"Russian Dolls"

“Amelia, I did a very bad thing,” she says with sudden tears in her eyes.



“Samantha, let’s keep it down,” Mr. McGee says to the child who is my mother.


“I chewed gum,” she whispers loudly in my ear. In her breath is a storm of alcohol and bubble gum.


“I know.” Mr. McGee and I look over her head at each other.


“The thing is…” she is thinking so hard she neglects to notice that Mr. McGee is gingerly removing the bottle from her hand. “The thing is… it hurts my jaw a lot. Do you want my gum, Amelia?”


“No, mom, I don’t want your gum.” Mr. McGee puts my mother on the bed and we both tuck the covers over her.


“Vinny?” She holds a wad of chewed gum up to Mr. McGee’s face.


“Sure.” He takes the gum and wraps it in a scrap piece of paper on her night table.


“You need to bury my gum.” She sniffles and grabs Mr. McGee’s hands. “Promise me, you’ll bury my gum. All of it!” Her eyes fall on me. “Amelia, I think you’re old enough now to walk across the street. I think your father would agree with me, too. Don’t you think so, sweetie?”


“Yeah,” I say, amazed that any intelligible word comes out at all. It is the first time since After that my mother is choosing to talk about my father. A thought boomerangs to my heart: if this is what alcohol does to mom, let her keep drinking!


“Good, because I could definitely use a cigarette,” she whispers to me again, covering her mouth from Vinny. “I know your father will kill me, but, he can’t anyway because he’s already dead!” She cackles out this last part and then slaps both hands against her mouth—two China-doll hands manicured with ballet slippers nail polish.


I do not realize I’m crying until the room starts to go blurry and Mr. McGee touches my shoulder. “She’s drunk. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.” He is guiding me out of the bedroom as my mother’s cries mount.


“Wait for me in the kitchen. We’ll talk.” He winks at me and I understand why my (sober) mother welcomed Mr. McGee into our lives.


“Amelia Bedilia, please, come back, don’t run away from me! Oh, she hates me Vinny, I know she hates me!”


When I turn around she is looking at me like I am the Messiah so I come to her bed. She rests her hands on my face and stares at me. “I’m so sorry, Amelia.” She pulls me to her and I am struck by the intensity such a small person can hug. “You must know how sorry I am, sweetheart.” She is rocking me back and forth and I am not sure if she is talking to me or herself.


“Do you hate me, Amelia?” I am too confused to find words and the rocking suddenly stops. She yanks me off of her chest and pierces me with another stare. “Amelia, please, I want to know the truth. Do you hate me?”


Hate is too permanent a word for what I feel for my Russian-doll of a mother. Besides, there is that gossamer yet unbreakable hope that permanently resides inside of me: that the mother I once knew will emerge from her plastic shell.


Drunk, the Russian-doll is now revealing all of her layers. Tomorrow morning she will most likely be donning her usual, plastic-doll veneer, pretending that her Manischewtiz love-affair was a mere figment of my imagination. The moment for honesty was now or never.


“No. I don’t trust you.”


“You still think I ended your father’s life, don’t you?” She is squeezing my hands so hard I’m beginning to lose feeling.


“OK girls, let’s call it a night—”


“Vinny, stop, I need—”


“Why don’t you want me to see Grandma Ruth? Why didn’t you tell me you hated her?” I choke out and yank my hands away from her grip. I do not know why I am changing the subject but it has something to do with the sudden hammering in my chest.


“Please, just get out! I want you both out of here, now!” She cries and throws the blanket up over her head.


I am dizzy with something I can’t name as I make my way out of the drunk’s bedroom. When I close the door behind me we can hear my mother thrashing under the covers and yelling “I’m a murderer! Just so we have that straight! I’m a murderer!”


Vinny’s already droopy eyes are heavy with unshed tears. “I’ll be right back, Shorty,” he whispers and closes her bedroom door softly behind him.


I make my way to the kitchen table and sit down. On the counter is mom’s purse, packets of gum glimmering from the porch light. When I cry it is a throttled sound. It is a frightening thing to let out sadness when there is my mother consumed by it in the next room.