“Mommy-Mommy-Mommy-Mommy-Mommy!” The shouts got steadily louder, accompanied by what seemed like an elephant pounding along the second floor hallway and down the stairs. It was amazing that a six-year-old could make quite so much noise.
Greer took a deep breath, trying to keep her temper. The kitchen table was littered with receipts and she felt as if they were all ganging up on her, trying deliberately to bamboozle her into making another calculation mistake and needing to start all over again.
“Mommy!” Rebecca stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“I think they heard you in China.” Greer sighed and took off her reading glasses. They made her head ache. “What is it?”
“If you heard me, why didn’t you answer?” Becca shifted her weight to one leg and tapped the other foot. Greer fought down a laugh; it was a gesture her daughter must have picked up from her, and it looked precociously adorable. But Becca hated being laughed at and saw herself as a very grown-up little girl. Greer remembered, vaguely, that she too hadn’t liked the feeling of being just a kid and therefore unworthy of being taken seriously.
“Because I’m working on taxes and I need to concentrate. If you needed me, I knew you’d come down here and talk to me like a civilized person instead of shouting all over the house. And I was right, wasn’t I?”
Rebecca dropped the pose and took the chair opposite her mother. “I dreamed about Daddy.”
“Oh, Becca… Was it a nice dream?”
“No. But Daddy was in it. So it wasn’t only bad.”
“Was Daddy nice?”
“Yes. He hugged me.”
Greer played with a pen, needing something in her hands to stop her from reaching out to Becca, because she didn’t like being touched unless she initiated it. The therapist said that children could develop these kinds of aversions, and Greer knew she needed to respect her daughter’s boundaries, but it was so hard, sometimes, not to be able to hug her whenever she wanted and smell her usually messy hair and remember how once there had been another smell beside it that belonged to the body hugging the girl from the other side and making a Becca-sandwich.
“Can I help?” Becca asked, picking up a long, half rolled grocery receipt and pulling it tightly around her finger.
“Thanks, but no. Why don’t you bring your spelling book in here, though?”
Greer didn’t believe in heaven, so she looked at the chair that he’d sat in during dinner every night and spoke to it instead of looking up. “I hope you can see her. She’s only six and she wants to help me do my taxes. I really hope you can see her right now. You’d love her more than ever.”
One thought on “Talking to a Chair”
I really like the way you’ve done this one. I love the details, and the scene you’ve created between the two (three) of them. Hard subject. =[