Written by Mary Anne Peck
Content Warning: Domestic violence, Generational abuse
Mama is under her blanket. She reaches out but only for this morning’s hot tea (never for
me). The blanket hides Mama’s wrinkled skin and stitched-up scars and worn-out perfume that
sticks to her-and-it, it-and-her, like the spackle Dad used to patch holes in the walls, holes shaped
like a-bad-day-at-work and get-me-another-drink and my-wife-can’t-cook-for-shit. As a child, I
believed the blanket shared her oxygen, her heartbeat. The frayed edges unwinding a little more
each day. It stretched to accommodate her when she stretched to accommodate me (the only time
I was allowed under Mama’s blanket). I left stretch marks on her skin. Dad left purple spots.
Then Dad left.
Mama whispers to the blanket like a lover, holding quiet conversations I’ve never
understood. But as I sit across the room waiting for the kettle to scream, the blanket speaks to
me, too. The sound slides across my skin and my spots (the same color as Mama’s), mingling
with my sweat under the turtleneck Paul pulled over me before I left the house this morning to
come check on Mama; the rough fabric muffled my voice as I promised him I’d be home in an
hour. I promised.
Mama reaches out again. Not for tea, but for my hand.
We hide in plain sight, her-and-it, it-and-me, and when Paul storms in through the back
screen door and the purple spots under my sweater throb with the sound of where-have-you-been
and get-in-the-damn-truck and wait-til-we-get-home, the blanket covers my ears.
Mama and the blanket hold me.
The tea kettle screams.
.
Mary Anne Peck is a writer and workshop facilitator living in American Samoa. Her short stories have been published by BULL Magazine, Back Patio Press, and Taco Bell Quarterly. For more info about Mary’s writing and workshops, visit maryannepeck.com or follow @maryannepeck_.