Parentified

Chapter I of II

It is quiet. So quiet I can hear myself breathing. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. How funny that the body does this on its own. Wrapped up to my chin in my warm, winter coat, I look at the digital clock in my car. 8:45 p.m. The numbers had read "8:25 p.m." when I'd first pulled up to my house, parking on the street in front where there is a space between two mounds of snow just big enough for my car to fit. I know that the time is wrong--an hour too fast since daylight savings ended--but that doesn't change the fact that I've been sitting in the driver's seat for twenty minutes, car parked and engine still running.

I don't mind. My car is warm, and the lights on the dashboard in front of me glow in white, muted light. Outside, the world is dark. I can just make out the outlines of the neighborhood around me; rows of two- and three-family homes that line the street, idle cars parked out front just like mine. Streetlights stand out from the pavement like guards, casting an orange glow on the piles and piles of plowed snow stacked on either side of the road. It may not be a particularly pretty sight, but I enjoy nights like this; nights where everything is still and calm.

Typically, I might use a moment like this to think, reflect, explain my problems out loud to the universe, but not tonight. I crank my seat lever up and let the back of the driver's seat fall back. Still breathing deeply, I close my eyes, surrendering to darkness and silence. My heartbeat is steady. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

POW!

I jump upright, heartbeat no longer regular. The remnants of an icy snowball are sliding down my window. I hear laughter outside and I roll the window down, shivering as cold air enters my space. "Hey!" I shout. "What's the matter with you?"

The laughter intensifies. My fourteen-year-old brother, Michael, stands outside, dressed in nothing more than black jogger-style sweat pants and flip-flops. His twig-like arms are poised up, ready to throw a second snowball. "What's the matter with you?" he asks. "Why you sitting out here in the dark? Mom was getting worried."

"Sorry," I respond. I roll up my window and hurry to gather my things: my drawstring-bag and lunch sack. I twist my keys out of the ignition and the hum of my engine quiets. So much for a peaceful moment.

Inside, I kick off my boots and walk to the kitchen where I know my mother will be. It is Thursday. Thursday is one of her nights to cook. I find her bent over the kitchen sink, scrubbing flecks of burnt rice from the bottom of a stainless steel pot.

"Hi, Mama," I say, wrapping my arms around her waist.

"¡Ay, Dios mío! Oh, my God!" she jumps, spraying water on both of us. I laugh, despite my wet clothes. Mama doesn't speak Spanish, but she had picked up a few phrases and terms from her Puerto Rican grandmother. "You scared me, Vanessa!" she exclaims, finally turning off the faucet.

"Haha, sorry, Mama." I reach for a dishtowel and mop off the front of her shirt.

"You hungry?" she motions to the kitchen table where two Tupperware containers of rice and beans sit, ready to be packed away in the fridge.

I fill a paper plate with food and stuff it in the microwave for two minutes. While my rice and beans are heating up, I help my mother finish cleaning the kitchen. There is not much work left--only a few dishes to put away.

"Was work ok?" Mama asks me. "I always get nervous when you sit in your car alone. It makes me think that something's wrong."

Over the past few weeks, Mama has noticed that I spend a lot of time in my car when I get home from work. I know that it worries her. At times, she has even walked outside and knocked on the driver's side window to see if I am alright. Last week, she'd caught me with tears in my eyes, crying like a child. Seeing her, I had been overwhelmed with all the feelings piling up inside of me. I'd begun to shake. Then I had let all of my frustrations out on her. Shouting and waving my hands, I'd yelled at her to leave me alone. I know that this is why she sent Michael outside to check on me tonight. She was afraid of my reaction.

I force a smile. "Work was fine. Nothing new. I'm just tired."

"Well, I know how that is," Mama says. She bows, grandly. "Mother of five here."

I hear her say 'five kids,' and I am reminded of how hard she works--seven days a week, to be exact. I look at the dark circles under her eyes, the faded patterned leggings she wears, and the stained blue t-shirt that hugs her middle. When was the last time she bought new clothes for herself? I can't remember.

The microwave beeps. My food is ready. I feel a rush of relief, thankful that something has interrupted the budding conversation with my mother. I don't want to entertain any talk that might involve a heart-to-heart.

Mama watches me settle into a chair at the kitchen table. "Ok. Bernie is already asleep in the boy's room," she says. "I need to go lay down before work tonight. Lulu and Isaiah both have tests tomorrow that they need help studying for."

There was a time in my family when a sentence like that would have been a question. "Vanessa, would you mind helping you little siblings study?" Now, it is a statement. Mama works third shift Wednesday through Friday. If I don't help the little ones study, no one will.

"Got it." I nod with a heaping spoonful of rice and beans in my mouth. I already know about Lulu and Isaiah's tests. I had already planned to spend the night quizzing them.

"Thanks, sweet heart." Mama wraps an arm around me, giving me an awkward side hug. "Goodnight."

"Sleep well."

I fork down the the rest of my meal and toss the paper dish in the garbage can. It lands on top of an overflowing mound of rubbish. I noticed bits of used, paper napkins and old granola bar wrappers littering the floor nearby. I take a deep breath and turn my back. Right now, I can only focus on one thing at a time. Taking out the garbage must wait.

Purposefully, I walk out of the kitchen, moving into the tiny living-room area. Michaels sits on the carpeted floor, his hands wrapped around an Xbox remote, biting his lip in concentration. The colorful images on the television screen in front of him flash on his face and his eyes zero in focus.

"Bruh...!" he whines as I walk in front of him, blocking his view for a moment.

I roll my eyes. "Hey." I try to get his attention. He ignores me, twisting his skinny, half-clothed body to see past my legs. "Hey!" I smack the side of his red headset.

"What?!" He presses a random button on the remote, pausing his game and finally looking at me.

"Did you finish your homework?" I ask him.

"Ye-us!" he whines.

I eye him, suspiciously. "Bed by ten," I order.

"Whatever," he mutters as I walk away. I don't let it bother me. Michael's teenaged-self may think he is his own man--as evidenced by his refusal to wear a shirt in the house despite the freezing temperature and the shiny gold chain he'd started wearing around his neck--but he knows that I'm still in charge.

I find Lulu and Isaiah in my room, the girl's room, playing on my bed with a stash of Barbie dolls and stuffed animals. I watch them for a moment, knowing that the tranquility of their playtime will only last until their next argument. Lulu is nine, and Isaiah will be seven in March. Out of the five of us Bailey children, they are the two that look most alike. We all have the olive skin-tone of our mother, but Isaiah and Lulu are the only ones who inherited her green eyes and curly black hair. Like our father, Michael, Bernie, and I have dark brown eyes and straight, coarse brown hair. At times, that resemblance is a painful thing. My father left us when I was sixteen, right before Mama learned she was pregnant with Bernie. No note. No explanation. Just, gone. That time of our lives is not something I like to think about.

As I suspected, disaster strikes in the midst of playtime. While Isaiah's back is turned, Lulu plucks up a particular Barbie doll. Turning around and noticing his missing toy, Isaiah lets out a pterodactyl-like shriek and pounces on Lulu. I intervene just as Lulu is picking up a pink, Barbie-sized convertible to smash on Isaiah's head.

"Hey!" I say, jumping in between the two. The Barbie convertible smacks into my arm, and I feel the beginnings of a small bruise. I glare at Lulu.

"Oh! Sorry, 'Nessa." Lulu whispers, eyes wide. Isaiah throws his head back and laughs--the full-belly, baby laugh that he still hasn't outgrown. I can't help but laugh myself. I make the two of them apologize to each other, and I send Lulu to fetch their study notes.

Isaiah has always been easy-going and good at following directions, so I have no trouble drilling him on his spelling words. Once I am confident he will remember that "little" has two "t"s, and "weather" has an "e-a," not just an "e," I send him to the boys room to look over the remainder of his work on his own. My sister's material proves to be a bit more difficult than simple spelling words.

"We're learning about long division and multiplication," Lulu tells me. She hands me a white sheet of paper filled with numbers. I sigh. Despite my limited skills in mathematics, I can tell that Lulu doesn't quite understand the concepts she will be tested on. Lulu's education has been a concern in my family for years. Last year, her school had informed us that she would have to repeat the third grade. It had taken a great deal of convincing (and a great deal of explaining about our family's "situation") from my mother to alter that decision. She'd promised that she would work closely with Lulu to make sure she wouldn't fall behind.

I reflect on the memory bitterly. That was a promise that Mama ought to have known she wouldn't be able to keep.

After fifteen minutes of struggling through a single math problem, Lulu looks up from her work, tears in her eyes. I open my mouth to speak words of reassurance, but she flings her pencil across the room. It collides, lead-side-first, with the wall opposite us--the one decorated with all Lulu's artwork. The pencil leaves a dark gray streak as it clatters to the floor.

"I can't do this!" Lulu cries. She swipes her hand across the bed, knocking the math paper to the ground. "I'm stupid!"

My heart sinks inside of me, devastated at those words. I reach my arms out and pull her close. She struggles for a moment--the "big girl" inside of her fighting against the little. Finally, she relaxes in my arms, weeping. I press my lips on her forehead.

"You are not stupid. Look." I point my finger at the dozens of drawings and paintings taped to our walls, each one a Lulu Bailey original. "A stupid person would never be able to make such pretty pictures." I squeeze her even tighter, wishing my embrace could hold her together.

"Is Lulu sad?" I look up. Isaiah is at the door, unsure of whether or not he should enter.

I smile at him, encouragingly. "I think she just needs some love, Isaiah."

Isaiah grins and scurries across the old, blue carpet to join us on the bed. Together, we hold Lulu as her sobs quiet.

Chapter II of II

My alarm sounds at 6:00 a.m. My eyes open slowly, foggy brain still registering that it is time to wake up. I reach toward my windowsill where my phone sits. Silencing the alarm, I blink. My bedroom is still dark, and I am tempted to curl back under my old, but warm, comforter and rest for a few more moments. I barely slept last night.

By the times the studying fiasco had ended, it had been nearly 10:15 p.m. Lulu had insisted on sleeping in bed with me--something that was not out of the ordinary--and Isaiah had also wanted to join. It had taken another thirty minutes to get their teeth brushed and their pajamas on. I had placed Lulu and Isaiah on opposite sides of the bed and inserted myself between them to ward off any possibility of bickering. By that time, little Bernie had awoken and wandered into the room, his big eyes still half-full of sleep. Without a word, my little two-year-old brother had crawled into my bed and under the covers, right on top of me. His warm breath had drifted up my nose all night. As I struggled to fall asleep, I'd heard my mother's car pulling out of the driveway: on her way to work.

I force myself to sit up. Squinting in the darkness, I attempt to maneuver my way out of the bed without waking any of the children. Bernie wiggles a bit as I climb out from under him, but he stays sounds asleep.

I reached into the closet I share with Lulu for one of the outfits that I rotate for work: skinny, black dress pants and an intricately knit, gray wool sweater. I brush my hair into a high ponytail and secure it with two thick elastic bands. I know the style will result in a splitting headache by the end of the day, but I don't have time to utilize a curling or straightening iron this morning. After brushing my teeth, swiping a deodorant stick under my arms, and applying a thin line of eyeliner and lip gloss, my look is complete.

At 6:15, I stand amidst the heaps of dirty laundry in my mother's room, in front of the only full length mirror we own. Presentable enough, I think. It is impossible to disguise the bags under my eyes, but I hope that they will disappear by the time I have made it to work. I take a deep breath and blow out through my lips. Brrrrrrrr. Time to wake the little beasts.

I turn on the light inside my and Lulu's room. Bernie and Lulu begin to whine.

So it begins.

The school bus picks Michael up at 7:00 a.m. I nearly push him out the door when he decides to spend three minutes tying his shoe laces. At least he is wearing a shirt. I shove a few singles into his hand for hot lunch as he steps outside. "Sorry," I say. "I didn't have time to make lunch."

The minutes between 7:30 a.m. and 8:00 a.m. are the most stressful part of every Friday morning for me. I rush to make sure that everyone--Lulu, Isaiah, and Bernie--is wearing a fresh sets of clothes. I smell everyone's armpits and check the collar and wrists of everyone's shirt to make sure none of them have retrieved a snot-crusted outfit from one of the dirty laundry piles. I feed everyone a small bowl of cereal, making sure to remember that Isaiah will only drink almond milk. By the time my little siblings have finished eating, I am yelling.

"Lulu, get upstairs and brush your teeth! Bernie, stop playing with your spoon! Isaiah, where did your shirt go?!" Isaiah sits upright and bare chested in his chair, grinning.

"You're so mean to us all the time!" Lulu accuses, shuffling her feet as she heads to the bathroom. I fight back a pocket of rage as she worms her way out of the kitchen. That little....

Splash!

A half-finished bowl of cereal topples to the ground as Isaiah hops out of his seat. Almond milk splatters everywhere. The floor, the walls, the chair. Everywhere. "I'm so sorry, 'Nessa!" Isaiah gasps.

I stare at the mess, watching the puddle of milk spread across the tile, pooling around the garbage can and soaking the trash that still sits on the floor from last night. I grit my teeth. "Out," I say. "Get. Out." Isaiah races from room.

I rip a wad of paper towels from the roll on the counter and toss them to the ground. I'm not angry with Isaiah, but I don't want to lose my temper in front of him. Slowly, shakily, I kneel down and pick up a sopping clump of paper towels to toss in the garbage. The soggy wad slips off the top of the overflowing garbage pile, and falls back to the ground with a splat!

A string of robust, colorful words escapes my lips.

A few minutes later, Lulu and Isaiah leave on their own school bus. I make sure to give Lulu enough cash for both of their lunches. I leave the almond milk mess in the kitchen to become one with the grout and pack Bernie into the backseat of my car, buckling him tightly in his carseat. It will be a ten minute drive to my grandmother's house to drop him off, five minutes to unload him and get him settled, and another fifteen minutes to get to the spa where I work as a receptionist. I'm expected to be there at 8:15 a.m.--no later. Days like today are always a close call.

Halfway to my grandmother's house, Bernie begins to cry. "Where is Puppie?" I groan and realize that I have accidentally left his favorite stuffed animal at home. I can picture in my mind exactly where I've left the stupid thing: sitting upright on the living room couch.

"'Nessa's sorry, baby, but I forgot Puppie." I say, sweetly, peeking in the rearview mirror. Upon hearing this, Bernie begins to cry even harder. By the time I reach my grandmother's house, he has entered full-blown tantrum mode. I struggle to unbuckle him from his carseat and grimace as his tiny, sneaker clad feet kick into my abdomen over and over.

"I want Puppie! I want Puppie!" he screams.

My grandmother is standing at the top of her front steps, watching the show. "What did you do to him?" she asks. It could have been funny, but it wasn't; not with that judgmental, patronizing tone she is so fond of using.

Completely exasperated, I yell over Bernie's tantrum. "For the love of God! Can you just HELP me?!"

My grandmother gasps at my tone, but she makes her way down the stairs and plucks Bernie out of my arms, whisking his thrashing form away. I know she will be waiting at her front door for my mother to pick him up, ready to tattle on me as if she is a spoiled child.

By 8:14 a.m., I have made it to the spa. I notice one of the esthetician's cars already sitting on the far right end of the parking lot. I park my car next to hers and drag myself across the newly-paved concrete. I am dreading entering the building. The receptionist is expected to arrive before the rest of the employees. I push the front door open and, to my great surprise, I am greeted by a middle-aged woman, grinning from ear to ear at the sight of me.

"Ah! Vanessa, you're here!" Naomi, one of the spa's oldest employees, wraps me in a bear hug.

With half of my body still outside in the cold, I waddle in a half-circle, still wrapped in her arms, but moving away from the door. "Hi, Naomi," I say. "Sorry if I'm late--."

"Oh, no," Namoi interrupts. "I got here early on purpose. I just got back from vacation, and I never got to give you your Christmas present!" She grabs my hand and half-pulls, half-drags me to the receptionist desk where a bright red gift bag sits, sparkly tissue paper spilling over its edges. "Here." She hands me the bag. "I have a client coming early, but I want to see you open it."

Finally catching my breath, I smile politely and accept the gift. Reaching inside the bag, past the layers of tissue paper, I grip something solid and cold. I pull my hand out of the bag and freeze at what I see.

"My husband thought it was the oddest little thing," Naomi chuckles. "But it made me think of you."

I don't speak. In my hand is a small figurine of a woman. She is tall and strong looking, with defined arms and muscular legs. Clad in armor and chainmail, she wields a sword in her right hand, poised up and ready to fight. The expression on the woman's face is fierce; it sees to say, "Come at me, if you dare!"

I am still stunned when Naomi speaks again. "I've always felt like you're a bit of a warrior, Miss Vanessa."

All of a sudden, as if those words had unlocked some secret crypt within me, my eyes fill up with tears, and I begin to weep. Truly, truly weep.

I think of all the times I have sat alone in my car, parked, just to get a moment of peace. I think of the long hours I work at this spa, day in and day out, still feeling like I will never make enough. I think of the paycheck that I will receive at the end of the day--how much of that money I will have to give my mother to pay for my family's electricity and water bill. I think of my father, who left us. I think of all the meals I have cooked for my siblings while my mother works from shift to shift. I think of the dirty laundry that litters the floor of my home because no one has the time to wash it. I think of how my fourteen-year-old brother obeys me as if I am his parent. I think of how, last night, little Bernie instinctively ran to my room, rather than my mother's. I think of Lulu's trouble with learning, and Isaiah's tenderness toward her. I think of the expectations my grandmother puts on me as the oldest daughter of my mother. I think of all the time, and energy, and opportunities I have given up so my family can stay afloat. I think of how I am angry at my mother, even thought it is not her fault. I think of that stupid, stupid garbage on the floor of our kitchen. And I think of the resounding sound in my head that has screamed over and over again: "This is supposed to be someone else's job!"

I allow Naomi to pull me into her arms the same way I held Lulu the night before. I allow myself rest in her embrace.

"What is it, honey?" she asks, in a voice that says she knows, even though I have never told anyone. But, it doesn't matter that Naomi does not know my full story. It doesn't matter that she doesn't know all the thoughts and memories racing through my head. Why? Because, in this moment, I am seen. In this moment, though it may just be a moment, someone has acknowledged me for who I am.

It takes a minute or two for me to swallow my tears. Finally, I speak. I squeeze Naomi back and I say, "I am a warrior."