Loretta Bleeds
The bites never heal because Loretta scratches at them every night. Her sheets are pockmarked with brown stains. Probably six months since her mother last washed them.
Act Two, Scene Whatever. It’s a Saturday; two weeks to Easter. It’s been more than two weeks since her dad took her to Arby’s and stole food. Since then, she’s eaten small freezer pizzas or stale cheese sandwiches. Three nights she didn’t eat anything at all because no one told her to. The actors who play her parents have been working really hard on their fight scene. They replay it every night and the husband character is working on his improvisation. Sometimes she hears the sound effects—the slaps and kicks and breaking things. He’s really coming along for a guy who only has nights to rehearse.
Even on Saturdays, he leaves for work at five in the morning, which gives her mother time to practice lines between rehearsals. Loretta thinks maybe she’ll take her mother to the laundry room to wash sheets today. But when she goes into the living room, her mother isn’t there. She’s not in the kitchen area either. Loretta checks her parents’ bedroom door and it’s open a crack. She presses her body against it so she can walk in but something is blocking the door. She pushes harder and it doesn’t budge.
“Mom?”
No answer.
“Mom?”
She pushes harder. Whatever’s blocking the door isn’t hard like furniture. It’s soft. Loretta presses again. She hears a low moan.
“Mom? Wake up. Mom?”
Nothing. The door is only open about an inch. Loretta can’t see in. She gets on the floor and wiggles her fingers in the crack that’s open and tries to feel what’s in the way. She feels hair.
“Mom?”
Nothing. No moan. Nothing.
Loretta sits in the hallway with her back against the door. She doesn’t want to push too hard, but if her mother is what’s blocking her entry, she knows she needs to get in. Could be a pile of laundry. Could be a bag of trash. Could be my mother.
This was not in the script.
She braces her legs on the opposite wall and presses her back into the door. No sound. A little movement. She rocks until the door is open a few more inches. And she finds what she knew she would find.
There’s always a surreal moment before dialing 911. A moment when you think you should do something else. A moment when you think it’s all a joke or a mistake or maybe you’re just not seeing things right.
Loretta squeezes through the bedroom door and leans over her mother. She turns her on her side. Listens for breathing. Barely there. But there. Barely.
“Mom?” She shakes her. “Mom, wake up.”
There’s always a moment before calling 911 when you don’t see anything but the foreground. You don’t think to look for weapons or evidence of an intruder. You only see fleas jumping and Loretta marvels at how high they bounce and how she wishes she could catch a few and train them. Add them to her troupe. She thinks of Gerald and how he’ll feel replaced and how low his self-esteem already is. Poor little guy will never get out of his father’s shadow.
There’s always a moment before calling 911 when you think you’re the one in trouble. You think you’re doing something wrong. Your life is wrong if you have to call 911. Your thinking must be faulty.
“Mom! MOM! I’m calling nine-one-one. If you’re okay, show me so I don’t have to call them.”
No movement. Barely breathing. Fleas jumping. Did one of them just flip? Do they think this is open audition?
There’s always a moment before you call 911 when you think this must be your fault. You overslept. You ditched school last Wednesday. You burned that blue dress and maybe when they come and look for evidence they’ll find it in ashes, in the corner of the lot. Maybe they’ll think you’re the problem, not the mother barely breathing on the bedroom floor, not You-know-who.
You’ve heard them on TV. Those 911 calls. The callers are always so desperate and crazy. You don’t want to be one of those. You want to be calm. You want to express your concern and not seem like you come from a place like this. A place where you know you have to call 911.
Loretta shakes her mother one last time and looks at her face. Pale. Bruised. Bitten. Drawn sad like a clown in the center ring, waiting to be cheered up by the next act.
Loretta knows her lines. She’s practiced them. She dials the phone. “Hello?” she says. “Nine-one-one? We have an emergency.”
Audience sits motionless. Loretta’s improvisation has always been impressive.