. . . . "I don't think its working correctly anymore,” she said, her voice soft, low sounding over the continued commotion in the bathroom.
”What do you mean you don’t think its working correctly anymore? Just fix it. It’s the strap piece that goes around the back.”
Simone looked again at the pulled strap that flapped over the shoulder. The young girl’s hands pulled the back shoulder strap, pressing the zipper of the back and shoulder together. The chest cover from the front came open, the dress falling around the waist of her mother.
“Simone!” The women in the bathroom seemed not to notice, her mother standing with her dress around her waist. She covered her face from the sharp blow that struck across her head, the back of her head hitting the wall. So many people around, but no one there to help.
Her mother, in anger, went to hit her again, realizing that they were not alone as the women in the bathroom continued in their vanities.
“Did you break my dress? Did you break my dress? Answer me!” Her mother was screaming.
Simone covered her face. “I don’t care where we are, Simone. You do not disrespect me!”
She wanted to cry, but not in public, not around people.
“Do you think that this is funny?” directing her attention to the disfigure of her dress. “No, you think its funny. That’s it, you just think its funny,” the young girl still covering her face with her hands.
Her mother took a step back to look at her daughter, realizing she had hit her in the head. “I do not feel sorry for you. You are a child. Child, Simone! Do you know what it is to be me? To do what I do? To go through what I go through? Do you? Answer me!” raising her hand again.
A couple of women began to leave the bathroom, taking her mother’s attention away from her only child.
"There are hundreds of people out there. How do you think I’m going to look or suppose to leave, looking like this? Another unanswered question, Simone,” her mother’s voice calming, turning to the other women in the bathroom. “I am so sorry. Sometimes my daughter doesn’t listen, like the world is hers.” She refocused her attention on her daughter.
“What are you doing?” her father's voice came from behind the bathroom entrance. “I can hear you outside on the dance floor. Did you fix your dress? Is Simone with you?”
“Hold on a second, I’m coming. Your daughter, and I have a little situation in here.”
“Do I need to come in there?”
“Just hold on,” raising her voice over everything. Frustration, and anger. She knew it would only get worse.
The water against the now silence of the bathroom pours from the faucet as multiple splashes to the floor. The small puddle that had begun to develop, distinct with each woman's footsteps as they randomly left a woman and her child. The music down the hallway grew louder. The faucet water continued to pour as the young girl put her hands to her side.
“Simone, my dress is still not fixed,” in a calm voice. “I don’t want to look like a fool among all these people. This is my night, not yours.” Turning her back again, “Just put the back around the strap, and let me take a look at what happens.”
Her hands trembled around her mother’s waist, and the back strap. Putting the two pieces together, the puddle of water on the floor began to surface the entire bathroom. Her shoes were getting wet.
Her mother pulled the last piece from the front of her shoulders, holding the strap of her breast with her hands. Letting the strap go, the dress fit perfect.
"Are you holding the dress?” Simone let the back, shoulder piece go as the back of the dress smothered her arms.
“No.”
Turning, walking to the bathroom mirror, her shoes soaked the muddle of water.
“Perfect,” she smiled, looking at her daughter. “Simone, someone left the sink running,” the small layer of water forming around her. She grabbed her daughter’s hand, walking from the bathroom. “Are you still out here?” calling for her husband.
He stood at the entrance, looking into the emptiness of the hallway, and loud music. “What took you so long, and what’s wrong with Simone?” seeing the pain in his daughter’s face. “And what happened to her shoes?” the water from the floor coming with her out the bathroom. She could hear it continue in its splash as they entered into the hallway to the large dance hall. The music still played loud.
“They had some man using the women’s bathroom, and there was a big commotion. Just walked right out, and in front of Simone too. Can you believe the disrespect of people?”
“Did he hurt you, Simone?”
“Did he hurt you, Simone?” her mother gasping for air. “Did he hurt you, Simone? Why did you ask her that? Did he hurt your wife is what you should be asking. It is not about Simone. I have told you that. I am your wife, and you act like you don’t believe it. And look at my dress; how your daughter practically destroyed it. Now we have to leave early, and what will the people say?”
Her father breathed in heavy, looking at the lights, and the large fountain of juice. The music faded quiet as the lights from the stage dimmed.
“The people are not going to say anything. That we are just leaving.”
Simone slowed in her walk, distancing her steps from her parent’s conversation. She had never seen her parents argue or fight, and knew that all frustration between the two would eventually be directed at her.
Her mother's footsteps became more timid as they made their way from the center crowd of the dance hall to the entrance that led to the car.
Stopping completely, “How does my dress look?” She smiled again as her husband looked on.
“I don’t really see what the problem was. It looks like when you first brought it.” They both smiled continuing in their exit to the front doors.
From where she walked behind her parents, Simone could begin to see the bright lights reflect the darkness of the cars in the parking lot.
“There you are child,” the old woman smiling. “These are your parents?” Simone nodded her head quickly. “How are you doing?” not waiting for a reply. “I introduced your daughter to the cups, and she was just so lovely.” She was losing her balance, standing now against the young girl. "That sure was some good wine.” She pressed heavy on Simone’s neck, her hands pushing the back of her head.
Simone let out a slight yelp, the bruise in her head pulsating.
“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” The quiet.
". . . Are you abusing your daughter?"
Simone stared at her mother as the old woman began to look at her head.
“She is just tired. We were in the process of leaving,” her father pulling her daughter to his side. The old woman stumbled from the sudden movement, falling face way onto her mother. Her mother went to catch the old woman, the strap from the front of her dress opening, sliding down onto her arms. She struggled to keep the old woman from falling, and keeping her dress from pulling down. Finally pushing his daughter to the side, Simone’s father grabbed the old woman, putting her arms around his shoulders.
“Take Simone to the car, and I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
Her mother’s face had become flustered, blushed as people began to look in their direction, at the commotion of the drunken woman. She grabbed Simone’s shoulders, placing her daughter between her,
and the few people that looked in their direction. Her father waved to the crowd for someone to help. The old woman’s feet fell beneath her. A couple of people walked up to help as her father
waved again to go to the car.
Both mother and daughter backed up slow to the entrance of the building; Simone, from the pull of her mother, her mother from the pull of embarrassment, and laughter.
Chapter 3
The water dripped from the faucet as she stared in the swirl of what it created. Turning the hot water, the water began to pour against her hands, the black from her skin a flow into the faucet’s pour. She could see the hot black water drain into the bottom of the sink.
Her head ached, and the pain moved down, up around her neck. They had sat in the car for what seemed like forever waiting for her father.
“That turned out to be really good,” her mother smiling at her daughter through the car mirror. “I thought I was going to lose it for a second there with that old woman. Both mother, and daughter laughed within the darkness of the car.
“She didn’t give you any alcohol did she?” Simone shook her head. “Really good night,” she repeated again as her husband walked up on the back of the car, grabbing to open the driver door.
“Why are you two women sitting in the car with all the windows up?” the fresh air from the opened door exhaled into the car. They breathed in the night air, but inside, Simone could barely breathe.
The water continued against the her hands. The heat becoming unbearable as the black of her skin continued to pour, forming at the sink’s bottom.
She pulled her hands from the hot black water, placing the towel against the bruise of her head. It had not been a hard bump, but looking at the towel, there was blood. And she could feel the slight cut underneath the curl of her hair. Staring down again at her hands, the hallway lights slid underneath the dark entrance of the bathroom door. Far away from any type of something to make sense.
Her mother was making some kind of noise downstairs, the young girl turning the water off. She breathed in heavy. From the exit of the bathroom, the cold of the wood floor eased the pain of her head. She didn't know where her father was as the downstairs noise continued.
Looking at the door to her bedroom, she would have to remember to keep it closed until her head felt better.
“Simone, I need your help,” her mother called from downstairs.
She climbed over the small couch that sat next to her bed. The light from the room stretching the window across the street. Laying back on the couch, the bruise of the of her head cushioned the arm of the pillow. She followed the noise the outside made with the noise coming downstairs.
“She never listens to nothing I say,” her mother said to herself over the clutter of pans inside the oven. “And it’s almost time to start dinner,” looking at the clock positioned on the kitchen wall next to the kitchen. Walking to the backstairs that led upstairs, the darkness of the stairway detailed the darkness of the entire house. “Simone, you hear me calling you?”
Lifting her head from the pillow, the back of her head was swollen. Walking to the bedroom door, she opened it quietly. She thought she had heard her mother, and she had just come into the bedroom. Maybe it was just the noise from downstairs, into the hallway.
“Simone!” her mother walking up the first couple of stairs.
Breathing in heavy, blowing out the moisture from her mouth, she was tired of her mother, “I’m coming.”
“I need your help. Put some shoes on.”
Simone walked back to her bedroom, sitting down at the desk. The window began to rain with the rain from the outside.
"Simone, hurry up."
She heard her mother call her name again, easing up from the chair. Grabbing the sneakers from under a pile of clothes, the sneakers laced over one another, tangled. The old of her mother's voice made her unnatural.
Stepping into the hallway, she closed the bedroom door, walking to the backstairs that led down into the kitchen.
“There you are,” her mother pulling her head from the inside of the oven. “How many times do I have to call you for you to know that I am calling you? Every time we have to go through this. When was the last time we actually had a conversation that didn’t have me fussing or frustrated with you, and your behavior? Every time, Simone, I’m having to tell you something.”
The young girl backed up to the counter, directly in front of her mother’s attention.
“And now it’s raining. I needed you to take these bags to the trash, and go to the store. Do we still have bandages from the last time?”
Simone shook her head, “No.” She wanted to cry. She was just a child, and this was her mother.
“How many times have you brought bandages from the small grocery around the corner?”
"Two times," her voice sliding around the kitchen floor. She could feel the tears swell in her eyes.
“. . . And don’t take all day in the store, Simone. Just bandages, and that’s all,” her father’s voice forceful over the noise of the cars in the street, handing the young girl the ten dollar bill.
Simone jumped out the car, walking into the small grocery that was around the corner from their house.
“Hey, young lady,” the store clerk said from over the counter. She would have smiled, waving quietly.
Walking down the closest aisle, Simone walked up to the sign that said medical supplies. Rubbing alcohol, medicated lotion, toothache pain reliever, and packs of bandages. The large bandage rack was empty.
She grabbed the empty container, looking past the rubbing alcohol; bandages for small cuts. "Too small," she thought, walking to the front counter.
Young lady, your hands are empty. We don’t have what you want?”
Simone stood the tips of her toes, talking over the counter. "Do you have the big size bandages that wrap around?”
The store clerk thought for a second, looking behind the counter. “No. No, we don’t. I had to order some. It will be a couple of days before they come in."
Simone smiled at the store clerk, waving, walking out the small grocery doors. Climbing back into the backseat of the car, she handed her father back the ten dollars. “They said they wouldn’t have any bandages until later on this week.” Through the rear view mirror, her father looked at his only child, his daughter. He was upset.
“Damn, Simone. Your mother is going to be upset if we don’t come back with something to cover you up. We are supposed to have some friends for dinner, and we wanted you to be there.” She didn’t know. She didn’t care.
“How many times have we been to the store by the park?"
She thought about the grocery by the park. Always crowded with people who always seemed angry or hated something. “We haven’t been there since your induction."
He thought about the business induction from a couple of months ago. “Ok. We good then. Buckle up,” cutting on the car, pulling out into the traffic as her happiness continue to fade.
". . . And when you put the oven bags in the trash, make sure the smaller part stays on the side of the bag tied outside or the bag will come apart. I don’t want to hear no complaints from the trash people. Simone grabbed the oven bags with both hands, walking to the back door of the house. From the kitchen windows, she could see the rain pickup in a heavy downpour. It would hide her tears better.
“And here is ten dollars for the bandages. It’s raining, Simone, so be careful, and don’t get lost.”
Walking through the back door entrance onto the porch, the oven bags dropped to the floor. Her rain jacket hugged from around the chair hugging her arms and waist as a friend. Picking the bags up again, the young girl walked through the screen doors into the yell of wind, and water.
“. . . Simone, I don’t have all day for you to be in the store looking for nothing. Just get the bandages, and comeright back. Are you sure we’ve only been here one time?” She shook her head. “Here’s ten dollars. Just bandages, Simone. And make sure they are the big ones. Not the little ones that don’t cover you up.”
The young girl was already out the car, walking to the front of the grocery.
“All day, Simone,” she heard her mother scream over the noise of the street as she pulled the entrance doors.
“Hey little lady,” the store clerk smiling from behind the counter. Simone smiled back, waving quietly. She really liked him, walking down the closest aisle to the medical supplies. Rubbing alcohol, medicated lotion, tooth ache pain reliever, bandages. The small fingers grabbed hold of the bandages, shaking the package. She needed the abuse to stop, blowing out heavy.
Walking to the counter, the store clerk was still smiling. “Ahhh, you found the large bandages. Just give me two dollars,” ringing the price up on the cash register. Simone handed him the ten dollar bill.
“You don’t have anything smaller?” She shook her head no. His smile grew brighter, “Just keep them, compliments of the neighborhood grocery. And take these with you,” handing her a bag of salted potato chips, and a chocolate candy bar.
Simone smiled saying thank you, the clerk turning back to the television playing behind the counter. Walking slowly to the front doors of the grocery, she could see her mother's car.
The television sounded throughout the store, “Pizza, cheese, beef, chicken, onions, all sizes, all toppings. One price, $12.99. That’s right, $12.99.”
She could just leave. They would understand, looking at her mother in the car. She didn’t care. Her father didn’t care. She could leave, and never come back, and the abuse would stop.
“Thank you again,” walking through the front doors onto the sidewalk. Simone looked up the street into the midst of the city nothingness. There were people, but there was nothing. Where would she go? She was young. There was nothing.
“Simone. Simone, what are you doing? Get into this car, right now. Its cold out here, and you have me in this car waiting on you?”
Simone stood still, looking up the street, watching the cars turn into something new.
“Simone, you hear me talking to you? Simone!”
The store clerk came to the entrance of the grocery, looking out the window, finally opening the door, and walking over to where the young girl stood.
“Are you ok?”
Turning her head, “Yeah, that’s my mother." There was a sort of pause, "Thank you for the food,” walking to the car.
“And watch the cars getting in,” her mother scowled.
The store clerk waved, walking back into the store. Simone closed the car door, moving in her seat to untangle the seat belt. She could feel her mother’s anger as the slap to the back of her head knocked potato chips, and bandages to the floor. The candy bar held in her hand.
She wanted to cry as the tears swelled in her thoughts. No one around. It was just her, and her mother.
She picked the bandages from the floor. “I told you to come right back to the car. Right back to the car.”
Handing her mother the ten dollar bill, she felt weak. “What’s this?” taking the money, putting it in the seat of the car.“
The store clerk said I could have the bandages, and he gave me these,” showing her the candy bar, and bag of potato chips. Her mother turned the car off, turning to her daughter.
“Did he ask you what you needed them for?” The stare of hatred.
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
“Simone, what happened to your face under your eye?” The young girl began to think about what happened to her face.
“. . . Don’t, please don’t,” is what she wanted to say, her mother slapping her again, the ring on her hand cutting the young girl under the eye; a slight scratch barely taking away the skin.
She stepped back, realizing there was a visible scar, putting the ring in her pocket.
“Now your face is cut. How are we going to hide that? What are you going to tell them?” walking into the kitchen. The water from the kitchen sink began to pour out.
Simone looked around. The pizza boxes were still on the living room table. They had barely started eating. Her mother walked back into the living room with a wet towel, placing the hot water on her daughter's face.
“Keep this on the cut for a second to get rid of the blood,” rubbing Simone on the shoulders. “I’m no longer hungry. You can just eat the rest of the pizza. I don’t think your father is coming home any time soon. And I’m tired. I need to lay down. When you finish, just leave everything, and I’ll clean it later.”
Her mother walked to the stairs, walking upstairs. Simone sat down with the towel on her face.
“. . . I fell in the grass, in the front yard, going to catch the school bus. I was afraid I might miss the bus, and I just fell, and it created the small cut.” Her mother continued in her stare.
“Are you sure you fell?” There was silence. Simone nodded her head, looking down at the gifts she had been given. She wanted to cry, feeling the swell of tears in her eyes.
"You fell, and cut your face in the grass," her mother repeated, starting the car. The dark colored four door pulled onto the street, turning the corner.
. . . The rain continued to poured heavy, Simone looking back at the black and white house that she stayed in. Turning the corner of her street, through the pour of rain, she could see the grocery store lights.
The rain felt good against her face, the sound of water striking her jacket, easing her discomfort. There were very few cars on the street, and no people on the sidewalk.
Walking past the parking lot into the lights of the grocery, the store clerk was at the front door, looking out into the rain. Opening the door, “Hey little lady."
She really liked him.
“Rain is good sometimes,” closing the door behind her. “Did everything work out for you?” remembering the last time she had come to the store.
“Yes, sir. Sometimes my mother has to work, and it just creates a lot of confusion.” She had lied, and he had helped her. The store clerk continued to look out at the rain.
Simone walked down the closest aisle, breathing in heavy, blowing out the moisture from her mouth, and the rain from her face. The small sign said medical supplies; rubbing alcohol, medicated lotion, bandages. Grabbing the bandages, she walked to the counter.
The store clerk walked from the front door entrance to behind the cash register, “$2.00.”
The small hands gave the clerk the $2.00. “Thank you,” she said, the sound of the innocence in her voice following her to the front door of the store.
“Be careful in that rain.”
“Yes, sir. Sometimes rain is good,” both smiling as she walked out the store.
Chapter 4
She could do it, she thought. The swelling in her hand had gone down, but her fingers still clubbed together numb. She had not been to school for a couple of weeks, and it would be another couple of weeks before she could go. Having removed the last of the bandages from her hand, it was just the swelling that told of the abuse. The writing pen fell clumsily through her fingers, falling to the floor.
Squeezing the fingers of her hand, there was almost no pain, but it had been painful. She began to write her name.
“S-i-m-o-n-e.”
Wasn’t quite perfect, but she could hold the pen without pain. Her mother knocked on the bedroom door.
"You want some more ice cream?"
"Yes," she replied.
"Do you want the big bowl?"
"Yes."
She hadn't been able to go to school. She couldn't go outside. She really hadn’t been able to go nowhere. Only to the hospital at first, and then to see the doctor after a couple of days. So, she had just stayed in her bedroom. She had figured that maybe she was just in the way; the anger, the abuse. She was just in their way. The pen fell through her fingers, falling to the floor.
“S-i-m-o-n-e.” A little bit better. More clear, and visible.
So in the confines of her room, the serving of ice cream had been the apology conversation from her parents, but too much pain, and so little ice cream . . . And she was just in their way.
“S-i-m-o-n,” her fingers swelling as the strain to hold the pen became unbearable.
"H-o-s-p-i-t-a-l." It was perfect, and there was only swelling with no pain, grabbing the dictionary. The book was huge to the size of her hands, the splatter of color from the bruises as camouflage.
The knock on the bedroom door was louder this time, more of a command to open the door.
“Simone, open the door. I have something for you.”
It was her father. A sort of silent pause. She didn't know what to do.
Her father knocked again. “Simone, are you in there? I have something for you.”
She could jump out the window, and just run. And when they were gone, she could come back.
“Simone?” her mother's voice walking up to the bedroom door.
“I thought you said she was in the bedroom?”
Simone opened the door to both her parents.
“There you are. How are you feeling?” her mother still sounding concerned. She shook her head, eyeing the bowl of ice cream covered in chocolate.
“Look what I found. It’s your size, and everything.”
Looking at the shirt, it was beautiful, and it was what she wanted; long sleeved, and thin with a small piece that covered her head.
Simone grabbed the shirt with her swollen hand, the patterns of color that covered the bottom, and top parts of the sleeves, and hood stood vibrant. She smiled.
"You finally got it for me. I thought you said you didn’t like how it looked?”
“Yeah well, sometimes it doesn’t matter,” smiling at her daughter. She grabbed the bowl of ice cream from her mother with both hands, the cold from the bowl cooling the pain in her thoughts . . . . continue