When I think about my mother, my mind paints the most beautiful picture. Her face shines so brightly, framed by her dark hair and the full green trees behind her. She’s looking down, like the painting of the Madonna I once saw, where she holds her baby and her head tilts. She has this smile on her face. It is something I remember so perfectly. Something I see almost every day when I close my eyes. It was like her joy might jump right off the canvas of my memories, surrounding me with warm arms. Like a shield, it would push everything else back. Together, we could hide in that perfect moment.
It happened when I was ten. It was early in the afternoon and we were in the backyard. Mom knelt in the grass, one hand palm down on the ground. She held the other up and a caterpillar circled the tip of one of her long fingers.
“That’s one of those gypsy moths,” I said, staring at it, fixated by the way the long hairs on the side brushed against my mother’s skin.
“It is,” she said softly.
“Drew said they’re bad.”
She laughed and that smile might as well have controlled my entire world.
“Does it look bad?”
I leaned closer. Slowly, I moved my hand to hers. I pointed and gently touched the soft hairs. The caterpillar’s black head turned and seemed to look me in the eye. Then it moved. I felt so many tiny legs crawling onto my skin.
“Not really,” I answered as it moved onto the back of my hand. “But Dad told Drew that they kill all of our plants. And they make our yard look like crap.”
She touched my cheek. “Can’t you think of a better word than that?”
I wasn’t sure what she meant at first. I don’t even think I could remember what it was that I said. She didn’t seem to mind, though.
“They’re just doing what they need to do to survive,” she said. “That doesn’t make them bad.”
Her big, light eyes seemed to bore into mine. I was only ten, but even then I felt like her words meant far more than what I heard. For some reason, they made me think about my dad. And the look on his face when my mom hugged him.
“Does Dad think you’re bad?” I asked.
“Liam!” she said, her eyebrows furrowing. “Why would you ask that?”
I shrugged and held my other hand out. The caterpillar crossed over onto that palm. I petted its hair again, still surprised that it was so soft.
“Baby, look at me,” my mom said. When I did, she touched my face again. “Your father works really hard so we can have this life. This house. This beautiful yard. And he doesn’t ask much from us, does he? Sometimes, his face might look upset. Or like he’s thinking of something else. But he loves you. And your brother.”
“You, too?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “Me, too.”
My mother looked like she wanted to say more. Instead, her eyes lowered. Her hand moved from my face. Her fingernail brushed my palm. Then the caterpillar left me, moving to her painted nail. Her arm lifted back up as the gypsy moth moved across the prominent bones of her wrist.
For a time, she simply watched it. I remember thinking that she was going to take it inside and put it in a jar. We could keep it as a pet and she could watch it like that anytime she wanted. Instead, her hand moved to the grass and she waited patiently as the caterpillar slipped off her and down to the ground below the lush green blades.
Surprised, I moved quickly, trying to scoop it back up. But she touched my arm, stopping me.
“Let it go free,” she said.
As I looked into her eyes, trying to understand something that no ten-year-old could, I heard my name.
“Liam!”
I ignored it. I couldn’t stop watching her. The halves of so many questions filled my head. For just a second, I thought the woman kneeling beside me was a stranger. That something had happened and my mother had disappeared. Before that day, I saw her only as this shining, perfect presence in my life. One that held me grounded. She was the softness in my life. The carefree moments. The random trips to get ice cream. The long walks along the creek, hopping across the water on treacherously slick stones. She was perfect Halloween costumes and spontaneous Christmas carols.
Staring at her, I saw that something had changed. Either inside of her or inside of me. I sensed secrets. Fears. Danger. The sensation clung to me. Holding me still.
“Liam!”
She blinked, and the moment flashed out of existence. At once the start of something and the end of something. What, though, I had no way of knowing.
“Your friend is here,” she said, waving a hand. “Go play.”
I turned and saw Carter appearing in our side yard.
“Hey,” he called at me.
I stood up. I turned back to look at her one last time. But, no matter how hard I try, I can’t picture what she looked like in that moment. Did she look like what my mother was? Or what she would become? I just can’t remember.
The moment passed, though, and I went back to just being a kid. I followed Carter into the woods. We stood by the rock ledge, kicking at leaves and throwing small rocks.
“What do you want to do?”
“Let’s spy on the Smiths, see if they’re at the fort.”
“Cool.”
We got into it, Carter and I, creeping through the underbrush while making covert hand signals to each other. When I heard voices carry through the still forest, my heart thumped inside my chest. A perfectly shaped stick lay on the dried leaves beside me. I picked it up, peering down its length like the barrel of a rifle. In my mind, I became a soldier, a sniper maybe, ready to kill in utter and complete silence.
As we moved closer, I could make out words. Keith Smith was my age. He had his friend Ivan with him, a little kid with a giant chip on his shoulder. Ivan and I had almost been in a fight at the bus stop three times. Carter didn’t like him any better than I did.
They appeared below us, working on the fort. Carter moved closer to me so we could whisper back and forth.
“We should attack,” I said.
“Yeah.”
We broke from cover, screaming, and I swung my stick like a club. Carter roared behind me and I heard his feet crashing through the thick covering of leaves. Keith looked up over the shadow of his shelter and saw me.
“Get out of here!” Keith yelled.
I screamed over him, through him. The stick rose above my head. He took a step back. I feigned a swing at his head and hit the side of his fort instead. The sound echoed around us. A piece of bark flew through the air but otherwise the fort remained intact.
“Get out!”
Carter and I stopped a few feet from Keith. Our bodies twitched with potential as we stared him down. The moment inched by and the dance became a fidget. Neither Carter nor I had thought out what to do next. That’s when Ivan finally said something.
“You two move and you’re dead.”
I looked up and saw him across the creek. He stood atop a small outcrop of stone, his hand above his head. The sunlight danced off sparkling mica dotting the surface of the large jagged rock in his hand.
I laughed. “Shut up. You won’t do anything.”
“Try me.”
I looked at Ivan. He did not smile. Something, though, told me he wanted to throw that rock. And it was a big rock.
“If you throw that . . .” I paused. My mind went blank. I felt weakness in that moment, the sort only a ten-year-old could feel. It seemed overwhelmingly real and permanent. I couldn’t back down but I was too afraid to commit. Finally, I said the only thing left to say.
“If you throw that rock, my brother will kill you.”
Keith’s eyes widened. Ivan lowered the stone. Everyone in the neighborhood knew Drew. I smiled, feeling strong, feeling invincible. My chest puffed out and I licked my lips, over the dry patches and the chapped tip that I tended to bite off. Their fear fed my soul. I basked in it, owning it. At the same time I felt a pervasive envy grow inside me. Why couldn’t the mention of my name shake the world?
Then Ivan threw the thing anyway. It was so pathetic, really. The stone flopped through the air like an injured bird and plunged into the creek a good ten feet away from Carter and me. But he did it. I stood in utter shock for a second, and then I ran. So did Carter. We charged up the hill like an army chased us. I could hear Ivan and Keith laughing.
We stopped at the rock ledge, both of us doubled over and hacking to regain our breath. There was no way we could still hear them. They had to be well out of earshot. But their laughter filled my head like they stood right in front of me.
I screamed out in frustration. Looking down, I noticed the stick still in my hand. Spinning, I swung it at the nearest sapling, striking it over and over again. Bits of wood flew through the air with each strike. I just screamed over and over again.
“Jesus, Liam. Chill out.”
I turned on Carter. It felt like my eyes were on fire.
“If you’re so upset,” he said, “go get your brother. He’ll—”
“Shut the fuck up, Carter!”
I swung the stick. I didn’t think it would hit him. I thought he was farther away. But the edge caught him just below the knee. The wood vibrated in my hand. And then I saw the blood blossom on his freckled skin. It reminded me of that day with Drew when I hurt his knee, which made me even more angry.
For a second, he said nothing. Neither did I. I just stared at him and he stared at the stick. Then, as if in super slow motion, Carter looked down at his leg. He saw the blood. And he started to scream.
I hung my head. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to.”
Carter just kept crying and crying. Everything took on a red tint. I felt like my body might suddenly burst inside out. For a second, I felt this burning urge to hit him again. Hit him over and over again, really, just to make the crying stop.
Carter turned and ran home. I sat back down in the exact same spot where I had been standing. My head throbbed, and to be honest, I wanted to cry. But I was silent, and I sat there for a long time.
“Liam.”
I knew right away it was Drew. I turned and saw him silhouetted by the sun.
“Mom’s looking for you,” he said.
“Leave me alone,” I shouted, my voice sounding shrill and weak.
He just stood there, staring at me. That same overwhelming feeling washed over me, like my head had suddenly filled to capacity with some sticky, thick liquid.
Drew turned slowly and walked away. And I was left to wonder how long he had been standing there.
MY MOTHER MET me in the foyer when I finally made it home. I’d left my rage in the woods. My mother, however, felt differently. Her cheeks were as red as fresh blood and her eyes looked sunken and dark. She held her new cordless phone in her hand. For some reason, I noticed one of her perfectly manicured nails had chipped.
That wasn’t the worst of it, though. Her hands were shaking. Her entire body was. And her eyes were wide, almost panicked.
“What did you do?” she whispered.
I couldn’t answer right away. It was like this energy was radiating out of her. Burning me. Making me feel like I wanted to tear out of my own skin. She looked around, like she might run away if she could.
“I didn’t mean to. I just . . .”
I started to cry. It just happened. I couldn’t stop it. I kept apologizing, over and over again, while I sputtered and sniffled.
“I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”
For a second, I thought she was going to hug me. Instead, though, she brushed past. All I could do was watch as she rose up the stairs and disappeared into her room. I followed eventually, but her door was closed. Feeling lost, and strangely alone for the first time in my life, I went into my room, closing the door as quietly as I could behind me.
I heard the phone ring, and not long after that, the door to the garage opened. That meant my father was home. I grabbed a book off the table beside my bed, flipping through it as he stormed up the stairs. My door didn’t swing open. He didn’t appear on the threshold with eyes red with anger. Nor did he stand with hands on his hips, disappointment in his eyes.
Instead, the door opened slowly. He stepped into the room, moving closer and closer to me, inch by agonizing inch. He was tall, at least four inches above six feet, and he was broad like a man who farmed or mined coal. But he wore a perfectly crisp white shirt with brown slacks and brown shining shoes. His round glasses barely circled his flat, dark eyes, just like Drew’s. His black hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place.
He didn’t stop until his chest almost touched mine. Softly, he cupped my chin and tilted my head up so I had to look at him. My entire body felt like it belonged to someone else. Or like it didn’t belong to anyone. All of me, all that I could feel, hid inside my skull, shaking and lighter than air.
He smiled. His thin lips barely moving. His eyes not changing at all.
“Are you that stupid?” he asked quietly.
“No,” I said. Somehow, that tiny word crackled into pieces as it came out of my mouth.
He laughed harshly. “You must be. You listen to me and understand. This is my neighborhood. I work hard so we can live here. And I’m not going to have the mothers telling stories about my son. Do you understand that?”
“I—”
“Shut up and get your shoes on. You’re going to march your ass down to that boy’s house and apologize.”
“Okay,” I whispered. For a second, I thought that would be it. That it would end. And I’d be okay. But I was wrong.
“And when you get back, we’ll see how tough you really are.”