It was when Cassie started to feel violent that she began to truly worry.
She was not naturally a high-strung person, because there were no massive gaps between her perceived potential and her actual life. Unlike Rachel, Cassie was destined for a life of moderate success, enjoyable motherhood and a ripe and treasured old age.
Unfortunately – inevitably – the modern world had intervened, and taunted her happy instincts into battle with inflicted propaganda. Her instincts were to raise a happy family and use her kindness to buffer the jagged edges of her local community – so setting her at war against herself turns the promise of an illusory heaven into a deep and present hell.
Cassie had been raised strictly, but not brutally. She had been spanked a handful of times, and received stern lectures from her father – and more high-strung diatribes from her mother – and had sailed through government schools on the magic carpet of near-invisibility. In grade 7, Cassie had wandered the halls trying to find kids to sign her yearbook, and having to constantly remind them how to spell her name – because she was frightened that they might not know her name at all. To be the sibling of a pretty sister is eternally to be the “other one,” pursued (if at all) as a mere means to an end, which was proximity to Rachel and her friends.
Witnessing Rachel’s eternal discontent was horribly instructive to Cassie – especially in their teenage years. Cassie’s shaky house was built on a deep foundation of common sense – perhaps founded on her close contact with her mother after being born – but also, since she was physically plain and largely forgettable, ideologues did not invest too much into programming her. It was far better to focus on Rachel, since pretty girls so often pull the beliefs of boys behind them, as they are pursued.
So, Cassie escaped into adulthood relatively unharmed – and much loved by her boyfriend Ian. Ian was the son of a single mother – and, due to a lack of masculine imprinting, had taken the risk of inventing manhood largely on his own. This made him flexible – sometimes too much, Cassie thought.
As a husband, Ian had offered little resistance when Cassie bowed to the demands of ideology and the needs of strangers, and put their son Ben into a daycare. Like most men, he was trained to be “supportive,” which generally meant being agreeable – and thus failing to use his masculine instincts to protect the future of his family. Appease today, lose tomorrow…
It was in the early morning hours that Cassie felt the most – unstable, or volatile.
Like my son, she thought.
On the weekends, Ben slept in, and woke up snuggly and cuddly and warm and – a little clingy, but Cassie knew that she would miss that phase enormously in the colder years to come.
Cassie was pretty sure that her son did not understand the days of the week, but he had some instinct for the passage of time – and on weekdays, he usually woke up crying. Like most mothers, Cassie had fantasized about motherhood since she was little. She imagined comforting a crying toddler until his breathing slowed and he fell asleep on her chest, his fist gripping her thumb.
Having a child who simply could not be comforted was not something she had ever imagined. On weekdays, Ben woke up crying, and continued to cry – and continued to escalate. The tipping point between his tears and his rage was sharp and ragged, like the bloody gouge of a shark-bite.
On weekdays, Cassie would spend at least half an hour in the early morning trying to sooth Ben, but his upset and aggression stalked them both, and she got lost in the battle, lost in despair – despair which she valiantly fought, or at least postponed – until… To her eternal shame, Cassie secretly breathed a sigh of relief when dropping him at the daycare, and driving off to – and she could hardly believe this thought – the relative peace and quiet of the hospital ER.
This particular dawn, lying in the slightly un-darkening dark, Cassie found herself unwilling to get out of bed. She knew there was no getting back to sleep, because she was waiting for the aggrieved wailing that signalled that Ben had woken up.
Cassie found that she was able to summon deep wells of self-pity when she compared her life goals with how it was all turning out. Not only had her son grown sour and angry, but her husband had – well, it was hard to say… Ian had changed – always a challenge in a long-term relationship – and in some ways the worst part of his change was that some of it was enormously – and guiltily – welcome. Deep down, Cassie loved Ian’s new assertiveness – at the surface, though, where the programming static was, she felt nothing but stressed resistance.
A thin wail suddenly floated through the air, and Cassie’s belly muscles tightened, as if to protect the unborn. She glanced over at Ian’s sleeping head – he wore eye patches at night – “dual pirate eyes” he called them, so that he could get more sleep as the room brightened.
Cassie guarded her husband’s rest. He was doing very well at work, and had brought home a tasty bonus – though it always felt like table-scraps after taxes and deductions. One part of Cassie loved Ian being more assertive in the world, while another resented him for being more assertive at home.
All these damn package deals, she thought – knowing that she was avoiding her son’s wailing. The only way to deal with Ben was to take it all moment by moment – to never zoom out and see any kind of big picture. Cassie knew that Ian was trying to wrench her away from her microscopic, micro-moment view – she resisted this, but knew that her resistance was fading.
She had also tried to avoid describing her family problems to Rachel, because Cassie had always loved the picture of larger, child-piled family gatherings, and so had resolutely promoted the joys of family life, which made her feel hypocritical and manipulative.
Not inaccurately, she thought.
Ben’s cries began to escalate, and Cassie felt her body wrenching sideways and throwing back the covers. Responding to Ben was always an instinctual thing, like lactating when she heard a baby cry at the mall when he was a baby.
Cassie put on her slippers and bathrobe and padded down the hall to Ben’s room. He was lying face down with his butt in the air, sniffling sideways across his doubtlessly-wet teddy-bear pillow.
“Hey, Ben,” said Cassie in a slightly-forced singsong voice. “What’s up, buddy?”
“Tummy ache…” whined Ben.
Cassie felt an unwelcome flash of anger. She hated doubting her son’s endless physical ailments, but nothing ever came of them – and the few times she had stayed home to take care of him, he had plenty of energy for playing…
“Sorry to hear that, when did it start?”
“In the dark,” he said.
“That’s tough, you should have come to wake me.”
“I was stuck…”
Cassie started to sigh, then widened her mouth so it would not be quite so audible. “Well, get up, let’s have some breakfast, see how you feel…”
Sniff. “Don’t wanna move…”
“Do you want me to carry you?”
“Can’t get up…”
“Did anything happen at – daycare yesterday?”
Ben did not answer. Cassie chided herself for asking a question too advanced for him.
“Well, honey, we’ve got to get our day started, how can I help?”
Silence, sniffles.
Cassie glanced at her smartwatch. Her heart rate was increasing, and time was marching on…
Cassie and Ian had committed to no yelling, no name-calling, no corporal punishment – but it was at moments like this that the temptation to escalate – to parent as she herself had been parented – was almost overwhelming. Without aggression, getting your kids to do anything felt like trying to coach a hysterical squirrel to eat vegetables out of your hand.
The inevitable voice whispered in her ear:
Just once, just grab him and yell at him and make him do what has to be done! Come on, it only has to be once – then he will understand and obey foreverrr… Otherwise you’re gonna spend the next fifteen years forever losing this stupid battle of words – trying to cajole him into doing stuff he can always say ‘no’ to… You, my dear, have an entire life to live – kiddo there just has one goal: to get his way in his little universe… It’s no contest, you can’t ever win with words – just MAKE HIM!
Cassie knew it was her mother’s voice – combined with her own frustrations of course – but that did not make it any less seductive.
Cassie leaned down and tried to pick up her son. Ben screamed and twisted away.
“Owwww!”
“I barely touched you!”
“It hurrrts!”
Cassie took a deep breath, and tried to avoid the bottomless well of self-pity characterized by the phrase: Every single damn morning…
She knew that Ian desperately needed his extra half hour of sleep – but she also knew that the fragile dominoes of her day would collapse into chaos if Ben ended up late for daycare. She stood in the dark, biting at her cuticle.
“Ben, do you want to see the doctor?”
He shook his head violently.
“But if it’s that bad - that you can’t even be touched - I can bring you to work, and you can see Doctor Hampstead – you know, Dr Hamster. We can bring you some toys to play with, for the waiting room…”
“Nooo…” whined Ben. “Just stay home…”
Cassie sat heavily on the bed. “Ben, you know mommy has to go to work – there are sick people who need me.”
“I’m sick!” said Ben immediately.
“I know, honey, but you might feel a whole lot better if you get up…”
There was a pause.
Cassie could almost hear the electrical whirring of Ben’s brain as he processed his various powers and possibilities.
If I say I’m really sick, I go to the hospital – scary and boring. If I get up, I go to daycare – scary and boring… If I get mom to stay home, I have to act sick all day – boring. And she will spent most of the day on her phone anyway – but I will get out of daycare… A tummy-ache is perfect, because you can’t check for it, and it’s bad enough to stay home, unlike a headache, I’ll never try that one again…
Cassie’s voice hardened. “Ben, what do you want to do?”
He whispered: “Please stay home, mommy…”
His words hit her directly in the heart. It was such a simple statement.
What came next was even worse.
“I’ll be good all day, I promise…”
Cassie sucked in her breath, and the roots of her incisors ached. Yeah, yeah, I know I’ve got to get to the dentist…
Her voice wobbled. “I can’t today, honey, wish I could…”
“Cassie?” Ian’s voice startled her from the dark doorway. “What’s going on?”
She felt annoyed at the question, at the implication that everything was her fault.
She turned. “Ben says he’s got a stomach-ache…”
Yawning, Ian stepped forward and sat on his son’s bed. “Hey, kid, roll over, let’s see…”
Ben immediately did as he was told – enragingly, to Cassie – and Ian held his right hand high over his son’s belly like a dangling fleshy spider.
“I’m gonna check, real gentle…”
Ian’s fingertips wriggled madly as his hand descended.
Getting the game, Ben stifled a snigger.
“Now, this is a very serious hand spider, very medical, much doctor…”
Ian’s fingers wriggled even more as his hand lowered.
Ben giggled aloud.
“No laughing!” cried Ian in mock sternness. “Does it hurt – here?”
His hand buried itself in Ben’s side, fingers digging madly.
Ben screamed with laughter.
“Maybe – this side?”
More screams of laughter.
“All the best doctors – tickle out the owies!”
Cassie jumped up and away as the mad horseplay careened around the bed.
Ben’s little hands tried to fasten on Ian’s knee, knowing that that was his vulnerable tickle spot.
“No, Ben, no!” cried Ian. “Tickling only goes one way, only one way! Arrrgh!”
Laughing hysterically, Ben wrapped his arms around his father’s knee.
Enormously pleased – but still annoyed – Cassie left the room and walked downstairs to the kitchen.
Gathering bowls, spoons, milk and cereal, she smiled as she heard the hysterical cacophony from Ben’s bedroom. Apparently sharp-fingered missile strikes were now landing on her poor son.
So rough… thought Cassie with a chuckle.
She touched her belly, hoping once more that her newborn would be a girl, so that she would feel more included – because she often felt on the outside of the savage tribe of father and son.
After a few minutes, Ian walked in with a smiling Ben on his hip.
Cassie was about to say, all better? – but didn’t want to remind Ben of his imaginary ailment. The unfairness of Ben’s different reactions to mother and father – well, she was mostly past that. Mostly.
Next up on the parental stress marathon was the issue of milk and cereal. Ben would not eat anything else for breakfast, and always insisted on pouring his cereal himself – and woe betide anyone who interrupted his semi-OCD morning rituals.
Standing beside Ben’s chair, Ian lowered his son onto his booster-seat.
“Ben, we’re running late, buddy,” said Ian, reaching for the cereal. “How about you let me pour today?”
Ben’s lighthearted demeanour vanished immediately, snuffed by a sharpshooter of a darker self.
“Nooo!” he whined, grabbing. “I pour!”
“I can give you a cup to pour from…”
“No! Box!”
Cassie stood ready. After a moment, Ian opened the box and handed it over.
“Just – be careful, buddy…”
Sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth, Ben tipped over the cereal box. Most of it landed in his bowl – a few grains danced on the table and floor. Ben put the box down, then grabbed at the carton of milk. It tipped over from the top, crashing onto his bowl. Cereal shot into the air, landing on Ben’s face and chest. With a solid thunk, the carton splashed milk in thumping gushes over Ben’s rigid frame.
There was a shocked pause. Milk dripped everywhere. The wobbly rattle of the bowl spinning upside down on the floor slowed, then stopped.
Ian’s face was frozen.
“BEN!” shouted Cassie, her cheeks red. “Let us pour the damn cereal!”
Ben glared up at her, milk dripping from his thin eyebrows. He stuck out his lower lip, then leaned forward and swept his sturdy arms across the table, sending cups, mugs and cutlery scattering and crashing to the floor.
“Cassie!” hissed Ian. “Take a break!”
There was a fusillade of angry thumps on the wall, and a heavily accented neighbour’s voice could be heard demanding quiet.
It was a small townhome – the walls were tissue-thin…
Cassie refused to move. Her cheeks darkened even further. She suddenly whirled on Ian. “It’s all – playtime – you don’t do any discipline, you just tickle him and - throw him around!”
Ian took a deep breath, smoothing his pajama top. “So – it’s my fault?”
Ben started to clamber off his booster seat, caught his foot on the side, and plunged down onto the hard linoleum. His horrified parents saw him try to brace his fall with his hands, but his fingers skated on the wet milk, and they heard a sickening eggshell crack as his forehead hit the floor.
Silence.
Red blood spread in the white milk and cereal.
Cassie’s phone rang.
Ben covered his head with his hands and screamed.
The wall-banging and shouting resumed.
“Oh God – it’s good that he’s – screaming, right?” said Ian, his eyes wide.
“Call an ambulance!” shrieked Cassie. She grabbed her phone, saw it was Rachel, rejected the call with shaking fingers, and dialled 911.
Chapter 4:
https://freedomain.locals.com/post/3449391/the-present
