by Celeste Swain

 

            August 15,

            Caden was in my room again last night. He just stood there, hovering over my bed, must’ve been there for a while. I jumped as soon as I realized the dark shadow looming like a thin giant and creeping up the empty bedroom walls was he and not the man in my dream.

I have Islet Cell Carcinoma in my pancreas, he whispered softly in his universe footie pajamas.

It was the third time this week he had woken me up from my sleep. First it was laryngeal cancer then something about a left rib.

Caden, I told him, if you wake me up one more time there will be consequences. I tucked him back into bed and gave him a little pat on his head. Sometimes I want to kneel down and give him a bedtime kiss like my father used to give me, but I never do.

 

August 19,

I wish I never gave Caden that medical encyclopedia. Right after Phoenix left us, I tried to give away as many of his belongings as possible. His mud stained khakis and rusty toolbox were tossed within a week but the hardcover books from his med school days were hard to part with. I wrapped the book with the most pictures in dinosaur wrapping paper and gave it to Caden for his birthday along with a blue bike which he’s never rode.

Must I say it’s utterly humiliating to be approached by a woman with a red K-mart vest and a little white nametag spelling CINDY in red block letters with a yellow and black smiley face sticker placed sideways on the end, telling me that my son was wandering around the vitamin and medical needs isle for half-an-hour. Flat out humiliating. He told her he had an intense case of glaucoma as well as a severe finger infection, and that his mom wasn’t supplying the proper needs to better his health. 

You probably should take him to the doctor, she told me.

He’s fine. Mind your own fucking business.

 

August 21,

The house is a mess. I haven’t taken out the trash in weeks and the laundry hasn’t been done in a month or so. Ever since Dr. Gunn put me on those anti-depressants I’ve felt so scattered, but life’s been easier. The crumpled photograph from our anniversary night in Vegas hasn’t come out of my desk for a while. I’ve been smiling on occasion too. Caden never smiles though, too captivated with that damn book to make time. Even if he did I wouldn’t be able to look at him. His dimples make me want to puke.

But I love my little Caden.

 

August 24,

Apparently mixing alcohol with anti-depressants is not a smart idea, but WOOEEAHH what a night I had last night. I decided to go out for the first time since the Dickson’s Christmas party last December, and since Phoenix was around. Called up Marvin, the babysitter. He’s twenty something and doesn’t charge too much.

 The black dress that I usually wore to the club on 24^th Street seemed unflattering, and it wasn’t until I took a few steps back from the mirror to realize it was because my breasts had become saggy. Thirty-six years old and I already have goddamn saggy breasts. This of course made me sad, so I swallowed a couple more of those purple pills from the bottle I kept in my purse, and put on a button-up, blue-and-white striped shirt and a mini skirt from Ross. I felt better already.

The fluorescent-lit club down on Ford and 24^th Street was jammin’, as Phoenix used to say. The bronzed bartender whipped me up a couple drinks and from then on, the night was a blur of colorful lights and men with gelled hair.

I woke up the next morning still in my mini skirt and with a brutal headache. When I turned over to look over at the clock I saw a note from Marvin.

Caden complained of scoliosis, he wrote. May want to get that checked out.

Ughhh. More purple pills.

 

September 1,

I’ve been to the club every night for the past week. Which reminds me, I need to call Marvin if I’m going out again tonight. I just got back a couple minutes ago from dropping Caden off at his elementary school. Hectic morning. Up at 6:30 to make him his lunch, shuffling around the house to find a holeless sock. And of course, there was the encyclopedia of medicine battle.

No Caden, you can’t bring it to school.

Please mom, I think I have Rheumatoid Arthritis in my knees.

I stole the book away, right from his weak grip. He cried. The tears that ran down his rosy cheeks darkened the freckles on his nose, so I gave the book back.

 

September 9,

I just awoke from a nightmare. The kind where the pain you feel in the dream seeps through into reality. Where powerful hands pin you down and you can’t move and you can’t scream. The kind I used to get when I was little. The kind that made me spend fourteen years of my childhood in and out of therapy because I never once told the fucking truth. I’m almost out of pills.

Caden’s birthday is coming up and I booked a reservation for three at Stefano’s Meatball Palace. I invited J.J. to join us. He’s this guy I’ve been seeing from the club, sweet but sleazy, I’ll admit. John, but he told me to call him J.J. Well he told me he’d check his schedule, but I’m assuming he’ll come. He seems like the kind of guy who wouldn’t pass up meatballs.

 

September 14,

Yesterday was Caden’s big day. The green shirt I got him is too big, but I’m sure he’ll grow into it soon. When he put it on he said he looked like a male nurse practitioner going through a mid-life identity crisis, and I told him he wouldn’t get his other present if he didn’t stop acting like such a smart aleck. My new prescription came in that morning, and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect, since J.J. decided to bail on us. I wasn’t too upset because I got to flirt with the hunky waiter at Stefano’s.

I like your apron, I told him. I even winked.

Leaving Caden home with a babysitter on his birthday was rough, but I couldn’t resist. It was ladies night at the club and that only happens once a month. Watermelon martinis on the house. And anyways, Marvin doesn’t really count as a babysitter, he’s more of a friend to Caden. They talk about doctor stuff, he’s a medical school drop-out.

 

September 15,

Growing up, my father always told me that life was overrated. There’s no point in trying hard to be somebody, we all die anyways.

 He worked for a construction company that specialized in woodwork. His hands were as rough as the sand paper he used to smooth down the edges of lumber. My legs never got any softer and my edges are still sharp, Dad.

Twelve pills today.

 

September 17,

Caden wouldn’t leave his room this morning to go to school. I had just finished making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for his lunch when I called his name, and there was no response. Caden sweetie, you’re going to be late.

His door was shut, which was odd, and after three knocks I opened it myself. He was curled up under his covers and he turned away from me when I came into his room.

What the hell Caden, it’s ten past eight.

I’m sick.

I peeled back his blanket and saw a large bruise under his left eye. Looked exactly like Phoenix after that bar-fight in Memphis. He sent some poor guy to the hospital, walking away with only a small, purple bruise to show off for himself. This past summer I practiced my punches at the gym. What I’d give to square off against Phoenix.

C’mon Caden, it’s just a little bruise. Let’s go, get up!

Bullies always pick on Caden at school. I actually don’t mind at all, it builds character.

He lifted the covers over his head.

 

September 23,

The other present I got for Caden’s birthday is still in the plastic wrapping. The Introduction to Neuroscience, the coloring book for KIDS! I’m bummed, because I thought he would love it.

It’s inaccurate.

Thank you Caden. Why do you have to be so very incredibly smart just like your father? But I actually didn’t say that. I just looked at him; the new bruises that have appeared on his face, and even his frail, little body. Maybe I should keep him home from school tomorrow.

 

September 25,

My heart is pounding and I feel the echo in my throat. There were more bruises this morning. I kept him home. He stayed in bed all day. More bruises. Marvin.

I called that son of a bitch’s cell phone a couple times. Keeps his phone off though.

Hey, you’ve reached Marvin’s cell, leave a message!

No I won’t fucking leave you a message Marvin, you psychopathic motherfucker, but I will leave you with some words of advice. You hurt my son and I will hurt you.

September 30,

There can be no police involvement, I’ve realized. Due to my doctor’s unfortunate demand to cut back on my orders of pills, I’ve been meeting this guy Ted who sells me extra bottles. I’m not saying that I’m a drug addict, I just am a depressed person and four pills a day is not sufficient. Doctors don’t know what they’re doing anyways, and neither do those stuck up professors who wrote that medical encyclopedia.

I can’t get a hold of Marvin. I think he listened to my advice and chose to stay away. He knows what he did, and he’s hiding from me. It feels great to finally have some control.

 

5:40 pm,

In just a few hours Caden’s bruising has gotten better. The purple has turned green and the green has become yellowish brown. Today is a great day and I would love to celebrate. There’s just a little problem. No Marvin means no babysitter, and tonight, I believe, is Latino funk night. Already called Mrs. Lindeerna, the old lady next door who used to watch Caden when he was a baby, but it turns out she died a couple years ago.

It would be the first time in two months without going to the club, that is, if I never find a sitter. At least I still have that handle of rum in the cabinet. A night at home with Caden could be fun.

 

October 1,

The front door was unlocked last night. How could I’ve been so stupid? I taunted him, I made him want to come back and abuse my child more. Wanted to prove he was the “tough guy” and that I was just some helpless single mother. Well I’m not, Marvin. Those new scrapes and bruises show your evil. You are evil, Marvin. I love and care for my Caden more than you would ever imagine and if love won’t keep you away, I’ll have to do something about it. I will hunt you down.

 

October 8,

It’s been a week. Marvin is a clever bastard. The doors are bolted and the windows have been sealed. He must have a secret entrance somewhere under the house. This means he has top-notch spy equipment, don’t you Marvin. You’re probably reading this, aren’t you, through your cameras that you hooked up all over the house. You piece of shit Marvin.

I need to leave the house for food and more pills. I’m scared to leave Caden alone because Marvin will attack. But if I bring him, he will attract attention. Police might be notified.

 

 October 9,

I’m sitting by his bed and crying. My baby’s breath is wheezy and it scares me. I look away but I know he’s clutching the encyclopedia. Marvin only comes at night, I have realized.  I am safe for now, but tonight we are in danger. The sun is fading. Curtains dance.

 

 

 

11:00 pm,

In Phoenix’s old closet I found the video camera that we used when Caden was a baby. We wanted to document his every accomplishment.

He looks just like me, Phoenix says on one of the tapes.

You both are my handsome boys, I reply.

I have decided to stay up all night in Caden’s room and catch Marvin in the act. The camera is just back up, in case I fall asleep, to prove he was really there. I have a baseball bat. I am ready for you Marvin. From this point on you will not touch my Caden.

 

October 10,

The blanket is soft. Passed down from my mother, who died when I was six. Clutching me, holding my life. Wrapped up in layers of pain, but keeping me warm. Hold me forever.

I awoke in my own bed. Staggered into Caden’s room and grabbed the camera. Rewound until the tape stopped. Dark room. Skipped through until I saw movement. There was Caden, sleeping in bed, when a tall shadow appeared over his bed. Thin hands grabbed his neck, punched his eyes, face, nose. Pulled off his clothes. Dirty hands. Soft screams and moans. My baby. The shadow reached across the bed and grabbed hold of a baseball bat. Twelve fierce hits down. Hands squeezing to improve the swing. My hands. And then the room went purple.