Here I am, curled in a ball. Snot is in various places on my body and the bed. She is rubbing my back between my shoulder blades. She is saying "it's okay." My legs are jerking. One has a quick, stilted shudder. The other swirls, as if riding an invisible bike. I haven't thought about this in years. I feel like I am going to vomit.
He was my mother's boyfriend. His name was Bob. He taught me how to draw and introduced me to the Three Stooges. He once made my mom really angry, I remember, when he brought home a carton of mushrooms, of which my mom is allergic. He said, "You don't have to eat them." She didn't want them in her house, and she was very particular about this. They screamed at each other about this in the kitchen while I sat at the table. The big mushroom fight. Looking back, I wonder what they were fighting about.
She says, "Don't worry baby. I'm in my pajamas, so it's okay if you throw up."
I remember other things. Not many. I remember that my dog ran away. I remember a yellow upholstered stool that I used to climb onto so that I could achieve a higher vantage when the grown-ups were in the kitchen. I remember the royal blue shag carpet in my bedroom. I remember hiding in my toy chest. I would crouch down and stay there until someone noticed I was gone and started looking for me. I remember hiding in that toy chest for very long periods of time and eventually crawling out by myself. I would run into the living room, where my mom and Bob would be on the couch, and I would shout, "Here I am!" I don't say this to sound like I was a victim of neglect. I don't know why I say this. It's just a memory. One of a few from that age.
I am on the bed, in a ball, and I keep saying that I'm sorry. I don't know why. Neither does she. I just keep saying it. I flinch when she touches my shoulders. "It's okay," she says. I flinch.
I have one funny story from back then. I was five, or maybe four. I only remember bits of it, and it's one of those you-had-to-be-there stories, so you might not find it very funny at all. My mom was at work, and my brother must have been at school. I suppose I was too young for school yet, so I was probably four. I was sitting on Bob's lap and we were watching black and white TV. I remember that image, anyway. Sitting on his lap, black and white TV. I don't remember the whole setup. I remember that his face was always stubbly. I remember how that sandpaper skin felt on my cheek. I remember how that sandpaper skin felt on my neck. I remember that his hand was almost the size of my entire back. His breath was warm and stale and smoky. I remember trying to bury my body, head first, as deep into the couch as possible. I remember trying to sink and disappear between the couch cushions. His monster hand rubbed my back, and his breath was warm and stale and smoky. "It's okay," he said. The punchline. "It's okay."
I am sobbing on the bed. I am in my mid-twenties and I feel like I am five, maybe four. There is a distinct feeling of childhood. It can't be described. I am telling her to stop rubbing my back, but it is such a natural reflex when trying to comfort. She holds me tight, trying to stop the shaking. I am repeating my apologies. She says it's okay. I mostly believe her.
When I was seventeen, my mom confessed that Bob sold the dog. It never did run away. I like cats anyway.
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