Authors: Cynthia Tottleben
Mike touched me in places I didn’t know existed. Put my hands on parts I found disgusting but pertinent all the same. Concentrated on my bra and the contents within.
We were probably visible at the bottom of the slide when I moved my head to the side, his mouth glued to my neck, Mike’s rhythm the baseline that propelled me along. I throbbed. My entire being, head to toe, caressed, loved, totally on fire, so stunning I could hardly breathe, let alone open my eyes, was so wrapped up in my moment that I barely noticed when the man above me changed.
Or did he?
When I turned to face him, to open my eyes and savor his handsome beauty, he was on me, laughing.
My Father. The man with the backlit head. The one who had stood in front of the door and opened it, magically, pulling me up from the floor when I wasn’t able to help myself.
“Wow! Someone is certainly feeling better!”
Tippy
I hated our separation. My job was to protect you, keep you herded onto the right path, give you my heart so that you would grow and be able to give others the same. This was very hard to do when I couldn’t get to you.
I could smell you, yes. Not that I wanted to. Your odor had gone from my girl to my girl with that sickness in her eye to a stench that invaded the whole house, like that rotting skunk that reeked in the backyard last summer. Enchantingly mysterious, yes, but frightening at the same time.
At times I trembled. Didn’t know what to do, really. My mom taught me about living with humans, following their rules, pooping outside. She was well rehearsed. Knew all the lines. Told me that you played, you entertained, you guarded, but most of all you steered your master with a pure heart. Let her think she’s in charge, when all along you are leading her on a strong path.
Dolly was her name. Her scent always made me think of breakfast foods. Many times when you and your sister ate before going to school I’d be under the table, sharing a memory, knowing that I would never see her again.
My mother was wise. A flower, really. Beautiful. And the magnet that pulled all other creatures to her. Always unfolding, alive with information.
When Mom fed us, she would rest on her side and tell us stories of the world while we suckled. Some of my siblings pushed and shoved and didn’t much listen. But I did. I wanted to know. To understand how I would navigate my life was more profound to me than getting three extra drops of milk.
She told of dogs and a life, like hers, spent cherished in the warmth of nighttime cuddling and slices of bacon thrown directly from the pan. Or those sad cousins who were outside, fenced or chained or even humanless, their hearts heavy. Times change, she warned. You can have glory and the next moment shame, a home and then isolation, food and then terror. But above all, she urged me never to reduce myself to the circumstance. If my master was mean, then he was mean to me and I accepted that and gave him nothing but love.
This, however, was different.
For this I had no lesson.
One master, hurting the other. My girl, dying. My girl, hurting in ways I couldn’t begin to understand. Locked away. Kept from me. Close enough I could discern your presence, far enough I couldn’t find you.
I followed my mother’s words to the best of my ability. Sent you my love. Could you feel it? Standing in the kitchen, knowing you were somewhere underneath, smelling the suffering on you, I would close my good eye and will you my affection. Picture you in my head. Picture myself back in my superhero cape. Put us together.
Dolly. My mother. Obsessed with integrity, her value system unrivaled. When I needed her the most, all I could find were snippets of our past conversations.
Joan. Your mother. She gives me hot dogs. Speaks to me as though we are chasing the same dream. And that dream is to not find you.
I eat. At first I could not, not with you gone. Then she appeared before me, my own mother, her scent flooding the room. Showed me how thin you were. How sick.
“Who will help her, Tippy?” Mom asked me. “This is your girl. She has no one else but you.”
Which was exactly why I had stopped eating. How could I keep emptying the kibble bowl when you were so wretched? When you had nothing?
“Tippy, who will help her if she can’t help herself? If you are too weak to move, if you don’t keep up your strength, who will save this poor child?”
Her point so valid.
A dog’s role, a good dog’s role, is to always protect the young ones.
So I eat. Cuddle with the enemy, get to know her weaknesses. Pass time waiting for my moment to shine.
Yet things still change. The air in the house keeps my hair on edge. I find myself unfocused, concentrating on the corners, not quite able to put my paw on things that creep past. Both you and your mother talk to people who aren’t here, see things that I can’t see, lie to each other while telling the truth. I don’t know what to think anymore.
But the outside is more disturbing.
I remember my house before yours. The boy who took my eye. His toys, soldiers, army men, big fighting cars that he rolled all over the living room. He would line them up for battle. A wall of weapons. A procession down the center of the room. A stronghold.
I see that here. In the mornings, when she lets me into the yard, your mother doesn’t even notice. Past the metal building, past the car and the trash cans. So far out I can barely see them.
But who couldn’t smell them?
It hits me, their unity, the mass of them, when the wind blows against my face. Like I’ve barreled into a closed door. How can she not notice?
They are lining up where there once was corn. So much stronger than me. So much larger.
But mine, just the same. Someone had to take charge. Merge the inner team with the one outside. I like that I am not alone, but I want to be their friend long before they spy me with her and think I am on the wrong side.
I called to them. Hiding behind the shed, where your mother couldn’t see me, I put on my most professional voice and howled as desperately as I could. When I focused, I was shocked to see one of them already so close we could almost touch noses. Then my eye hunkered down and another, well blended with the trees, moved her head. Let me know she understood. And her friend moved as well. Tiny nods, hidden from humans, and I caught the flicker of dozens more.
We acknowledged our singular role. Worked our separate languages into one.
Set our goals. Our boundaries. Shared information.
We meet every morning, in the cold, in the dark. Swap updates. Prepare ourselves.
They are gathering, Lucy.
I may eat when you do not, but that is because I must. I am your eyes and ears, and cannot succumb to sickness. I must always be at the very top of my game. Because you won’t be. She forces you to wither. Even though right now, today, she lets you eat, who knows what tomorrow will bring?
But I promise you this, my girl. I will be the strong one. When you are too weak, I shall carry you. Get you to safety. Defend you.
When the time comes, I have an army.
We will win this war.
I have a plan.
Joan
Was it possible that I’d always loved you?
Flesh of my flesh.
What kind of sign was it that God Himself let you out of the basement? And Evelyn had left?
Surely that meant I didn’t have to kill you.
I prayed. Called out to my mother. If she were in Heaven, wouldn’t she already know? Was that why I hesitated to use the ax?
If God loved you so much that He took the time out of His busy day to open the door and send you to me with messages of peace, did that mean it was all over?
How would I ever know what to do? Maybe He was tempting you. Like Eve. You could either be good or sacrifice the future of humanity while you put on your devil suit and seared us all with your hatred. I couldn’t figure it out.
The damned dog never left your side anymore. Wasn’t that also an indication? Would she be so loyal to someone inherently evil?
I moved the ax back into my bedroom closet.
Fool!
It chided me in Aunt Evelyn’s voice.
Coward!
But when I stood my great-aunt next to God, He won hands down every time. Your basement visitor had changed the entire game.
What a relief for me. So much so that I couldn’t help but worry about Brandy. Could she come home now? How would I find her? What would I say? Hey, pumpkin, I kicked you out because I was doomed to destroy this other one, but now that’s no longer important?
I didn’t know how to continue. We had walked to the edge, you and me, leaving all behind, and now here we were, a team again. Or, really, for the first time. The two of us. Amazing. I’d never not been wary of you. Never not despised you.
Never allowed myself to let down my guard and love you. Like a mother should.
Despite your brutal beginnings.
I did the only thing I could think of.
Braved the basement. Turned off the heating system blazing through the coal room. Fetched the Christmas tree and all of our ornaments.
A family, devoted to the same God, celebrated the birth of His son. We would, too.
Lucy
Time meant nothing to me anymore. I slept like Mom had slipped me cold medicine, which I wouldn’t put past her. Sometimes my mini-comas seemed to last days, but my internal clock was so tangled they might have only been minutes.
When I snuck a peek outside, I guessed we were still in December. The Hanley’s farmhouse was edged in colored lights that I could barely make out from so far away, but I remembered their family always being diligent about removing them on time.
The world hadn’t yet taken on the pale frigidness that spoke of January days, either. The cold that gripped Iowa and froze the ground solid had not yet arrived. In December, the snow was wetter, the soil more malleable. Once the New Year turned, that quickly went to the wayside. Even with the curtain blocking my view, the yard looked like it was still 1999.
Mom did nothing anymore but surprise me. She helped me dress, propped me up and fed me real meals that she had cooked herself, brought me books from the library.
One morning she let me lean against her while we worked our way downstairs. My body was filling out, but my equilibrium protested every step I took. In my care to walk without falling, I didn’t even notice how Mom had rearranged the furniture to accommodate our Christmas tree.
My mind snapped the second I saw the boxes of decorations. This meant we had passed through November, for Mom never allowed us to set the tree before the Thanksgiving weekend had been and gone.
So it definitely was December.
What a relief to know. My captivity, which seemed to have lasted decades, was relatively short-lived. At school we would be nearing the end of the semester. Marching band would have wrapped up, the choir would be rehearsing for the seasonal show. Our youth group at church would be singing at nursing homes and gearing up to adopt a couple of needy families for the holiday.
Last year we had outfitted three children with coats, boots, gloves, and toys. Just twelve months ago.
“What day is it?”
“Well, that’s a strange question,” Mom answered, pulling the angel tree-topper out of a box and putting it on the coffee table. “Why would anyone want to know that?”
I had forgotten her illness. In my weakened state, I had given her back her rationality when it wasn’t yet deserved.
“You’re right. It doesn’t matter. I was just worried about making you a present and wondered how much time I had.”
Which was, strangely, the right answer. Mom pressed her forehead against my own, a move she’d often made with Brandy. She held my hands. Swayed back and forth just a tad.
“Lucy, honey, you don’t need to get me anything. The whole basement-door thing? You could never top it. How lucky I am that God found you worth saving.”
We stood together until I was about to collapse. I dared not move, no matter how uncomfortable I was.
Mom took over the ritual of the tree. Did her annual chores while I slowly hung ornaments, wheezing when I got tired, sitting when I had to rest.
She floored me when she took out an old CD, found the player that had been locked away for several years, and put on music while we worked. I tried to sing but couldn’t hang ornaments and breathe at the same time. Still, I appreciated Mom’s voice as she belted out my favorite carols.
At one point, even Tippy joined us in song, her howl both mighty and small.
“This year there really is magic to the season!” Mom proclaimed as she placed tinsel at the end of each branch. “Doesn’t it all seem so much brighter to you?”
It did. For the first time I felt welcome in my own home. The walls seemed to shine.
* * *
“Your grandmother was a ball of fire.” Mom put down her book and smiled.
“Your mom or Dad’s?” I asked. In my fourteen years, Mom had rarely discussed our dead relatives except when she told Brandy stories, conversations they shared privately.
“Mine. I never met his parents. They passed when he was a child.”
“What was she like?”
“Hilarious. She loved to sit around the kitchen table and play cards. Someone was always over, the neighbors or friends from church, and had a game going while they talked. I miss that. A house full of people. That…friendliness.”