044/2012 Mikey

Word Count:  477

Mercy lived in terror that someday her four year-old son would kill her. From the day he was born, dragging his tiny fetal fingernails along the birth canal as he dug his heels in to push himself out, leaving scars that seriously burned every time she had sex with Frank, she understood that his purpose in life was to hurt her.

This same trait exhibited in his determined yet reluctant entrance into the world became obvious in his first months. He was his own evil twin. He cooed and babbled for his father, his grandparents, anyone else. He spit and screamed at her. She nursed him in the hospital yet the first day she brought him home and held him to her breast, he clamped down on her nipple so hard he drew blood. He opened his eyes and grinned as he sucked the pink milk.

No one believed her. She gave up long ago. Her husband sent her to a doctor for postpartum depression but the meds only made her sleepy and more prone to attack. She carefully worded her worries to the pediatrician who pronounced Mikey healthy and perfectly fine.

Mikey was a model child with others around but she was frightened to be left alone with him. He crawled like a spider that followed her feet room to room. He started walking then running then climbing and he came after her once with a toy tin truck.

She listened at the closed door when he played in his room. Never turned her back on him when they were alone in the house.

She enrolled him in daycare. Convinced Frank that Mikey would benefit from the challenges of a group setting. And he did, or seemed to mellow. Rarely was violent, yet the new quiet scared her even more. She thought he was sneaky and sly.

He woke with a fever one morning. She reluctantly kept him home from school. Gave him children’s aspirin, sponged his body with cool water. Whatever the doctor told her to do. Something inside stirred at the sight of Mikey’s pale face, his whispered resistance to all but a few sips of broth. She stroked his hair, damp with sweat.

“Do you think you would like a bit more broth?” she asked. He nodded weakly, attempted a smile. “Sure, mom.”

Mom. It sounded so sweet. He’d avoided calling her anything since he could talk. He didn’t cringe when she lightly kissed his forehead. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart,” she said and hurried away.

A turning point, she thought. She couldn’t deny the warm feeling spreading over her straight from her heart. Maternal, she thought, so that’s what it feels like, and smiled. She realized the instant her ankle caught the wire but it was still the good feeling she held onto as she tumbled head first down the stairs.