Short Story: Retraining Order

An experimental short story:

Dear Diary,

Moms upset agen. Dont know what to do. I asked her if she took her meds and she slapped me. Were in the waiting room at Jens offise. (Jens my tharipest but I probly already told you that. Moms tharipest Nan works here too.)

Mom was late getting to dacare and she was all upset too. We got in the car and came strait here without even going home first. Mom went rigt to the desk and asked for an emerjinsy sessin. Don’t know whats the problem but I hope Nan can help.

Enyways I just got back yesterday from spring brake with Daddy and I had the wunderfullest time. I always have the best time with Daddy. He dozen get upset like Mom and he teaches me cool stuff like why the sky is blew and where color comes from. I didnt rite to you then cuz I was buzy. Hope you dont mind. Enyways I love him so much and I wish I coud stay with him always but I dont know if they have scool there and enyways I have to help Mom.

Your frend,

Raymie

Dear Diary,

Photo: footage.shutterstock.com

Yesterday was the weerdist day of my life. Jen wanted to play this game, so I did. It was a make bileve game like if my dad was bad insted of good. Heres how it works. Jen asks a question and I gotta tell a story about it. Like she migt say, “Did your dad ever hit you?” and I say, “He hits me on the head with a pliyers cuz I dont feed the horse quick enugh.” It goes like that. At first she had to ask a lot of questions like “When” and “Where” and “With what” but I got the hang of it real fast and made some really good ansers.

Mom says Dad is out of the pitcher now but I dont know what that means.

Love,

Raymie

Photo: lifeintherough.com

Dear Diary,

Can’t believe I’m back in therapy after all these years. First session today. It’s no wonder I’m having trouble with Jake, though. Probably can’t deal with men because of what my dad did to me when I was little. Well, God and Jake and I are going to work this one out. I’m not about to let one sick old man mess up my marriage.

Dear Diary,

After I write this, I’ll be ready.

I went in and met the therapist this morning and told her all about the trouble with Jake, and you wouldn’t believe what she said to me.

She said, “Raymie, you don’t need to go through this anymore. Two simple steps. Bring the children here, today if possible, so they can talk to a children’s therapist about what he’s done to them. And get a restraining order.”

I just looked at her for a minute, then I said, “Restraining order against who?”

“Against Jake, of course,” she said. “Then he’ll be out of the picture. Permanently, if you want. Just tell the police what he’s done to the children.”

“But he hasn’t done anything to the children,” I said.

“You’d be surprised,” the therapist said. “Just bring the children and we’ll find out what he’s done to them. It’ll be better for them with Jake gone. And for you.”

It was hard to talk because my teeth were clamped together so hard. So I sort of buried my hands in my baggy sweater and made two fists and squeezed them as tight as I could. Then I could talk. I said, “Jake hasn’t done anything to them.”

Then that therapist smiled, like I was stupid and she was being very patient, and she said, “What children remember most is feelings. It’s up to the adults to supply the events to go with those feelings.”

I just stared at that woman and kept my mouth shut because I was afraid of what might come out of it.

Photo: b.vimeocdn.com

She just kept smiling, and said, “Don’t worry, Honey, it works. Plenty of women have solved their men problems this way.”

I just got up and walked out. I got to the parking lot and ran to my car, and when I was inside I just started talking to myself like a crazy woman. I’ve been talking all afternoon and now I feel calm enough. Now I’m ready. It's time to call Daddy.

Honor Thy Mother

Here's a short story about mental illness and child abuse:

The boy was missing.

“Mark, have you seen Temeni?” Sarah called to her husband. Raindrops fell sporadically on the porch railing outside the window as though the clouds were making up their minds whether to rain or not. She looked into the always-musty dining room, but Mark wasn't there.

Now that she thought about it, she couldn't remember having seen Temeni for quite a while. She walked to the back door and looked out. Three figures worked by the pig sty, spreading a large tarp over something. One was Mark. The others wore skirts. That would make them Rechah and Seraiah. Jalon was in a nearby pasture leading one of the horses to the barn. But where was Temeni?

It was time to cook supper. She went down to the cellar and picked out twelve potatoes and a squash, then put the squash back. Then she got six fish from the smoke-shed. She hadn’t thought to keep the kinds of fish separate when she and Seraiah had smoked them last year.

But Temeni...where was Temeni? He had no right to disappear like this. Who did he think he was, anyway?

Suddenly she realized the house was very cold. No wonder. All that was left of the fire was a few stray coals. She started another, shaking a little because she was seething with anger. She hadn’t forgotten about Temeni. It was insulting of him to just leave like this, without even saying anything. 

The door slammed. “Hi, Mom! I’m home!”

Sarah ran to the door. “Where have you been, young man?” she screamed.

“Fishing,” Temeni answered, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. His shoulders pulled up near his chin of their own accord.

“Fishing! When I was waiting for you?” Sarah yelled into her son’s ear, her voice shrill and shaking.

“You told me to get some fish for supper!” Temeni yelled back.

But his mother heard only the tone and not the words. She grabbed a handful of his blond hair and pulled suddenly with all the strength of rage. 

It was not in Temeni to fight his own mother, even when she was hurting him. His head crashed to the floor with a thud. He knew it was a sin to feel anger toward his own mother, but he couldn't help it. He was familiar enough with pain, but he howled anyway and his voice was hoarse with emotion.

He was up by now, and had run through the house and out the back door, not so much out of fear of his mother as out of fear that he would strike her.

Sarah chased him around the house several times. He had no intention of running away. There would be too much explaining to do, anywhere he went for shelter. And spreading rumors about his own mother would be a terrible sin--like stealing or worshiping graven images. What did it matter that these rumors would be true? He would invent some excuse for his throbbing, bloody forehead, soon half-believe it himself, and before it quite healed, forget about it. That was the pattern of things.

After six or seven laps around the house, Temeni realized that his mother was no longer following him. He found her sitting on the ground, hugging herself and sobbing.

“Mommy?”

There was no answer.

“Mommy?”

Again no answer.

“Why don’t you go inside? It’s raining.”

“Shut up and go away,” she said in a frail, thin voice, almost too quiet to hear.

Sarah had not gone very deeply this time into her habitual depression. She still performed her tasks, but somberly and silently. She ate very little, and she was physically weak to the point that her hands often shook as she worked. And she was very slow to react.

On the morning of the third day she milked the cows as usual. Since the house did not have electricity (It was a matter of principle.) Sarah always took the milk immediately to the Sheffields, who chilled it and sold it along with their own. 

She maneuvered the little Ford coupe over bumps and around muddy puddles. She glanced at the brook where it pushed its way over the driveway as well as under it. Once past its obstacle, it fell about six feet down a steep hill made even steeper by the erosion of the rushing water. This happened every year when the snow melted, and she was used to it. But her ailing mind was numb, and forgot that the water was carving invisible bumps and holes in the driveway. Before she knew it, her wheels were turned toward the banking. Her hands froze. She tried to tell them to move but they only trembled. 

When the rescue squad came, a small crowd of neighbors followed, some to help, some to gawk.

“Temeni,” said one of the gawkers, when she was getting bored, “what happened to your forehead?”

“Oh nothing much,” he answered. “Clumsy, I guess. I don’t even remember doing it.”

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