What did I know, what did I know

of love's austere and lonely offices?

-Robert Hayden, "Those Winter Sundays"

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Golden. That's how the sky looked that morning from between the gaps in the trees. Absolutely golden with an underlying blush of pink—like the skin of a sweet, ripe nectarine stretched across the heavens by a giant hand. The same hand, I imagined, that had scattered the trees across the valley like an army of black specters, arranging them around me, ever silent, ever watchful with their unseeing eyes and shadowed faces. I shivered and pulled my jacket closer to my body against the early morning chill. The image of a shriveled hand, its twisted veins the size of rivers, seemed to hang above my head, fingers open and waiting for me to slide into their grasp.

It's the hand of God, Lucy. I could hear my mother's voice as if she sat next to me. The hand of God watching over you.

Somehow all I ever heard now was my mother's voice. Even here in the forest, where I'd never seen another person but myself—in my sanctuary, of all things—she was there, speaking in my ear, advising me what to do and what not to do.

Be careful in the forest. She'd warned me before we'd even finished unpacking the moving boxes. There is nothing quite so dangerous as a forest—all those trees to hide behind.

Of course, mom, I'd assured her. I'm fifteen, not three. I'll be careful. I always am. Which wasn't quite a lie and wasn't quite the truth, but she could never tell otherwise. I had learned at an early age that my mother couldn't tell a lie from truth if her life had depended on it.

"Mommy?" My pink plastic flip-flops stuck to the soles of my feet as I shuffled through the kitchen, nearly slipping on the worn linoleum but managing to catch myself just in time. I looked up at the high-placed cupboards and pouted. It was no fair. Everything was made for big people, not five year olds. I couldn't reach my favorite cup, and I was thirsty!

"Mommy!" I called again. Where was she? Normally it didn't take her this long. "Mommy, where are you?"

"I'm here. I'm here," she breezed into the room, the humidity causing her hair to frizz about her face like a halo, "Now, what's wrong, pumpkin?"

I pouted again and pointed a chubby finger at the cupboard. "I'm thirsty!"

"Oh, is that all?" she grinned and began to take out a blue plastic mug. She knew it was my favorite. "Don't worry. Mommy will take care of you."

Satisfied, I watched silently as my mother filled the mug with lemonade—also my favorite—and then got a glass down and filled it for herself.

"Come on." Glass and mug in hand, she inclined her head towards the sliding glass door. "Let's sit outside today."

"Okay," I opened the door and plopped down on the plastic white deck chair. She followed, setting the lemonade on the table and closing the door behind her.

"So, Lucy," she took a sip of her lemonade, "Aren't you excited about starting kindergarten soon?"

I shrugged. "I guess."

"That's all? 'I guess'? But you'll get to meet lots of new friends, and learn how to read. Aren't you looking forward to learning how to read?"

To be honest, I didn't care one bit about reading or making new friends. I was perfectly happy at home with Mommy; I didn't need anyone else. But for some reason she seemed to really want me to be excited about Kindergarten. I squirmed in my chair and reached for my blue mug, trying to stall by taking a sip of the tangy lemonade. "Of course," I mumbled.

"Wonderful!" Her blue eyes sparkled so much in excitement you would've thought she was the one going to Kindergarten. "You know what? I'm going to go call Daddy at the office right now and tell him!"

She flung open the door and almost skipped to the telephone in the kitchen. I, instead, turned to examine her half-empty glass of lemonade still on the table. In the sunlight it looked like a yellow jewel, the kind a princess would wear in her golden crown. And, as a princess, I thought it was only right that I get to hold it—just this once. Even though Mommy had always told me not to touch the glasses, I figured it wouldn't hurt to just hold it. I would put it back before she even got the chance to notice it was gone. As I reached across the table, my mother's conversation drifted out through the open door along with the cold air.

"Richard, you'll never guess what I have to tell you! …No, of course not. That's silly… Oh, I'll just tell you! Lucy just said the cutest thing. She said—" I could hear the faint rumble of a voice—my father's voice—cut off my mother.

The lemonade glass felt cold and wet beneath the very ends of my fingertips. My chair wobbled a little, but I ignored it and stretched further. Almost there. Just a little closer…

"Well, I'm sorry I bothered you," my mother snapped, "I just thought you might be interested in your daughter's life, that's all. I mean, it's not like you ever see her, what with work taking up all of your time."

There! I had it! My hands finally closed around the glass. Only the wet glass was slipperier than I expected. I regretted the loss of such a beautiful thing before it even hit floor, shattering into a million, deadly little pieces.

"Oh my God! Lucy!" My mother started at the crash, "Richard, I'll have to call you back!" Slamming the phone down on the receiver, she dashed to my side, not even noticing the splinters of glass beneath her bare feet. "Lucy, are you all right? What happened?"

For a minute I stared transfixed as a dark drop of blood squeezed out from between my mother's toes. "You're bleeding." I pointed.

She looked down, "Oh, the glass." After a moment, she turned her attention back to me. "What happened?"

"I… uh…" I glanced from my mother's concerned gaze to the slivers of glass littering the floor. "A squirrel. It jumped on the table and knocked the glass down… Must've thought it was pretty," I added as an afterthought.

For a minute, she just looked at me and I thought she knew. But then she smiled. "Alright then. Let's get this cleaned up."

She lifted me into her arms and carried me inside.

"And your toes, Mommy," I pointed with concern down to where her feet were smearing blood across the linoleum, "Don't forget your toes."

Glancing down, almost as if she had forgotten all about them, she laughed. "Of course, Lucy. Of course."

Finally, when the sun had risen above the top of tallest tree, I knew I couldn't delay any longer. I was supposed to have been home over an hour ago. Any later and my mother would probably burst an artery—not a good thing considering the nearest hospital was a two hour drive into town.

She was waiting for me out in the yard when I got back, one of the new dish towels coming to an early end between her wringing hands.

"Lucy!" Her eyes lighted with relief and she ran to enfold me in her embrace. "Oh, thank God! I was so worried!

"I'm fine, mother."

"I waited for over an hour, but you didn't come!" She continued, as if she hadn't even heard me. "Where were you? What happened? Did something happen? Oh my God! Lucy, did someone try to take you?"

"No, mother. I already told you. I'm fine."

"Then," pausing, she raised her eyes to mine. "Where were you?"

The lie slid off my tongue easily, without even a second thought. "I'm sorry, mom. I didn't mean to be late. I just lost track of time. You see, there was this beautiful sunrise and…"

"Lucy," the plea within her voice made me fall silent. "This can't keep happening."

"But—"

"No, I've had enough. No more. I," she glanced at the line of trees by the house, "I forbid you to leave this house until you show that you can be more responsible."

"But, mom," I tried again. "Be reasonable. It was a mistake, okay? I didn't mean to. I mean, is one mistake really worthy of being confined to the house?"

"But this isn't just one mistake. This is the third time this week!"

"But," I sputtered. "That's not fair!"

She paused for a moment and looked me in the eyes. "Life is everything but fair, Lucy."

This wasn't supposed to be happening! Normally my mother just let me off the hook, but today nothing I said seemed to be working. At last resort, I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind. "Dad wouldn't make me stay in the house!"

Suddenly, her face went pale and I knew I'd gone too far. "Well," she said quietly, "Your father's not here now, is he?"

"Mom, I—" I tried to apologize but she cut me off.

"Go to your room, Lucy."

Walking a few steps, I hesitated and turned back. "I'm sorry."

"Please," she whispered, "Just go."

And my tennis shoes thumped up the stairs like a broken heartbeat, irregular and so very, very empty.

Daddy came home early that night, walking through the door right as Mommy got down on her hands and knees to do the last bit of cleaning up: washing the long smear of blood off the floor. I was sitting at the table watching her, a neglected picture book in my lap.

"What's wrong with the damn floor?" He stopped short in the doorway, hand arrested in loosening his tie.

"Nothing," my mother glanced up at him and motioned with a sopping rag to the bucket of water beside her. "Nothing's wrong with the floor. I'm just cleaning it."

"If nothing's wrong with the damn floor, then why are you cleaning it instead of making me dinner?"

She paused in her scrubbing, tracing the remaining smear of red with her eyes. "It was dirty."

"A glass broke," I interjected, "and Mommy cut her foot and it bled all over the floor."

His lips compressed until they were nothing more than two white lines. "I see," he said.

"It wasn't her fault though," I continued, flashing a smile at Daddy in hopes it would help to make him feel better, "or mine neither. It was a squirrel, Daddy. A squirrel knocked over the glass and it broke into a bunch of little pieces—kind of like snow only it didn't melt."

This time, he didn't say anything. He just looked at me, lips pressed together, knuckles white from clutching his suitcase.

My mother sent a darting glance towards him. "Richard—"

"Don't you tell me what to do, Maria," he glared at her for a minute then shifted his gaze back to focus on me. "So, Lucille—"

"Lucy," she said, "Her name is Lucy."

He continued on as if he hadn't heard her. "Lucille, daughter… you say a squirrel broke the glass?"

My throat suddenly felt very dry. "Y-yes. It did."

"You little liar," he captured my wrist with his callus-roughed fingers. "You broke the glass, didn't you?"

"Richard, you know Lucy wouldn't. She—"

"You stay out of this, woman!" His eyes flashed in a warning that was unmistakable.

"No!" She stumbled to her feet and looked him in the eye. "No," she said, "Not this time. You will not hurt my baby. Not now, not ever. Do you understand?"

"Oh, yes," he let go of my wrist with a flourish, "I understand."

For a minute the two of them just stared at each other. "Lucy…" Her voice trembled a little, even though I could tell she was trying to hide it. "Go to your room."

"But Mommy," I glanced at my father's blank face—which appeared calm and collected now, so different from a second ago. "What if—"

"Go to your room, Lucy," she repeated, a note of fear now present in her voice, "right now. This is between your daddy and me."

And I did. But even through my locked door I could hear the thwack of my father's fist, and then later, the quiet sobbing that never seemed to end.

And it wasn't until ten years later that my mother worked up the courage to leave, taking me with her.

She stayed out there for the rest of the day, sitting on the porch steps with her head in her hands. From my window I could just barely see her, and whenever I looked—often at first, but then less and less as the day went on—she was the same, unchanged in position or appearance.

I had never hated myself more than at that moment.

Slipping my shoes back on, I resolved to do something, to fix this—somehow, anyhow. I couldn't go back in time. I couldn't change what kind of man my father was. And I couldn't erase my mother's memories. But I sure couldn't let her sit there any longer.

I winced as the screen door screeched open.

"Um… mom?"

No reply.

I took a few steps forward, letting the screen door slam shut after me and then moved to sit next to her on the steps. "Mom? I'm really sorry—for what I said about Dad, I mean."

Her shoulders shuddered and, encouraged, I pressed on.

"It was wrong of me and I didn't mean it. I just wasn't thinking and—" I faltered and broke off when I heard the strangled sob escape from the figure next to me.

After a minute she looked up and I could tell she had been crying; her eyes were lined with crimson spider webs and her nose was a color like the inside of a ripe strawberry. "Lucy," her voice thick with tears, she reached over to embrace me, "Oh, Lucy! I'm so sorry!"

Tentatively, my arms reached around her in return. "What do you have to feel sorry for?" I gave her a shaky smile. "I'm the jerk here."

"No," she sniffed, "This is all my fault. I should've been a better wife, a better mother. I should've done something. Then, you'd have a father and…"

"No, mom," I said, looking her firmly in the eye. If she thought this, then no wonder she felt terrible. "It's not your fault. How could it be? You didn't ask for dad to be that way. It's not your fault. In fact," I paused to take her hands in mine, "You should be mad at him. You should hate him for what he's done to us, for what he's done to you. I hate him!"

"But, Lucy—"

"No!" I insisted, "I know what you're going to say. You're going to say that I shouldn't hate him. Well guess what? I do. And I'm not ashamed of it. He had no right to do what he did. There's no excuse."

For a moment we just sat there in silence, staring at our entwined hands. "Oh, Lucy," she finally whispered, lifting her tear-stained face to look at me. And there was still a hint of shame written there that I would never be able to chase away. "I still love him."

"I know, mom," I said, "I know."