After Daddy finished beating me raw, Mama would come in with the antiseptic to clean the wounds. She would sing to me until I fell asleep, sometimes rubbing my legs because my back was too sore.
I used to imagine that Daddy sent her, as if he wanted to see to my wounds, as if he cared about me.
Daddy had been beatin’ me for as long as I’d had memories, so of course when I was little I liked to think he still cared. I liked to think him and Mama had some kinda agreement, like he would beat me for being bad, but then he’d have Mama take care of me.
Then I saw him beat Mama. I realized Mama didn’t have anyone tending to her wounds. Daddy wasn’t doing it and, up until that point, I hadn’t been either. After that I realized they didn’t have any agreement. Mama wasn’t bad, so why was he beating her?
According to Daddy I had a demon inside me. God had told him so. He had to beat it out of me every now and then to keep me good. I didn’t feel like I had a demon inside of me. I felt like I was just me. Just Grace.
I knew Mama was a good person. I knew she didn’t have a demon inside of her.
As I lay there with my newly dislocated shoulder, waiting for the next lash of Daddy’s belt, I’d have bet cash money that Daddy was the one with the demon inside.
I looked up to see Mama standing in the doorway. Wearing pajamas with her hair up, I wished she’d come for anything else. I could briefly remember her coming to my room to read me bedtime stories. I must have been seven the last time she did that. Now she only came for this. I looked away, shaking my head.
“I don’t want to do it tonight, Mama.”
“You know what happens if we don’t, sugar.” Mama held up the towel, tears in her eyes. If we didn’t put my shoulder back into place, not only would I be deformed, but I wouldn’t be able to use the arm. I bit down on my jaw and gestured her over with my good arm.
There were no words exchanged between us. I felt the bed sink with her weight. The towel was placed next to my head; I reached out with my good hand and placed it between my teeth. I was prostrate on the bed, my head buried in the sheets, towel in my teeth.
Mama didn’t count down; she never did.
I screamed out as she popped it into place, the feeling like a whipcrack of pain starting at my shoulder and spreading through my body. The pain happened in an instant but it was so intense and excruciating it left me breathless. I was tired, feeling like I’d run around the house twenty times. Nausea filled my gut and I swore I blacked out for a moment.
“Why’d you do it sugar?” Mama’s sorrowful voice filled my ears. “Why didn’t you just stay?”
I didn’t know. I didn’t know the answer to Mama’s question. I should have stayed. I could have avoided the beating and not been there with her, feeling the most excruciating pain. Those moments with Mama were worse than the beatings.
It wasn’t fair to her.
I kept my face down in the sheets so she couldn’t see my tears, but mostly so I couldn’t see hers. I knew she was crying. I hated that I made her cry. If I had just been good then we wouldn’t be there. If I had listened and stayed inside like a good girl then Mama wouldn’t have to do this.
Slowly I turned my head to the side, feeling the wetness of my tears dampening the sheets against my cheek.
“Am I a demon, Mama? Am I evil?” I looked into her watery blue eyes, pleading. I didn’t know any more. If I was good then good things were supposed to happen to me. Good girls didn’t get beat. Right?
Mama sighed and rested a hand on my calf. She made little circles on my skin that offered small comfort.
“I brought you another book.”
Perhaps the only good thing about those moments with Mama was the books. Sometimes when Mama visited me after my time with Daddy, she brought me a book. It started out as bedtime reading, stuff like Goodnight Moon, but as I got older Mama started giving me real books.
She gave me books that Daddy couldn’t know about. She showed me where to hide them, under the floorboards. The first time she gave me a book, To Kill a Mockingbird, I didn’t realize what she was doing. That is, I didn’t realize the risk she was taking.
I was about seven at the time; it was the first time I’d seen Mama get beat. I went to tend to her like she did me. At the end of it she reached underneath the floorboards, pulled out a tattered looking book, and handed it to me. I had all the books she’d ever given me hidden under the floorboards like beating hearts.
Our agreement was a tacit one. We’ve never fully talked about the risk or the deal, but we both knew what it meant. At least, I liked to think we did.
“What’s this one?” I asked, taking the book gently and admiring it. The first thing you notice about a book is the cover. I knew the saying “never judge a book by the cover?
?, but you couldn’t help it! I’d read some books that had pretty terrible covers and turned out to be amazing, so I did agree with the saying… but still, I loved a good cover. This one wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t amazing. It was just some guy standing on the beach.
“Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe,” Mama explained.
I looked up at her. Mama never told me anything about the books she gave me. She didn’t want to influence my opinion. At first I hated that. I hated not knowing what I was getting into. Eventually, though, I learned to love it and wouldn’t have it any other way. Each book she gave me was a key to another world. I would hate to have someone try and muddy that journey before I began.
I smelled the book, breathing in the freedom contained in the yellowing pages.