My mother says there’s something wrong with me. She’s been saying this for as long as I can remember. “You must have a brain tumor like your Aunt Rita.” A tumor might explain why I can’t be the way she wants me to be. Other times, she screams, “You’re crazy.” I read books about crazy people: One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and I Never Promised You a Rose Garden. I search for myself between the covers, trying to find out if my mother might be right.
I wonder if it makes any difference whether my thoughts are the result of a tumor or my being crazy.
I buy the book The Exorcist, because demonic possession could be another possibility.
Could I be possessed? Mother has never suggested it. I want to ask her, but decide not to, for fear she’ll discover why I’m asking and take my books away. I can’t go to my friends or confirmation class, and I certainly can’t ask a teacher at school. I am on my own.
I buy every book I can find on the subject. It’s easy, my mother doesn’t censor my reading material. My best friend Judy’s mother does. Judy wants to read the books I read. I help her sneak them into her house. I help her to feast on their words.
My mother only reads the local newspaper, and doesn’t do it well. She says the words out loud, like a young child. Whenever she comes to a word she can’t pronounce, she spells out the letters and stops, looks up and says, “Whatever that means,” and then stumbles on. I doubt she even understands what she reads. If my mother knew what I learn from books, she’d burn them, and never allow another in the house.
My father on the other hand keeps stacks of western comics and novels, left over from his younger days, in an upstairs closet. I don’t bother reading them, because I figure they won’t interest me. He says he keeps them because someday they’ll be worth something. “People throw too much away,” he explains. “Someday they’ll realize what they’ve lost and want it back.” He doesn’t read anymore because he’s too busy. He goes to work, comes home, eats supper and goes to bed after watching TV. I think it’s a shame how he’s stopped reading.
I’ve loved books ever since I can remember. As a small child I would beg my mother to buy one when we went grocery shopping. At fourteen I still ask for money, and buy books when we shop on Saturday afternoons. She gives in to anything that keeps me close to home. She has no idea books contain my escape route, a map leading me away from her.
Judy’s mother censors her friends as she does her books. Only those passing the scrutiny of her intense eye are allowed to be her daughter’s friend. I slip by because we’re neighbors, and my family goes to the same church. I fear at any moment she’ll discover I shouldn’t be her daughter’s friend.
Judy does a good job at keeping books hidden, placing them inside other books, and reading late at night.
My worries become real when Mother opens the door and comes face-to-face with Judy and her mother. “Are you aware of the kind of books your daughter is reading?”
“I…” my mother starts to answer, but doesn’t get to finish.
“Certain books are not appropriate.”
“They’re told to read,” Mother shrugs. “What’s the problem?”
“They can read all the books they want,” Judy’s mother screeches. “Just not about the devil!”
“Huh,” my Mother says. “I don’t know who you think is reading such stuff.”
“Your daughter, Sarah Ann, that’s who!”
“Well,” Mother snaps back, “You think your daughter is Miss Goody Two-Shoes.”
“I don’t want this trash in my house.” Judy’s mother says and throws the book on the porch floor, landing at my mother’s feet. “I don’t want your daughter influencing mine with such garbage.”
Judy’s mother grabs Judy by the arm and yanks her away. Mother yells from the doorway, “You think your daughter is something she’s not. Maybe she gave Sarah Ann the book. How do you know?”
Mother slams the door so hard the window rattles. She explodes, forgetting the reason Judy’s mother came to our house. “She’s got a lot of nerve coming here blaming my daughter for her problems. She thinks she’s better than everyone else. You can tell the way she sits in church. Her nose stuck in the air.” Mother grabs the phone and calls one of her gossipy friends. She rants about how awful Judy’s mother just treated her and how the woman is looking for any excuse for their daughters not to be friends. “Who goes crazy over a book? I tell you, that woman thinks herself better than anyone else.”
I don’t bother to listen to any more. I pick up the book and go to my room. I’m no longer worried about my mother finding out about what I read. Once Mother finds a battle, she’ll try and gather everyone to her side. That’s all that matters. She’s forgotten why Judy’s mother really came to the door, and doesn’t even realize I’ve lost one of my best friends, and I still can’t figure out what’s wrong with me.
Bio: BARBARA CARTER lives in Nova Scotia, Canada.
Married with three grown children, and two grandchildren.
For years she dabbled with words, starting and stopping.
Worked as an art instructor, and in retail.
She has taken workshops and classes, but mainly learns from books and an online editing program, AutoCrit.
She’s now committed to improving her writing and finding her voice.
Her life experiences are the inspiration for her stories.
This year she joined an online critique group: Critique Circle.
Her story “Learning to kill” has been published in Enhance Magazine.
Barbara Carter: www.barbaracarterartist.com
AutoCrit: www.autocrit.com/editing/free-wizard/
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