Red Paint, Patsy and a Dream

Sometimes I wonder why my mind goes where it goes--why it chooses to linger on thoughts I had believed were long since abandoned, memories long since forgotten.

I see a splash of red paint and I am instantly transported back to the darkened corridor of ramshackle housing, the smell of paint, the chattering of well-intentioned teenagers believing anything, anyone could change. Naively believing that a coat of paint could fill stomachs, erase pain, cure long-battled addictions, raise the dead. There would never be enough coats.

A week later the mission group returned to Cabrini Green only to find the newly painted walls streaked with angry red expletives. What did we expect? A crew of angels welcoming us with pastries and fresh fruit? Doors slammed and heads shook. Stupid kids.

We painted again. And again. Until we finally figured out that we would never be able to cover the red. Or raise the dead.

"Worry, why do I let myself worry, wondrin, what in the world did I do," Pasty croons on the radio. In a rare moment, I am alone. It is just this past weekend that I am driving to meet my sisters for lunch as the song plays from a crackling oldies AM station. But as Patsy sings, I am back in my mother's kitchen. Her back turned, she faces the sink as my eyes focus on the back of her legs, the gentle shift from one foot to the other as Patsy Cline fills the room in my mother's voice. I sit, towel in hand. Waiting.

Old songs always pull me back into the kitchen, my feet firmly planted on peeling linoleum, my hands holding a chipped A & P "collectible" (free with purchase) plate, rubbing a damp towel on its surface. I'm always there. Waiting.

"And I'm crazy for lovin' you."

Last night, I was in bed. I was desperate to find a soft place for my expanding belly to rest. Left side. Right side. Propped up. Hugging a pillow between my legs. Being spooned. Spooning.

Nothing worked. She must have had something on her mind. She didn't want to sleep last night.

Before the sun drifted atop the trees and seeped through my thin shades, I drifted off into a desperate sleep.

"You're beautiful," came his muffled words as his steamy breath curled around my ear and his hands pulled back loose strands of my hair.

He spoke words I craved. His words shaped me that night. Made me think that maybe I was, even for a moment. After all, he would know. He was a man. A real flesh and blood man, with stubble covering his face, a pack of cigarettes in his pocket and a driver's license in a wallet. What more did you need?

His lips barely touched mine. His fingers gently tapping the bottom of my chin and then tracing the curve of my neck. He knew what to do. He knew where to go. He pulled me closer to him, lifting me over the armrest and into his lap. I closed my eyes and pretended to know what I was doing.

I was afraid if I breathed that he might disappear.

I shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here.

But he was. I was. Nothing else mattered. Except that my foot was wedged between the seat and the gear shift. My foot throbbed. But at that moment it could have come off, ran away with my other foot and I wouldn't have cared.

My A-cups, my pimply skin, my unruly hair--this body was so hungry. For what, it didn't know. Yet.

However, he knew. He had fed before. Many, many times. I was one of many special girls. I was about to become really special . . .

"I can give you . . . " his voice trailed off as his hands began to move. Slowly. Knowing. Expecting.

Invading. I opened my eyes. My imagination darkened. Reality became the old sentry.

My eyes narrowed. My throat, dry. My voice, caught.

"Let go, little girl." Did he speak it? Did I? I didn't know.

My shoulders lifted, my back arched. Blood. My lip. I was biting it.

I'm afraid.

"I don't think I should . . . " the words came in a small voice, weak, confused and pleading.

"No, you should. It will feel . . . " said the man to the little girl.

No.

No.

Not. Yet.

I open my eyes. I push the pillow aside and kick down the covers as my hazy gaze follows the shadows moving on the ceiling. It is morning. I'm in my bed. Not in an battered Chevy.

I am calm, though my breath comes quick and heavy. It is a dream that won't go away. It will stay, waiting, whispering like the memory that it is.

My hands move over my belly.

No. Baby girl. No.

Not yet.

For now, she is safe.

For now.

Sometimes I wonder why my mind goes where it goes . . . and then, I hear the squeal of my baby boy as he calls for his mama and I feel the gentle swell of my belly.

And I know exactly why.