Mothers in the World Above and Below
By Abby Horowitz
Featured Art: “Persona-03” by Mateo Galvano
Your mother haunts the hardest; that’s what Selah’s told whenever she starts to whine: why hasn’t she come yet to pick me up?
Her mother haunts the hardest, so Selah is at the care center the whole day long, so long that Ms. Drae takes pity on her and gives her second servings of afternoon snack. The other kids trail after their parents up to the parking lot and off to home and there’s Selah again, all alone in a playground full of nobody, or at least nobody that she can see isn’t it possible that she’s got her own ghosts? Oh, get out of your head and get onto those swings, Ms. Drae tells her; then her eyes sink back down to her phone.
Selah swings, she jumps, she slides. Lady-like, please, Ms. Drae calls when Selah’s robe slips up by her thighs, but Selah ignores her. Let the world see her underwear; if only there were someone to look. She takes a clump of dirt and rubs it onto her leg. Look! she says, running up to Ms. Drae, A bruise! But Ms. Drae only rolls her eyes and shoos her away rather than tell her (again) what of course she already knows: you can’t have bruises if you don’t have blood.
Every afternoon like this: Selah swinging from the monkey bars, Selah stomping over the wooden bridge. Selah combing out a hole in the playground mulch for her body to curl up in, then listening to the beat of the music drumming out from Ms. Drae’s phone, or counting clouds in the sky, or drifting off to sleep, until finally, finally there’s the nudge on her arm, the hand rubbing her awake, and her mother saying, Come, Little Ghost, time to go home.
In the world below, people have bodies full of blood and bones instead of only breath. Selah knows that this is true the way she knows most things worth knowing: from watching TV. I just have some paperwork to do, her mother says after dinner as she hands Selah the remote; I won’t be long.
Selah is supposed to only watch the kid channels, but if she keeps the volume down low, her mother never notices when she flips on the grownup shows that stream from down below instead. Her favorites are the crime dramas, the ones full of violence and blood, that mysterious substance she so longs to see.
Last week, Ms. Drae had asked them during circle time: Who knows what your parents do at work? It was the Community Helpers unit; they had already covered firefighters and librarians. Juan Pablo shot his hand up first like the showoff that he was. They haunt people down below! he said. And what does that mean, exactly? Ms. Drae asked, and Juan Pablo sprang up from his spot on the carpet and yelled BOO! and everyone laughed except for Selah. She could tell Juan Pablo was stuck watching the wrong stations on TV. He was learning from cartoons; he was picturing their parents as gumdrop-shaped creatures covered in white sheets, scaring people with a silly scream. But Selah’s pieced together a different version of their parents’ jobs, thanks to her hours watching all that violent, grownup TV. Her theory: their parents must haunt people by making them bleed. She had waited for Ms. Drae to correct Juan Pablo and tell him this, but all she’d said was: Your parents work with people who are hurt, and then Jae-Lin threw up on the rainbow rug and the lesson was done.
In the morning, breakfast time. Her mother asks, What happened to your face? and Selah rubs a finger over the indents on her cheek from where she fell asleep on top of the remote. I slept funny, that’s all, she says and then starts in on her toast.
Her mother squeezes out the ends of her wet hair with a dish towel while Selah crunches away. Her mother never bothers with a blow dryer or even with a brush. Ms. Drae shows up each morning with a face-full of makeup and a purse to carry it all in, but the most her mother uses is a tube of Chapstick tucked inside the pocket of her robe.
Selah watches as her mother opens up her envelope to see who it is that she’ll be haunting today. Who’d you get, Selah asks, and she has to ask twice before her mother answers: It’s Rebecca again.
Is that the one with the missing arm? Selah asks.
No, her mother says, that’s Ellen. Rebecca’s the one with—
The dead mother! Selah sings out, remembering. Her mother is always so tight-lipped about her assignments, but this is one of the few details she’s let slip.
It’s not something to crow about, her mother says. Rebecca has some deep, deep wounds.
Selah knows what her mother isn’t saying: that it’s her mother who laid those wounds down. She pictures her mother armed with weapons; she pictures Rebecca with a body full of punctures, spilling out blood. That’s what it means to be the best ghost in town; that’s what it means to haunt hard.
Her mother frowns at the mess Selah has made out of her toast, hurriedly sweeps the crumbs off the table and into her palm.
What time will you come for me today? Selah asks.
I’ll do my best, her mother says, which means, of course, that she’ll be late.
Morning recess: jump rope time. Juan Pablo holds one end of the rope and Samantha the other and Selah is the jumper in the middle, shouting out her rhyme: Little Jane fell down in the mud, Little Jane fell down with a thud, up she goes to brush off her nose, but that’s not dirt, she’s covered in blood. Watch the blood talk, Ms. Drae warns. Juan Pablo grins at Selah and says, Bet you won’t do it again. So Selah says it again, shouts it even louder into the wind. Ms. Drae stalks over and sticks out her hand, palm up, waiting for the rope. I said, that’s enough about blood.
Juan Pablo and Samantha dash off to the swings, leaving Selah to her fate. She flings the jump rope down in Ms. Drae’s hand, then watches as Ms. Drae takes the rope and weaves it in and out of the fence wires, the way her mother might have braided a ribbon into her hair, if her mother cared about things like that.
Then art time and it’s paper towel rolls turned into trumpets; lunch time and it’s forcing down carrots as Ms. Drae lectures: Growing foods first, then dessert. Selah dips a finger in Juan Pablo’s strawberry yogurt and whispers loudly in his ear B-L-U-D, feeling smug that she knows how to spell. Then naptime and it’s racing to get the best cot, licking off the yogurt that Juan Pablo’s smeared on her arm. Next thing she knows, Samantha is kicking the edge of her cot, telling her to wake up, and then they all gather on the rainbow rug for closing song: Bread and butter, marmalade and jam. Let’s say goodbye as quiet as we can.
Amanda leaves. Koby leaves. Chas and Brayden and Jae-lin. Samantha gives her a hug on the way out the door; Juan Pablo forgets to say goodbye, just scampers right out as soon as his dad arrives.
Aftercare, then after aftercare: Selah on the playground, all alone, again. For a while, she slinks along the fence, then decides to climb, jams one sneaker into an open hexagon, and stretches an arm up as high as she can. Again and again and again she goes, the fence swaying back and forth beneath her as she propels her body up, until she’s almost, almost at the top. She stretches up her arm for one final reach but a piece of loose fence wire catches her first, piercing the soft side of her arm right below her wrist. She tries to draw her arm back, but the wire doesn’t want to let go; it clutches at her skin until finally she kicks herself free from the fence and tumbles down to the mulch.
A stunned moment, and then her breath comes back to her and right away she pushes up the sleeve of her robe to see the damage. There it is: her skin is sliced from wrist to elbow. Of course she’s had other cuts, other bangs and scrapes, but nothing like this. With her opposite hand, Selah presses down on the cut, hoping for, praying for red. But no matter how hard she pushes, nothing more than a hiss of air seeps out. It’s only then she cries. Not because of the pain, which has already lost its sharp teeth, but because of that soft breeze of breath exiting her body, when she had so hoped for blood.
She is cuddled in the bulk of Ms. Drae’s arms, still sniffling, when her mother comes.
Selah’s had a little accident, Ms. Drae explains, and Selah looks up, forgetting her tears. She says to her mother, Look, I’ve got a wound! She shoves her arm towards her mother, who leans over to look.
Oh my, that’s quite a cut, her mother says, and something in Selah’s chest explodes.
Her mother bends over and gives Selah’s arm a kiss and for a moment, everything is magic: her mother’s lips on her arm, Ms. Drae’s hands still resting on her shoulders. Then her mother straightens up and lets go of Selah’s arm. Don’t worry, Little Ghost, she says. It will heal in no time.
And suddenly it’s all over, the spell is done. Selah’s eyes start to water again, but Ms. Drae gives her shoulder a squeeze, as if to say that she’s already used up her time for crying. So she simply nods her head and follows her mother up to the car.
The next day and the skin has melted back together completely, without even a shadow to show where the cut had been. Something in her body doesn’t feel quite right, but it’s not her arm; her arm doesn’t hurt at all when she touches it, and touches it she does, keeps her fingers there and pushes down and down.
Art time. The other kids smear glue sticks across their papers, press down rough-edged pictures torn from old magazines. Selah’s placing her blunt-tip scissors right on the place of the wound, trying to coax the skin back open just to see if she’s overlooked some red, when Ms. Drae calls her over.
Everything okay? she asks, resting the back of her hand against Selah’s fore- head. You’re not your usual feisty self.
I’m fine, Selah says, but it isn’t true; there’s heat boiling up inside her.
Ms. Drae takes her hand away and frowns. Go back to work now, she says, and then marches off somewhere.
After art time, morning snack. Selah is having a contest with Juan Pablo to see who can stuff the most graham cracker squares in their mouths, when Samantha kicks Selah’s leg under the table. Isn’t that her? she hisses.
Who? Selah asks, crumbs sputtering. Juan Pablo laughs.
Your mother, Samantha says, and the graham crackers turn to rocks in Selah’s mouth as she turns to look.
How many times has she imagined this, the surprise early pick-up from school? She knows what she wants to see: her mother in a glittery cape thrown over her old ghost robe, with sequined shoes instead of her plain leather sandals and a face-full of makeup just like Ms. Drae. And then this glamourous ghost mom will grab Selah by the arm and flounce out the door with her, take her to the movies or the rollercoaster or some other surprise escapade.
But the woman standing by the doorway talking to Ms. Drae has the same frizzy hair as always, the same worn-out purse strapped across her chest.
Please, her mother is saying. I have to work—
As do I, Ms. Drae says. I’m sorry, but it’s school policy. If a child has a fever of—
I’ve tried all the babysitters I know, Selah’s mother says. Please, I have to get back to my person down below—
But Ms. Drae is already beckoning Selah over to her cubby.
Her mother gives a small wave as Selah walks over, but it comes out clumsy, like it’s a gesture she doesn’t quite know how to do. Ms. Drae guides Selah’s arms through the straps of her backpack. Feel better now, she says. Then she bends down and whispers into Selah’s ear: You be a good girl now, you hear?
Juan Pablo sticks his tongue out as Selah passes by. You lose, he says, as Selah walks past him to the door.
Selah smells sweat as her mother leans over her to buckle the straps of her car seat. Her mother brushes graham cracker crumbs from Selah’s face, then hands her two pale orange tablets and says: Here, take this.
Is it for my wound? Selah asks. The tablets have the flavor of chalk; she eats them quickly to get rid of the taste. Is that why you’ve come?
You’ve got a fever, Little Ghost, her mother says. That’s all.
It’s quiet in the car as they drive. Selah’s body has turned ragdoll, like if it weren’t for the car seat holding her up, she’d melt into air.
They should have a sick room at the care center for situations like this, her mother says after a while.
Selah doesn’t respond.
You know how to sit quietly, right? her mother asks. Think you could do that for an hour or two?
Are you taking me down below? Selah asks, perking back up. She’s never actually been to the world underneath her own, let alone gone with her mother to work.
If you promise you can sit still, her mother says. And you’ve got to be absolutely silent, okay? Rebecca won’t be able to see you, but she’ll hear you if make a lot of noise.
Pinky promise, Selah says. Then she feels the heat surging again through her body and leans back into the cradle of the car seat.
Then I’ll tell you what, her mother says. Afterwards, we’ll go home and watch cartoons, okay?
You mean it? Selah says hazily, already half asleep.
Her mother’s hair fills up the whole rearview mirror when she nods her head up and down.
When Selah wakes up, she’s by herself, sitting crisscross-applesauce on a wooden floor, and her vision is clouded, like her eyes are wrapped in gauze. She rubs her eyes and sees that it isn’t some bandage over her face; it’s that she’s tucked behind a pair of filmy curtains. She looks about hungrily, but there’s a couch right in front of her, blocking her view.
She presses her hot body in the cool glass of the window behind her, disappointed. Selah’s sworn to be perfect, Selah’s promised to be good, but did her mother really expect her—on her first trip down below—to just sit and stare at the back of a couch? Still, she tries. She picks her nose, draws butterflies in the dust on the floor, tries to tickle her own feet. She waits until it feels like she’s been waiting forever. Then when she can’t wait any longer, she crawls out from under the veil of curtains and crabwalks a few feet to the right to peer around the edge of the couch.
Only there’s nothing to see here, either, other than the usual living room stuff: bookshelves, coffee table, TV. She considers searching out the remote, but why watch something on a screen when she’s so close to the real thing? Instead, she leaves the living room all together and starts wandering down the hall.
The hallway is dark and lined with doorways, and right away Selah gets to work. Her first stop is a locked doorknob that refuses to open, no matter how hard she twists it back and forth in her sweaty palm. The next doorway leads to a bathroom where she runs right into a toilet paper stand, just barely catching it before it clatters to the floor. Then on to the third doorway, which is where her luck turns.
Where she is is the kitchen; it’s shadowy in this room too, but the giant black and white tiles on the floor give it away. If she had a pebble, she could play hopscotch, but she doesn’t and besides something much more interesting has caught her eye: a two-headed woman with a terrible hunchback slowly chop- ping something at the far side of the room.
How has her mother never mentioned this about Rebecca, the existence of her second head, her crunched-spine? Selah is already grinning, thinking of the stories she’ll get to tell once she’s back at school. But when she tiptoes over to the kitchen island to get a closer look, she sees that Rebecca is not some misshapen monster; it’s that Selah’s own mother is clinging to her, like some ghostly backpack, like some white-robed turtle shell.
Selah doesn’t understand: Where is her mother’s knife? Her gun? Why does her mother’s face look focused and calm instead of snarly, and why are her hands just lying there on Rebecca’s shoulders, instead of wrapping tight around her neck? Selah’s been prepared for gore and violence, Selah’s had her fingers crossed for guts and blood. But the scene in front of her is as boring as plain toast. Rebecca doesn’t even look that bothered, like she doesn’t even notice the extra person she’s carting around. Her face looks fresh and clean like someone who’s just gotten out of the bath and she’s got bright lipstick and a sleek, long ponytail that stays perfectly in place as she goes on chopping whatever it is on the cutting board.
Selah waits for something else to happen but no matter how many times the minute hand clicks forward on the giant clock on the wall, nothing changes. Her stomach grumbles; her body feels so hot. Mom, she whispers, quietly at first and then more loudly, but still her mother doesn’t turn. It’s only when Selah steps closer and starts flapping the arms of her robe like a bird, that her mother cranes her neck and sees her. Go back, she mouths, her eyes flared in anger.
I’m bored, Selah whisper-whines, but her mother has already turned back to Rebecca.
Fine, Selah whispers grumpily to no one. I’ll go watch TV.
Back out in the hallway, Selah is about to head to the living room when she spies one last doorway lurking in the shadows at the far end of the hall. For a moment, Selah forgets her disappointment from the kitchen and feels a burst of hope again. Whatever she saw in the kitchen must have been just the warmup, she decides, like how Ms. Drae makes them do stretches before they run races in the parking lot. This new room that she’s found, this must be where the real haunting is.
But when she pushes the door open and slips inside, it isn’t some dark dun- geon, isn’t some back alley with masked men. It’s a room with nice cream walls and shelves full of books and toys, and there, in a tall white crib in the corner, sleeps a little boy.
He looks about the same age as one of the little kids from the toddler care center across the road, the kids that Selah and her friends make fun of when they see them being carted around in their twelve-seater carriages. Right away, Selah hates him. Hates him for getting to nap in this cozy room instead of napping at a care center, hates him for getting to stay home all day with the beautiful mother with the bright lipstick.
Selah sticks her tongue out at the sleeping child. That feels so good that she walks closer, right up to the bars of the crib, and does it again. Then she goes ever grander, holds her hands up in the air like claws, rolls her eyes back into her head the way Juan Pablo taught her. She feels powerful and fierce, like if she opened her eyes, she would find that that she’s grown ten feet tall. She holds that pose for a while, but then her eyes start aching and she wonders if it’s true what Ms. Drae always says about how they can get stuck that way. So she drops her arms, lets her eyes roll back into place, and that’s when she sees that the boy has his eyes open also, and is staring right at her. Selah freezes. Then the boy begins to laugh.
It’s a gurgly laugh, hiccupy and sweet, and even though she hates him, she can’t help but smile. This kid is your enemy, she reminds herself, but already her hands are getting into position so she can make him laugh again, who cares if her eyes get stuck. She makes face after face for him, striking one scary pose after another as the boy giggles, his cheeks turning pink, until suddenly there’s another sound underneath his laughter: footsteps coming down the hall. Selah dives behind the rocking chair in the corner right as Rebecca, with Selah’s mother still clinging to her back, comes waltzing into the room.
I hear you, happy boy, Rebecca says in a sing-song as she walks toward the crib.
The boy pushes himself up to standing and wraps his hands around the top railing. Mama, he says. Uppies, uppies. He bounces a little in place as Rebecca bends over to pick him up, which somehow she manages to do even with Selah’s mother on her back.
There you are, sweetcakes, Rebecca coos. She kisses the top of his head as he nuzzles into her chest and it’s all so mushy that Selah almost turns away in disgust. But then she sees that there’s a problem: Rebecca’s body is starting to sway under all that weight. There’s a ghost on her back and a kid in her arms, and Rebecca’s about to topple, Selah can tell; Rebecca’s going to come crashing down if she doesn’t let one of her passengers go.
Selah waits for her mother to see this too, and slide off Rebecca’s back. Let go of her, Selah thinks, Let go. But her mother’s arms and legs remain wrapped tight around Rebecca, and from the grim look on her mother’s face, Selah sees this is no longer some innocent piggyback ride—her mother is playing for keeps. Which is a problem, Selah realizes, because if her mother’s staying put, that means it’s the boy who Rebecca has to let go. And in the next flash, that’s what happens: Rebecca unhooks the boy from her body and sets him down on the rug.
Instantly the room explodes in noise. The boy bangs his fists against Rebecca’s legs, screaming to be picked back up. Selah grips the back railing of the rocking chair, bracing against the boy’s noise, but Rebecca stays locked in place, under her ghost’s grip. Her face has clouded, she looks pained, confused. The makeup around her eyes has started to run.
The boy throws himself on the floor, his screams for Uppies! growing into great, wordless howls. Gone is the jolly creature in the crib; now he is a monster of sad. Selah clamps her palms over her ears, but his sadness still cuts right through her and still her mother doesn’t let Rebecca go.
Selah’s body is burning up now, from anger, from fever, she doesn’t know which. All the disappointment of the afternoon and all the afternoons before it comes bubbling up inside her, like one of those soda-and-vinegar volcanoes that Ms. Drae sometimes makes for them at science time. She doesn’t care about Rebecca; it’s the boy she wants to save. She’ll shout to warn them, she decides; she’ll shout so loudly that Rebecca will hear her and her mother’s game will be up. But then she sees Rebecca biting her lip in worry, and she gets a better idea.
It doesn’t happen like it does on TV. Her teeth aren’t nearly as sharp as a knife, and they don’t sink in easily like it works for the villains on her favorite shows. She has to really bite down against her mother’s leg, and even so, she just barely nicks the skin. Still, it’s enough: right away her mother lets go of Rebecca’s back. Then she spins around to search out Selah, and when she finds her—crouched there by her legs—she clamps her arms around Selah’s body and whisks her up and away.
*
Dinnertime. Macaroni and cheese and a mug full of milk, all served on a tray right in front of the TV.
There now, isn’t this better? her mother says, after she flips on the station with cartoons. But Selah doesn’t nod, Selah doesn’t touch her Mac-and-Cheese. Selah’s body is still full of shakes and it isn’t from the fever. Her mother asks her what’s wrong, but her voice won’t come. On the way home, all Selah had wanted was to climb into her mother’s lap, and duck inside her robe and stay tucked inside forever. She had tried to apologize—for hurting her mother, for not staying put behind the couch—but her mother had just kept her eyes on the road, said they would talk about it later. Now later has come and Selah’s words are all gone and inside her is a dark and heavy feeling that she doesn’t remember ever seeing on the emotions chart Ms. Drae keeps posted by the sink.
She pulls the blanket up to her chin and stares straight ahead at the TV, where dumb ponies with bushy rainbow tails are prancing around on the screen. Normally, this is the type of show she hates. Now, she wants to tear off her robe and push through the screen to join those silly ponies, to be in a place where mothers are always good and simple, and there are no such things as wounds and haunting, no such things as ghosts.
At the first commercial break, her mother presses the mute button on the remote and turns to her.
Listen, Selah, her mother says. I shouldn’t have taken you with me. I didn’t mean for you to see what you did.
Selah keeps her gaze on the silent TV.
Look, her mother tries again. She lifts up the hem of her robe and points to the spot above her ankle where Selah’s teeth had pushed through the skin, and Selah sees the skin is smooth and clear, already healed. You didn’t hurt me, Little Ghost, her mother says, and Selah should be melting in relief but instead she hardens. Didn’t you hear him crying? she asks.
Oh, Selah, she says, and reaches out to touch Selah’s arm. But Selah pulls the blanket tighter around her, making herself a shield, and her mother withdraws her hand with a sigh. Rebecca has some deep, deep wounds, she says.
Once, this would have thrilled Selah, filled her mind with visions of blood. Now she blurts out, That’s not the kid’s fault!
No, her mother says quietly, it’s not his fault. She pauses. But it is his burden, she says.
The ponies have come romping back onto the TV screen, their mouths moving with no sound coming out. I don’t get it, Selah says.
Her mother’s face looks like a sad stone. One day, you’ll understand, she says.
*
In the morning, her mother will feel Selah’s forehead with a smile, say: Looks like you’re as good as new. Selah will go back to the care center, where she’ll trudge through circle time and art time and morning snack. At music time, she’ll mumble the words instead of singing, and Ms. Drae will tap her on the shoulder, saying: Come on now, Selah, don’t be such a sulky Sue. At recess time, she will sneak her backpack outside, cram it full with playground mulch to make it as heavy as she can, and then slide it onto Juan Pablo’s shoulders, telling him: this is what it feels like, what we’ll all grow up to do. Juan Pablo will just shrug the bag off his shoulders and dash off to the swings, and later during lunch time, he’ll jam a chicken finger in his Tupperware of ketchup and wave it in her face, saying, Watch out, I’ve got blood, and get angry when she doesn’t laugh. Then naptime, closing circle, then aftercare and after aftercare, after everyone else is gone. Ms. Drae will bundle Selah into her jacket and push her back outside, and Selah will wander through the playground, all alone, again, then curl up in her hole in the woodchips and wait for her mother to come take her home.
But first, before all that: time for bed. The TV off, the ponies gone. Her mother clears away Selah’s untouched dinner, gives her more orange tablets, then drapes a cool washcloth on her forehead and tucks her into bed. Before her mother has even left the room, Selah’s already closed her eyes on the whole terrible day and is sinking into sleep. She sleeps and sweats and dreams, harsh dreams with knives and bruises and then the weapons fade away, the blood dries up, and she’s left dreaming of just a little boy in a crib. Pick me up, the boy demands, and Selah, dream-strong, does, lifts him up and holds him tight against her chest. Then the boy changes shape, grows into a white-robed creature with frizzy hair. Now carry me, her mother says.
Abby Horowitz is a writer and graphic artist. Her fiction and nonfiction have been published in Slice, Gulf Coast, and Kenyon Review Online, among many other journals, while her graphic essays have appeared in national Jewish media outlets including The Forward and Moment Magazine. Horowitz has an MFA from the Warren Wilson Program for Writers and lives in Albany, New York.
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