Henry's Mom

I hadn’t set foot inside the old house for seven years. The carpet was still the color of dried mustard, stained in the exact same places by the exact same spills that had outlived every dog, girlfriend, and family holiday. I stood in the entryway, shoulders pressed to the drywall, inhaling the stale scent of Lysol and mildew, and waited.

My fingers felt damp against the wood paneling. I’d memorized every squeaky board, every place her slippers scuffed the finish. Outside, the sun hung low and ruddy behind a flat expanse of stratus, leaking dull orange through the window beside the door. Her car crunched into the gravel. I tracked her movements with a detached efficiency: the pop and whine of the garage door, her grunting effort as she hoisted the grocery bags from the trunk, the expectant chirp of the alarm fob as she shuffled to the stoop.

I eased into my new role, a living shadow of vengeance. My heartbeat never broke its rhythm as I pressed myself behind the front door. The key rattled in the deadbolt. I exhaled through my nose and shifted my weight, ready.

The door swung open and closed. Rage burned as I stared at Mom’s brown hair coiled in a haphazard bun, purse strap carving a red line into the crook of her elbow, both arms loaded with Aldi bags. She walked through the living room with an obliviousness that bordered on art. Completely unaware of my presence, or of her impending doom.

A single running step put me full-force into her back. The groceries clattered to the floor, cans rolling haphazardly as she hit the wall. She yelped, more confusion than fear at first, and craned her head back, searching for the shape of her attacker. I covered her mouth with one hand and leaned my weight against her, pinning her to the wall.

She thrashed in my grip, but she was small, fragile the way only people who have never needed to fight can be. My palm fit neatly over her mouth, my arm a tourniquet around her torso. I leaned my chin against her shoulder, my lips against her ear.

“Shhh,” I whispered, and even I was surprised by the steadiness of my voice. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Mom went rigid. Through my fingers, I felt the shape of her lips; she was saying my name. I twisted one arm behind her back and turned her in the direction I wanted to go, her socked feet scrabbling for traction, and steered her through the living room to the scene of my nightly shaming, the dining room.

She let me push her into one of the straight-backed dining chairs, one of the ones from the end of the long table that had strong wooden arms. Uncomfortable as hell, but the purpose was to impress visitors with how formal and refined we were. But not today. I had an entirely different purpose today.

“Do not speak,” I warned. “Don’t even make a sound. I will absolutely make you regret it if you do.”

I had half a dozen pigging strings - thin ropes about an eighth of an inch thick and a foot long - dangling from my belt loops. In a heartbeat, I had both of Mom’s wrists tied to the arms of the chair. Before she could think to kick me, I did the same with her ankles.

“What do you think you’re doing, young man?”

She tried her mom-voice on me. Actually, tried to scold me. I stared down at her. Shook my head in disbelief. Gave her a thin smile. Then backhanded her across the mouth.

“I told you to shut the fuck up, you stupid cunt,” I said. As soon as her eyes focused on me again, I used the same hand to slap the other side of her face. I alternated hands, slapping her over and over. “I told you I’d make you regret it. But you never believed anything I said, did you, Mom?”

She slumped against the back of the chair, tears sliding down her cheeks as I stepped back and looked at my handiwork. Her wrists were cinched to the lacquered wood so tightly that her skin bulged around the rope. Her nostrils flared, but the breaths that escaped were ragged and slow. Her thin shoulders shook as she sobbed pitifully.

I pulled a second chair to face her, planted my elbows on my knees, and waited for her to calm down. We stared at each other for a solid minute. She finally shook her head, eyes watering, making a desperate, muffled sound that vibrated through the scarf. I leaned in.

“You know, I spent months planning this. Every second, every knot.” I plucked the rope on one wrist. “You’re probably asking yourself, ‘Why?’” I gave her a crooked half-smile. “I’ll give you a hint, Mom. My childhood. My entire fucking childhood.”

Mom thrashed suddenly. If she didn’t know exactly what I meant, she made a good approximation. The ropes bit into her skin, breaking the top later as she fought them.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she spat. “Untie me this instant. This isn’t funny.” She glared at me. “I’m your mother, Henry.”

“Oh, you know how to look at me? All those years, you couldn’t even manage that unless you were disappointed.” My voice stayed level. “Did you ever realize that?” I smiled and tilted my head. “All I wanted was your love. All I got was your disdain.”

“That isn’t true,” Mom snapped. “You’re always exaggerating. God, Henry. The world doesn’t revolve around you.”

She shook her head, snot now pooling below one nostril, mascara trickling in a black vein toward her chin. I took a tissue from the box on the coffee table, dabbed her nose, and wiped the tear trails away. She went still, baffled ...