I love my mother, although there are many things about her not to love.
People are often at a loss as to how my mother and father met. After all, my father is what most people would consider a typical, boring businessman. Nobody would imagine that he went through a wild phase in the 70s, obsessed with drugs and music and independence.
That, of course, was when he met my mother. A flower child with the sun wrapped up in her smile, that’s how he describes her. According to him, she hasn’t changed much, even all these years later.
My mother can be wonderful. She is incredibly loving and sweet and compassionate, but she is something of an eternal child. She has no concept of responsibility or growing up. She does not have priorities. She simply… is. Perhaps that’s an admirable trait in a grown person.
It is not an admirable trait in a mother.
My father swooped in and married her soon after he met her. They had me only a few months later. He learned rather quickly that she could barely be called an adult. Yet he loves her more passionately than I’ve ever seen somebody love. They are happy together, and that suits me just fine.
For the most part, my father was a sufficient parent. He took care of me in ways that my mother never could. My mother’s involvement in my life was more as a friend than anything else. But there were still times that her influence was… a little less than wholesome.
You see, my mother was incredibly superstitious.
When I was very young, she taught me all the normal rituals that are a part of every child’s life. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Never break a mirror. If you spill salt, throw a pinch over your shoulder. Never say ‘MacBeth’ in a theater. Never get out of bed at three a.m.
For the most part, they were harmless. Oh, but there was one… one that stuck with me like a bad taste in the pit of my mouth. One that I’ll never forget.
It’s a little embarrassing, but it has to do with my period. See, I got my period before most other girls in my class. I was twelve, but my mother assured me this was normal in our family – “early bloomers,” she said, when referring to herself and her own mother and sister.
I remember the day I got my first period so well. I got it in gym class and my gym teacher found me crying in the locker room, too embarrassed to try to seek out a pad. I actually got sent home early, and my mom came to pick me up and take me to get ice cream. We were sitting in McDonald’s with our soft-serve when she became very serious and said, “Alyssa, now that you’re a woman, there’s something you must promise me. It is very, very important, and if you don’t promise to do it, then I’ll never forgive you!”
That “never forgive you” threat wasn’t new, but I was still young and I would do anything for my mom’s approval. So I nodded with big, solemn eyes and waited for her to continue.
“From now on, whenever you get your period, you have to do two things. You have to change the sheets on your bed, to start – they have to be white. You also have to hang white sheets from every window in your bedroom.”
I was confused by that, but when I asked her why she had given me these instructions, she held up her finger and said, “Don’t ask any questions. This is for your own good.”
When we got home that day, my mother helped me change the sheets on my bed and hang some fresh sheets from the window. It was unavoidable, of course, that I’d bleed through my pajamas onto those pristine white sheets that first night, but when my mom caught me trying to change them in the morning, she slapped my wrist and scolded me.
“You mustn’t change those sheets until your period ends.”
“But I don’t want to sleep on them like this!” I protested.
“Tough,” said my mother with an uncharacteristic harshness. I was upset and a little disgusted, but I obeyed her orders.
For years, I slept on bloody sheets once every month, with ghostly white one covering the single window in my room every night. At first, I thought of it as something I had to do, simply because my mother said it was best for me. As I grew older, I began to hate the ritual. But the few times I tried to talk to my mother about it, she immediately became aggressive, screaming at me until I submitted to her strange will. I was too embarrassed to try talking to my father about it, so I suffered in silence. I didn’t tell anybody about it until I was well into adulthood.
Like I said. I love my mother… but she has her flaws.
By the time I got to college, my period routine had been well and firmly established.
The first thing I did when I saw those red blotches in my panties was change my sheets and cover my windows. It was almost an impulse by that time – everything felt wrong in some way if I didn’t complete this task. That’s why I didn’t think anything of it when I got my first period in my dorm room. I’d started pinning a sheet to the window when my roommate walked in.
“Uuh… what are you doing?” She’d asked.
Lizzy was a great roommate, and we’d hit it off right away. We’d practically become best friends overnight, but I was still reluctant to tell her about my mother’s ritual thrust onto my shoulders.
“I, uh, this is… well,” I started, stumbling over my thoughts as I tried to get something coherent to come out of my mouth, “It’s just… something I do occasionally. I promised my mom a long time ago that I’d keep doing it.”
That explanation sounded lame even to me, but Lizzy seemed to understand intuitively that there was more to the story, more that I didn’t want to share just yet. She nodded and went about her business, making it a point NOT to ask for any more details. I was relieved, but also terribly ashamed.
I realized that I couldn’t keep living the way that I had at home. What if Lizzy saw my bloody sheets in the morning? No doubt she’d think I was disgusting if she knew I was sleeping in my own period blood. God, I could see the look on her face in my mind’s eye…
I resolved then and there to stop with the stupid rituals. After all, I was eighteen at this point, no longer a child. My mother didn’t have to know I’d disobeyed her.
Lizzy didn’t comment when I immediately ripped down the sheet that I’d just been tacking up. I felt a little guilty as I stuffed the extra sheets under my bed, but I reminded myself that it would all be worth it in the end – my life wasn’t always normal, but it could be. I was on my own now, I could have anything I wanted.
And I wanted a normal goddamn period without any of this weird supernatural shit that my mother was obsessed with.
That first night passed with relative normalcy. Lizzy and I went out to a few parties, stayed out until about four a.m., and then crashed at a friend’s apartment. We didn’t get back home until noon the next day, but I was secure in my knowledge that the world hadn’t ended just because I’d done away with my mother’s insanity.
The next night, though… that was different.
I’d let my guard down. I’d almost completely forgotten that I was doing things very differently than normal – it was so easy to forget that hated ritual. When I went to bed, I slept incredibly well and woke up feeling well-rested and alive.
That was until I saw the smudges.
I might not have noticed them right away, but for the fact that my bed faced our window and the light glinted strangely off the smudges. They looked almost faintly pink in the early morning light. A further inspection showed that the smudges were tinged with dried blood.
I traced my fingers to the glass in awe, still drowsy and wondering with idle curiosity which of us – Lizzy or I – had bled on the window. The bloody smudges were somewhat hand-shaped, but for the fact that this hand had unreasonably long fingers. I knew that whatever appendage had made this belonged to neither Lizzy nor myself.
But there was something else that nagged at me, something that broke through my sleepy haze with all the delicacy and grace of a hammer.
See, I tried and tried, but I couldn’t wipe the smudge away…
Because the handprints were on the outside of the glass.