The Push by Ashley Audrain (motivational novels TXT) 📗

of me was far beyond her nearly seven years. The icy looks. The complete disdain. The passive resistance to doing what I asked her to: Can you finish your dinner, please? Can you put away your toys? She simply disengaged with zero reaction, nothing for me to work with. Punishments or threats were useless; consequences had no meaning to her. Whatever attention I had gained from her since Sam was born had all but disappeared. She wouldn’t let me touch her. We resumed our old stand-off. And you resumed your old place as the only person she wanted in her world.

Eventually we learned to tolerate each other enough to coexist. She needed very little from me, to the point where she began to feel like a boarder I had to feed with plastic dishes on a heart-shaped place mat. I focused instead on Sam, on our routine, on the motions required of me when she wasn’t at school. And when you came home in the evening, she came alive again.

Sam was my light and I did everything I could to stop Violet from dimming it. Some mornings we came home after dropping off Violet and went back into our unmade bed with our suite of necessities – bottle, tea, books, Benny. The mess in the kitchen and the laundry could wait for us. Instead we passed the time staring at each other. We mused about ducks and dinosaurs and belly buttons. Later on we napped in the late-winter sun. He slept on my chest, even after he was weaned from my milk and my smell had changed. It was as though he knew how much I needed him.

The anxiety stayed away for the next little while. I kept the unfilled prescription in my purse – every time I saw the piece of paper when I reached in for something, I would think of my mother. I couldn’t bring myself to go to the pharmacy. I didn’t trust myself.

42

‘Cecilia’s not here.’ My father’s words were meant to be stern but I heard a ripple in his voice. ‘I don’t know where she is.’ He placed the receiver on the phone cradle with a shaking hand. I’d been watching from the hallway. He had lied to the person on the other end. My mother was home and hadn’t left her bed in a while. I didn’t know why, or why my father needed to lie to whoever kept calling for her. The one time I had reached for the phone before him, he knocked it out of my hand, as though the voice on the other end would burn my ear.

He brought her soup and water and crackers. I asked if she had the stomach flu.

‘Yeah. Something like that.’

I was in the way. He passed me on the stairs, his back hunched over the tray he carefully carried to her. I hadn’t seen my mother for days, not since she’d been dressed up for one of her nights out in the city. She was going out more often by then, gone overnight, sometimes two. Her disappearing act. I listened from my room but couldn’t make out their words that night. She sounded weak and tearful and he was patient and calm. I tiptoed closer to their door.

‘You need help.’

And then a crash. A dish. She had thrown the bowl of soup. I jumped out of my father’s path as he swung open the door in search of a cloth. I looked in the room and saw her in bed, upright, eyes closed. Her arms folded across her chest. I saw the same plastic bracelet I’d seen the year before on Mrs Ellington when the baby in her stomach hadn’t made it. My mother was thin, though, her waist the size of mine at eleven years old, and there wasn’t any chance she wanted another child. I went to my room and got ready for bed, hoping to hear them continue the argument so I could piece together what was going on. I fell asleep to the sound of my mother crying.

In the morning I went to the bathroom to pee. The house was still quiet – my father hadn’t stirred from the couch yet. I opened the toilet. The bowl was filled with blood and what looked like the guts of the mice the neighbor’s cat sometimes left on our front porch. My mother’s underwear was beside the toilet. I picked them up and saw that the heavy brown stains were dried blood.

‘Dad? What’s wrong with Mom?’

My father was standing over the pot of coffee, still wearing his clothes from the night before. He didn’t answer me. He fetched the paper from outside the front door and tossed it onto the table.

‘Dad?’

‘She had a procedure.’

I poured myself cereal and ate quietly. The phone rang as he flipped through newspaper sections, drinking his coffee. I stood to answer.

‘Leave it, Blythe.’

‘Seb!’

He sighed and shoved his chair back. He poured a cup of coffee for her and left the kitchen. The phone rang again and, without thinking, I answered.

‘I need to talk to her.’

‘Pardon?’ I’d heard just fine but didn’t know what else to say.

‘Sorry. Wrong number.’ The man hung up. I heard my father’s footsteps come down the stairs and I quickly turned back to my cereal.

‘Did you answer that?’

‘No.’

He looked at me for a long time. He knew I was lying.

Before I left for school I went to my mother’s door and knocked softly. I wanted to see for myself if she looked okay.

‘Come in.’ She was drinking the coffee and staring out her window. ‘You’re going to be late for school.’

I stood in the door frame and thought of sitting beside Mrs Ellington when she showed me her swollen stomach. My mother had the same strange smell. Two new containers of pills were on the nightstand. She looked tired and puffy. She’d taken off the