Muscular Dystrophy Of The Mind

Mama came to visit after Daddy took us away.

I remember the day.

Mama pulled up in a dirty white car. Daddy told us we had to talk to her through the window.

He told me many times that Mama was sick.

We didn’t talk about it much.

It was something Daddy kept reminding me of.

She has muscular dystrophy of the mind.

She loves you.

She doesn’t know how to take care of you.

My grandpa Durham had it too.

The disease crept into his legs.

He lived in a wheelchair.

Daddy spray-painted Mama’s car with gigantic blue letters.

The paint bubbled and ran down the door.

B’B’B’B.

Lips pressed.

Air popping free.

My older brother sounded out the rest.

Daddy kept his hand on my shoulder.

He wasn’t holding me back.

He was keeping me in place.

“Your mama can’t get out of the car.”

I stood with my butt against the black screen door, propping it open past Daddy.

There was a small tear in the screen covered with duct tape.

The edges had started to roll away.

I thought the tape should be placed on both sides so you didn’t have to look at the hole.

The door creaked as I rocked on my tiptoes.

My fingernails had been chewed into the quick.

They fiddled with the bent metal latch on the wall.

The screen door never shut fully.

I was always in trouble for slamming it and hearing it ricochet wide open, letting the bugs in.

I loved the lightning bugs.

Every now and then one slipped inside and entertained me at night.

It was warm outside.

The air felt slouchy and wet.

I was excited for Mama to see me.

I wore little jean shorts with a purple lilac stitched onto the pocket.

A neighbor gave them to me.

I was a sliver of a girl—tall and lanky.

The shorts belonged to a seven-year-old.

I was only four.

They made me feel bigger.

My feet were bare.

I stood in the doorway with a chunk of hair in my mouth.

I chewed on it like a puppy needing comfort.

I had been doing it all day.

A few strands had turned crisp in the sun.

Daddy pulled the hair from my mouth.

I watched Mama pull into the driveway.

Bubbles in my belly floated up into my throat.

“Mama!”

I slipped away from Daddy as the screen door hit him gently.

He wasn’t really trying to hold on.

But I could tell he didn’t want to let me go.

I ran as fast as I could.

I was a fast runner.

I ran to the car.

Mama opened the door, but her legs stayed still.

A Dr Pepper bottle, a gum wrapper, and loose tissues were scattered near her feet.

Mama’s skin was stretched tight.

Her eyes were dark.

I loved Mama’s hands.

She wrapped her arms around me and held me in place.

Mama smelled sharp like lemon and sweet like summer tea.

The top half of her body folded over me.

She squeezed me so hard the bones of her cheek glued to mine.

I can still feel her.

I thought maybe the sickness had slid down from her head into her legs.

Maybe she couldn’t get out because she needed a wheelchair like Grandpa Durham.

“Here, honey,” Mama said.

“I have these beautiful books for you to look through.

You’re going to school soon and will be able to read them.”

Soon was right around the corner.

“They are very special books.”

I loved books.

I owned one.

A small Golden Book.

Thick cardboard pages.

A Yogi Bear and Boo Boo adventure.

I flipped the pages over and over.

They opened with a heavy thud.

The books Mama held were different.

Soft pages.

Delicate.

Like Daddy’s parts manual—but edged in gold like a Bible.

I studied them with my eyes before reaching out my hands.

The pages felt gentle and slippery.

Not stiff like mine.

I wanted to run back inside.

My hands were filthy.

My nails were black with dirt.

I didn’t want to ruin the books.

Mama began to explain in the sweetest voice.

I could tell she tasted the words in her mouth before letting them go.

She was proud to be giving them to me.

“These stories are about a new earth.

A place we will inhabit.

Jesus will be with the children.

The lion will lie down with the lamb.

There will be peace on earth.”

I held the books.

Something inside me shook.

I heard NO.

Clear.

A voice.

My stomach turned hollow and heavy.

A knot tightened inside my belly.

The books looked peaceful.

The gold edges shimmered in the sunlight.

White Jesus was on the cover.

His skin was milky like my Jackie’s.

Jackie used Pond’s Cold Cream every night and Rose Milk lotion on her arms.

I bet White Jesus did the same.

On the cover, white families worked in perfect green fields.

Everything was perfect.

Mama was part Chickasaw.

Her dark hair was wiry and unbrushed.

She didn’t look like the children with Jesus.

The grass in the picture glowed like a brand-new crayon.

Mama said we would all live there someday.

I didn’t know where there was.

Everyone in the picture had straight white teeth and soft hair.

My hair curled wild like Daddy’s.

Jackie had taught me how important skin care was.

Wash with lukewarm water.

Rinse.

Pat dry.

I never knew how to get the water right.

I never asked about Luke as a temperature.

I looked back at the stack of perfect books.

Then I looked at Mama.

She was trying to smile while watching Daddy.

Her mouth twisted both directions at once—

a smile pulling up,

a frown pulling down.

Daddy stepped out onto the porch.

I handed the books back.

A small pocket of air escaped from the back of Mama’s throat.

The knot in my belly began to move.

“I don’t believe this.”

The words burned my throat as they came out.

The bubble in my belly burst into the air.

Mama took the books and set them beside her between the seats.

The emergency brake was blue with a silver push button.

Daddy took two giant steps toward me.

His eyes pulled me away from Mama.

Both corners of Mama’s mouth slid down slowly.

I took one small step back.

Her door closed gently.

Barely a click.

Mama drove away.