Stop Crying, She Said, But She Herself Won't Hush

I curled up in bed hugging a pillow, my brother snoring loudly beside me. The air conditioner was on, the light off. I pressed my arm against the wall to check if it was already cool. It was. It had become my habit to do that because the walls of that room were usually warm, especially during the summer months. Mother was in the same room, ironing the clothes she was going to wear for her high school reunion. “Look at this,” she said, calling my attention, unfolding a purple blouse she had bought for cheap.

“It’s pretty.”

“I wanted to wear it for tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Do that,” I yawned, shifting the other way to face the wall again. I ran my hand across the coarse, chipping paintwork and thought about how everything about this house these days seemed coarse and chipping.

Even intangible objects like love.

When she was done with her chore, mother unplugged the flat iron and killed the fluorescent light. Darkness drowned everything in sight, save for the glow-in-the-dark replica of Saturn taped to the wall, a faint green light radiating from the thin plastic. It was a planet in its own universe. It had neither moons nor stars to outshine it. But it was made of plastic. And somehow, everything in this house these days was made of plastic.

Even intangible objects like happiness.

Mother slipped into bed, in between me and my brother. I had my back to her, my arms still clinching the pillow, waiting for sleep to come fetch me and take me to my dreams. Then mother spoke. She spoke of her husband who was sleeping soundly in their bedroom, while his wife lay on what little space was left between their children. Their grown up children. When her voice started trembling I knew I couldn’t fake it anymore.

I cried soundlessly, muting my sobs with the pillow I was holding like it was a good friend. But mother went on and on and on and soon I could no longer carry on with my pretense. I was a broken-down wall, a burned-down fortress, reduced to nothing but a pile of ash and debris.

“I feel ashamed sometimes,” she said, her voice cracking with a sob. “I know I should be there. Beside him. Not here. But there are times when I can’t bear it anymore, the way he treats me.” She must have felt me shaking or heard me whimpering, because she suddenly wound an arm around my waist and pulled me close. “Stop crying,” she said. But she herself won’t hush.

I reached for her hand, held it, and hoped that somehow that gesture spoke the words I could not bring myself to say. My imagination grew dim as I listened to her drivel on how she could no longer bear how my father now treated her more like a maidservant than a wife, how his material appetite seemed impossible to satisfy, and how, as days rolled by, it was getting harder and harder to deal with him. And be with him. I thought of the other woman and wished to find out who she really was, picturing myself harming her physically if I ever proved she was the same woman from a few months ago. It was a frightening image. And somehow, I knew I wasn’t capable of doing it.

“Stop crying,” mother said. “Your eyes will swell if you don’t stop.” But she herself won’t hush.

I buried my face on my pillow, shushing myself, in hopes of making mother feel a little better. Her hand remained clasped in mine. It was warm like the wall during summer days.

And I wished everything in this house was warm again.

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This is two years old, but I make it a point to post it every time I change blogs. I love my family, but sometimes, it's so messed up.