Bittersweet

My fingers quivered as I reached for the brass knob. A swallow slipped down my dry throat. This squeaky door would be my undoing. Bracing myself, I turned the handle and stepped forward. My ears opened to the silence of our home. No stomping across the hardwood floors or muffled screams from the attic. No objects flying at my face or anyone yanking me inside for a beating. Mom was secure in her top-floor prison.

I took my six-year-old sister by the hand and led her inside. Just in case my senses were wrong, I needed to be ready to hustle her right back out the door.

When most kids arrived home, they shouted their arrival and ran screaming into the arms of the first parent they found. Hugs and kisses would ensue, along with a, "How as your day, honey?" Delicious smells of dinner wafted through the house and the night would end with everyone hunkered down in the living with a good movie. Mom would hand us our steaming cups of hot chocolate while Dad would follow it up with a large bowl of popcorn filled with butter and salt.

That was the life. It had ended five years ago.

Dad left us, my older brother followed, and Mom? Well, she gradually slipped into a dangerous blend of full-blown schizophrenia and psychokinesis. I was half-way to following in her footsteps. I'd give anything not to have my powers.

One loud noise would set Mom off so, we had a no yelling policy in place. That also meant there would never be any sleepovers or parties. I was lucky enough to have a few before she went nuts, but Nadia had to wait her turn. Assuming there would ever be one. We met up with our friends anywhere but 101 Whitemark Lane because we valued our lives�and theirs.

"I can't get this off." Nadia struggled with the zipper on her jacket.

"Come here, Squirt."

It took some doing, but I got her free. Nadia turned and took it from there like little Miss Independent who knew it was best to pull her own weight in our weirdo family. She slid off her backpack and jacket at the same time before dragging them across the floor.

Man, I hated seeing her down like that. She took it hard when I told her that Cammy couldn't come over to play on the swing out back. I'd have to make it up to her somehow. But for now, we all had to make sacrifices. Myself included.

If word had ever gotten out that our mother was unfit to care for us, the idiots from Child Welfare would come. Hell, they already have. There were only so many creative ways to lie about a black eye. After the third one, people start asking questions. The forth one had gotten the attention of a school official who should've minded his own business.

Something scraped across the hardwood and slammed into the floor above our heads. Both of us stared at the same spot. We knew where that had come from. Oh, man, I didn't want to go up there. Not again. But if I wasn't checking on her, who would? No way in hell would I leave my six-year-old sister do it.

"Stay here." I grabbed a nearby throw I kept hanging over back of a chair. Shoving something over her head whenever she went into a psychokinetic tirade usually calmed her down. Usually.

"Nooo. I wanna go with you. I colored a picture for Mommy."

I started up the stairs, taking them two at a time. "Stay there, Nadia. I'm serious."

After rounding the banister to the second floor, I hurried to the midpoint in the hall and reached for the level that lowered the ladder from the attic. We kept my mother up there like a dirty secret because it was the darkest place in the house. It was either that or the basement, which was unacceptable. We had too much junk down there to use as weapons. Plus, the racks of clothes from her pre-schizophrenic days seemed to quiet her down.

I tossed the blanket over my shoulder and headed up the ladder. When I came to the top, I poked my head over the ledge and scanned the room.

Light shone from a small window at the far end overlooking the small wooded area we called a backyard. I put up some curtains to make it homier. Guilt had something to do with it, too. Just like the dozens of clothes at the far end of the attic, Mom must have liked them because they hadn't been torn to shreds yet.

My mother sat in front of the window with her back to me, her body bent like she remained seated in an invisible chair. What remained of her white wicker seat was on the floor to my right in a twisted mess. If it weren't for her being psychokinetic, I'd swear magic held her in place.

On her good days, she was a vegetable, always staring out the window with a lifeless look on her face. She had the same look, but with her psychokinesis in full force. On the bad days, she wouldn't think twice about smothering me with her pillow. The crazy part about that was she didn't have to lift a finger to do it.

Everything in my head and quaking body screamed not to take another step. My shaky hand pressed against the dusty, hardwood floor as I hauled myself through the attic's trapdoor. I scanned the dusty room, its smell reminding me of an antique shop.

Mom only sat there when she was in her vegetative state. So, what was the noise we had heard earlier? Vegetative usually meant inactive.

The French braid I had given Mom last night was long gone. Her hair frizzed out like sticking her finger in a light socket was part of a daily grooming ritual. She had a few extra "mommy pounds" around her hips and thighs, though it hardly detracted from her beauty.

Before she had us, she was a ballerina with the Chicago Ballet Company. Even after Nadia was born, Mom continued her daily regimen of stretching and flexing, though more so to keep in shape than to dance. After those days had ended, she cat-walked to the applause surrounding the runway after one of her fashion shows. She wanted to look her best with her chin held high and a smile so bright it matched the flashing cameras.

We all shared the same golden brown skin, given our Creole background. Having my Dad's rounded lips and Mom's dark eyes and small nose meant very little to me unless they attracted the attention of Hugh Malloy. Unfortunately, miracles were hard to come by these days.

I slowly approached Mom. Nervousness ate away at my gut with each step. I searched every inch of the attic, looking for a place to hide if-when-things got out of hand. God, I hope she won't hurt me this time.

"Mom?" My footfall touched a creaky spot on the hardwood floor. Despite a cringe nearly seizing my joints to a stop, I pushed through to reach her. "Are you okay? We heard a noise."

She sighed, her shoulders sinking in her housecoat. "Where's my baby? She hardly visits me anymore. I miss her."

"You mean Nadia? She's downstairs. I had to make sure you were okay first. I'll let her come up, if you promise to be good."

She stood from thin air and whipped her head around. Her eyes flared like I was a demon incarnate. "How dare you accuse me of hurting my child? I'd never hurt my baby. Never. Damn you. Damn you to hell."

Dozens of clothes flew off the hangers on the other side of the attic, some landing on my head. The rack moved next, scraping across the wood floor and heading straight for me.

Incomingggggggg. I jumped out of the way, putting a square pillar between her me.

"Stop it! I'm your daughter, too, you know. Don't you care about hurting me?"

"Phae?"

Oh shit. I thought I told her to stay downstairs. Why couldn't Nad-

"Nadia?" Mom's face lit up and her head moved like a chicken pecking air, looking for where the small voice had originated. "Is that you, baby?"

I stepped out from the pillar and stared her down. My arms spread to catch her, but she stopped. Too bad the blanket had slipped off my shoulder during the flying clothes or I would've thrown it over her head. "It's me, Mom. Your other daughter, Phae. Don't you love me?"

She blinked as though her brain sifted through its mangled thoughts. "Phaedra? My God, honey. Where have you been?"
"Here. Waiting for you to come back."

"Oh, baby. I haven't gone anywhere." She hurried forward and hugged me like I had left home for months and finally returned. "I miss you so much. You should visit more often. Would you like me to make you some pasta before you go out with your friends?"

I had no idea what she was talking about. Then again, her thoughts always drifted to conversations we had had weeks, months, and even years ago. This must have been one of those times.

"I'm fine, Mom."

"Are you sure? Seriously, honey, I should make you some dinner first. I can't send my little girl to her friend's beach house on an empty stomach."

"No worries. The trip was called off." The beach house thing was last summer. It came up during a more lucid conversation with my mother. I told her about the invite because she worried about me not having a life or very many friends because of her. Things hadn't changed much since.

"Mommy."

Son a bitch. I bit back a snarl. Nadia knew better than to disobey me. Dammit, she put her life in danger all for the sake of a stupid crayon drawing.

Nadia slapped the picture she had drawn on the scratched wood floor and pulled her small body through the entryway. Instead of coming completely into the attic, she remained standing on the top step with her art work on display and a huge smile on her face. "I made it for you, Mommy. To make you feel better."

I took it back. It wasn't a stupid drawing. It was just a little kid trying to connect with her mom. My heart ached for more moments like this. As much as I wanted her out of this attic, I loved seeing her happy, eyes beaming as she got a glimpse of our mother in all her psychotic galore.

Joyous at the sight of her other little girl, Mom pushed me away and went straight for her, arms spread wide. I hurried to Mom's side to play spotter in case something bad happened. The last time she picked up Nadia, Mom forgot she was more fragile than me. Thank goodness for long sweaters and cold winter days. Nadia's clothes covered the cuddle bruises nicely.