Someone From Your Past that You Hate

You were robbed, honey.
“I was!”
Well, it's New Year's Eve...a long pause ensued, and I could hear the familiar clicking and humming of heavy iron cogs working, churning, and spinning one another, pushing through the earpiece of the phone...what's your resolution? My answer was ready for her.
“I'll get her back. If that dried-up old cow thinks she can poison my little girl against me, she's got another think coming.”
That's my girl. I don't cry much anymore. I've learned to be strong in this Texas heat.
“That bitch. Kevin should know better than to let some slut poison a little girl against her mother.”
He's a man; what made you think you could expect better?
“But Robby--”
Do something about it, and stop crying.
“And she calls her Cyndi-mom!” The music from the television in the den stopped me from letting my face get too tight or red; I checked in the mirror. A shadow on the carpet at the crack beneath the door moved. How long had she been there? or was she just going into her room? “I have to go, sis. Thanks for everything.” I put as much sincerity in my voice as I could; Lori always did have the best ideas; she was the strongest of us. Lori never forgave me for crying.
Hang in there. Love ya.
I pressed the phone into the cradle and got out of bed. I almost walked to the door empty-handed, but I remembered to grab my book just in time—Island Seduction—the creases in the spine, white and deep from reading and rereading...my favorite. I padded over to the bedroom door and watched the light from the crack beneath it cast little shadows and highlights all over my seashell-pink toenails. I opened the door as quickly as I could without looking too anxious or suspicious.
Lori would have been prepared to find the little seven-year-old seated indian-style on the brown carpet, tracing the swirls of darker brown with her fingers, and looking straight up into my eyes without blinking. I hate Cyndi—hate her for stealing my husband from me, and now, with Erin on the floor at my feet, I hate her for stealing my little girl. Bitch! And Kevin—for leaving me with this, for sending this little girl to me who looks at me with bald-faced accusation.
Lorie would smack her kids if one of them looked at her like that. She puts the fear of God in those rugrats of hers. They damn well think twice before they look at a grown-up—the way Erin's looking at me now. But I can't hit her. Then she'd really be gone for good. Her little shell sits there, as brown any ground I've ever seen, and as impenetrable--daring me to hit her. I hear her talking to herself in her room—talking to the mirror. I read her little diary-notes that she never finishes. All she ever talks about is leaving! Leaving me! She plans her escapes—ridiculous escapes; she'll run to the airport and call home from there. She talks to someone—to me—in the mirror, daring me to hit her—daring Robby to hit her. 'You know you want to.' She'll say it over and over again, her voice shakes more violently with each one. It's written all over her face now, sitting there on the floor—firing horrible threats at me. She'd kill me if she thought she could just go home afterward. She's so much like me—always wanting, wanting, wanting...but she's got her dad's control. She's calculating—more of a monster than even Lori's darkest side. I read a story she wrote once. She wrote a story about me...and about scissors. It wasn't a very long story.
“You were talking to aunt Lori, weren't you.” Her voice is innocent, her face is combustible, and she's started shaking.
“And just how is it any of your business who I talk to?” I took a deep breath in and didn't give her a chance to respond. “What makes you think you can listen in on my phone calls?!” I leaned down with my hands on my hips and pushed my face close to her snotty little face. She shook more violently, but her expression didn't change.
“I'm just playing here. I got bored watching t.v.” Her eyes lower to the patterns she's tracing in the carpet.
Her socks are brown with orange dust, and she hasn't brushed her teeth in a week. No matter what I do, I can't get her to brush her damn teeth! They're perfect little pearly-whites when she gets off the plane, and pearly-white again when she gets back on, but every day in between—she must paint them yellow!
Kevin's eyes. Closed by the sun and hazel-green. His cheeks and nose too—high like and indian's, round like an Irishman. She's indian when she's here—double-crossing and two-faced. A liar when she's full of spite, and violent when she's afraid. She's always Irish too. So much Irish—so silent, stubborn and proud. Boiling over with basest pride, and always, always watching me. No matter how much she watches me, though, she doesn't mimic me. She copies Robby to drive him crazy. She knows, if anyone will hit her, it would be him, and she's horrible with him.
Kevin sent me a devil!
She never wants to go to church. She hates it and cries all the way there, and stews all the way back. At least she likes the boys. She likes Sunday school—sort-of. She likes to provoke them. She never agrees, or even listens. If she knows the answers, she gives the wrong answer on purpose. She tortures the boys—just like her momma. I can feel myself smiling all over all of a sudden. She's more like me than I thought. Seven years old, and already a man-killer—always in control. There's no way I can hit her now.
“Listen, I want to talk to you about something.” I put on my grown-up voice. She stops shaking, and her face marbles over. “Come on.” She follows me into her room and sits beside me on the bed, but not beside me. When I try to move closer, she moves away subtly, pretending like she's just shifting to get comfortable, and positions herself directly opposite the door. “Look--” The red bumps all over her legs get my attention. Scratched raw and scabbing over slightly, I'm surprised to see how many there are, and clustered so strangely. “You sure got a lot of skeeter bites.” She crosses her legs so I can't touch them, and I feel my eyes get hot.
“Ants.” No complaint, just as statement as pale as an observation of the color of the sky.
“Ants? No, sweetie, those are skeeter bites. We got lots of those around here. It happens. They must just think you're the sweetest thing to bite you that much!” I still can't believe how quickly she got up and grabbed me by the wrist. Not pulling, just clamped her hand around my wrist and looked at me like a stone would. “What?”
“Get up.”
“Now, you watch your mouth young lady.”
“I'm going to show you the ants!” The franticness of her voice frightened me.
“O-okay.” As soon as I stood up, she let go of my wrist and dropped to her hands and knees and looked under her bed. “I don't want to get down on my hands and knees, Erin. It's concrete. I'm not as young as you are.”
She extended a finger toward the bed, pointing to whatever lay underneath, and her shoulder shook in an effort to keep her hand from touching the slick concrete floor of her bedroom. I felt all my joints protesting against the strain of bending over to look under her bed. All I could see was a series of cracks, like a spider web, spreading out directly centered beneath her bed.
“It's just some cracks, honey. Those aren't ants. You know ants don't get that big.” I glanced at the water heater beside the door. “You know, it's so hot and humid in here from the water heater, I bet the mosquitoes just love it in here,” I walked over and pinched her cheeks. “and who wouldn't?!” Her face didn't react to my endearments, except to flinch from the pinch. I smoothed her skin on her cheeks, trying to soften the hardened muscles to the smoothe roundness of a little girl's, but I had to look away. “Anyways,” I still couldn't look at her yet. “You got me all turned around and distracted when you started complaining about your bites.”
When I looked at her, she was off the floor and sitting on her bed again, still directly opposite the door. Her eyes didn't blink, even when I sat down next to her.
“Anyways, I wanted to talk to you about Cyndi. I don't like it when you call her Cyndi-mom. You know, she's not your mommy. I am. I carried you in my tummy, and I was the first one to hold you.”
“No you're not. Daddy was.”
She responded so fast, and looked at me with such conviction that I passed over crying and flew right into a rage, and then calmed right back down again before she even had a chance to see the change. “No, sweetie, I was. I don't know what Cyndi told you, but--” She cut me off again.
“Cyndi-mom didn't tell me; Daddy did, and I believe him.”
“And you believe your dad more than me?” I put my hand on my chest and tried to sound as surprised and hurt as I could.
She nodded, and the meekest “yes” I've ever heard came out of her mouth. The marble girl was gone, and I could finally get her. This was my chance! I started to cry.
“I can't believe you would say something so hurtful. You really hurt me. What--” I got angry—”do you just want me to disappear...to go away and never see me again?” Her eyes were on the floor, and she was crying. “'Cause that's what you're doing—that's how you're making me feel. Do you want me to go away forever? Is that what you want?”
“Yes.” This 'yes' was even quieter than the last; I stopped crying and dropped my voice to its lowest and most dangerous.
“Well, I'm glad Cyndi and your dad have poisoned you against me so well. You just think real long and hard about what's really important to you. Go out there and turn turn the t.v. off this minute.”
She was up and gone without hesitation, and when she turned out of the door to go into the den, I couldn't see any tears, or even red-rimmed eyes. I got up and closed the door. Stop crying. Lori's voice repeated as if she were there in the room. I grabbed the flashlight off her little end table, and dropped to my hands and knees next to her bed. Shining the light underneath, against the shine of the concrete, I could see the hundreds of familiar, tiny red fire ants swarming leisurely about, all over the floor beneath her bed. The cracks were larger than when I last checked, but of course, they'd found a good source of food.