her head. “No, we’re alone. Please tell me. Who is doing this?”

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I told her the truth. “Edgar.”

  Mom wrapped her arms around me and held me for a long time. She didn’t say another word. Eventually she sent me off to play while she cleaned up the broken china. Michael came home later that night with reddened eyes, smelling of beer. He went to bed without speaking to either of us.

  The next day, Mom told me I was going to see a doctor.

  Chapter Six

  “Your mother tells me there’s been some problems at home.”

  Dr. Harvey seemed nice. He was a little old man with lots of white hair and a little white goatee. He wore a pale blue sweater and smelled of mint. I’d bet he was someone’s grandpa.

  “Are you going to give me a needle?”

  He laughed, but it was in a kind way, not in that mean kids-say-the-stupidest-things way some adults have. “Nope, no needles, and I won’t listen to your heart, either. I’m not that typ
e of doctor, Josh.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Then what type of doctor are you?” I couldn’t understand why I had to spend a Saturday in Dr. Harvey’s office, as nice as he was. I wasn’t sick. And no doctor in the world would be able to stop Edgar.

  “I’m more interested with what’s going on in here,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “I want to know what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling.”

  “Why?”

  “Your mother thinks you might need someone to talk to. Do you think you need someone to talk to?”

  “No,” I said. I leaned back against the chair and crossed my arms. This is stupid.

  “What do you think of your stepfather?”

  I kicked my feet, thunking my heels against the chair. It made a satisfying sound. Tha-thunk. Tha-thunk. Tha-thunk. I silently dared Dr. Harvey to tell me to stop, but he didn’t notice. He was still waiting for me to answer. I shrugged. “He’s okay.” For a monster.

  “Is he? Your mother thinks you don’t like him very much.”

  I shrugged again. Dr. Harvey leaned toward me, gripping the arms of my chair. I had to stop kicking if I didn’t want to hurt him, so I did. “Josh, there’s something I need you to know. Anything you tell me is confidential. Do you know what that means?”

  “Yep. You won’t tell anyone.”

  “That’s right. I’m your doctor, and I’d like to be your friend. You can tell me anything you like, and I won’t repeat it to a single soul.”

  “But I don’t need a doctor. I’m not sick.”

  Dr. Harvey smiled. “Of course you’re not sick. You seem to me to be a very healthy young man. People come to see me when something is bothering them. Maybe they’re having bad thoughts, or they have nightmares all the time. Maybe someone is picking on them, or being mean to them.”

  A tiny spark of interest was growing in my mind. “Do you help those people?” I asked. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, Dr. Harvey’s eyes were blue and very kind. I could tell he was a man who smiled a lot.