I
Convulsing and weeping, a woman – previously a girl, but recent explanations had altered this formality – sat hunched in the dark, dingy corner of her bedroom, realizing all too late the horrors of the naked truth of a parent’s love. Drops of grief, despair, and anger leaked out of her hopeless heart and streaked her once blissful face with trails to remind of her mother’s festering lie and utter abandonment. Ahead, as she stared ominously through the pane of a warped window, danced round, dull globes mimicking gloomily and splashed in patterns of desolation.
A constant buzz enveloped the air around her and seeped uncontrollably into her pained ears; yells of concern too far away to reach, records of messages too repetitive to impact, scratches of claws at the door separating her globe of misery from reality too sympathetic to acknowledge. Scarred with the reflex of retreat, the woman allowed no outside influence to break down the icy walls that were crafting a fortress around her wounded heart. Learning from experience, she created a membrane immune to the pseudo-promising effects of love, for love must not exist if the one who tirelessly lugged her around for nine months did not return her daughter’s unfaltering affection.
Struggling to accept the cold bitterness of reality, the woman racked her mind for endless possibilities: what could have led to the scandalous horror of the lopsided devotion dealt out from mother to children? The idea that her brother was a better, more compliable child couldn’t possibly be an option – that was absurd! She had always played the role of the perfect child, filling her life to the brim with her mother’s needs. Surely there was another, far more reasonable, explanation; surely her mother had the ability to rationalize this absurd prospect; surely she loved her children both equally.
II
The sun radiated beams of cheery, sunflower yellow onto Main Street, where every household swept open their windows to the world, welcoming the warmth into their homes. Sounds of children laughing, parents chatting, and doors constantly swishing open and close echoed distantly throughout the walls of the Anderson house; with the curtains drawn as tightly as Mrs. Anderson’s pursed lips, only sounds could penetrate the weary walls of severity.
With perfect posture, Willa Anderson sat perched upon a stool, vigorously scrawling math facts onto her notepad. Her heart, however, was not fully emerged into her work, for a troubled mind kept straying off task. As her mother scolded her once again for daydreaming, she meekly squeaked, “Mama, why’d you name me Willa?”
Sighing, for her daughter never stopped asking useless questions, Elizabeth uttered, “Willa, that is not of importance now, if you do not focus on your studies, you will never succeed in life.”
“But mama, the other girls were making fun of my name – said it was a boy’s name, they did.”
Irritated that her daughter, with whom she felt no connection, would not continue to work – to stop forcing awkward conversation – she exclaimed, “Well, maybe I wanted a son!”
Cheeks aglow, Willa buried her nose into her notebook. The highly developed ego was instantly pummeled; she still encompassed the curiosity to think, and thinking was scathing. Aligning her thoughts, she inquired, “Is that why you love Tristan more than me, mama?”
“Willa, you know that’s not true. I did not mean what I said before, but you just exhaust me sometimes. Do not tell lies, it is not becoming,” but even as the words tumbled out of her mouth, ring with sincerity, they did not, rather they struck bitter chords of dishonesty.
III
Intent on halting the endless sniffling and sobbing, Willa Anderson arose from her makeshift tomb – one of wrinkled sheets, dirtied tissues, and tear-stained pillows – and resurrected herself to a life of cold, heartless, methodical labor. After hours of scrutinizing the situation, it was obvious that her mother had granted the key of her heart graciously and solely upon her son, Tristan; it was obvious that she could do nothing to win over her mother’s affection; it was obvious that she could, that she must, move on with her life.
Sound from the sturdy entrance of her grand fortress had so intruded and invaded her sanctuary that it imprinted words of remorse never previously heeded. The repentant words of her worried mother evaporated into the intricate tunnels of her ears, “Willa? Willa, dear, pick up the telephone this instant! Neglecting to answer the phone is irresponsible and simply impolite! Oh, I’m so very sorry sweetheart; I am really calling to relay my apologies to you. I cannot be sure of why this has happened, but my psychiatrist explained that it is quite common for a parent to care for one child more than another, it happens-”
“Mama?” said Willa as she bounded out of her dark fortress and out into the cruel and devastating world, snatching the communicating device that had led to such terrible communication, “Mama, don’t go insulting my intelligence by saying you love Tristan more than me, I know it’s not true. Just because you are erroneously choosing to attend his insignificant high school football game rather than my grad school graduation does not mean I was the bad child, leading to your unbalanced love. Maybe he’s sensitive, or has low confidence. I don’t care what the problem is, but there is a different reason that you give more effort to be at his disposal rather than mine.”
“Willa, sweetheart, I know this is a shocking and unfathomable idea for you to process, it took me twenty years to comprehend it myself, but you must understand, it’s not your fault I care more deeply for Tristan, I was just never built to be a mother.”
“No Mama,” said Willa as she choked out an unnatural and eerie chuckle, “No, I don’t – I won’t – believe it. I’ve spent the better part of the last three days enclosed in a room with just my thoughts and myself, so I know you love us equally. I know there is no other explanation, and if you cannot accept that fact, I would appreciate it if you would stop contacting me.”
“Willa,” The word drew itself out of Elizabeth Anderson’s mouth with exasperation and longing.
“Goodbye mother,” And with that, Willa Anderson, once a girl, now a woman, unraveled the wilting ribbons connecting herself and her mother as she corralled the courage to cut the telephone line.
Mimic Lines from “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” by Ambrose Bierce:
“Overhead, as he looked up through this rift in the wood, shone great golden stars looking unfamiliar and grouped in strange constellations” (197).
“The intellectual part of his nature was already effaced; he had power only to feel, and feeling was torment” (195).
“Something in the awful disturbance of his organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record of things never before perceived” (195).
Author's Note:
I wrote this piece for the short story unit in English Class. The mimic lines are from Ambrose Bierce in the short story, "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge". Willa, the main character, utilizes the defense mechanism of denial.
