1969

1969

Cecilia got her period when she was twelve years old. By then she had breasts larger than any other girl in her class. She walked with her shoulders rolled forward, trying to hide the new signs of her womanhood. Etta wasn’t speaking to her much at that point, let alone broaching the subject of puberty with her. Cecilia had heard from other girls about the bleeding, but still her heart stopped when she saw her wet, red underwear. She went through her mother’s cupboards looking for sanitary pads, but there were none. She doubled over in pain on the bathroom floor, saw the blood come through her pants, and decided she should tell her mother.

Etta didn’t answer when Cecilia knocked on her mother’s door, but there was nothing unusual about that—it was three o’clock and she slept most afternoons. She went to Etta’s bedside and whispered her name until she startled awake. Etta sighed when Cecilia told her what had happened—in pity or disgust, Cecilia wasn’t sure.

“What do you want from me?”

She didn’t answer because she didn’t know. Her throat tightened. Etta opened her bedside drawer and took out two pills from a small red makeup bag that she hid from Henry. She held them out to Cecilia and slipped her other hand under the pillow and closed her eyes.

Cecilia stared at the little white pills, placed them on the bedside table, and left the bedroom. She found her mother’s purse in the hallway and took whatever change she had to the pharmacy. Her face burned as she paid for the pads, looking away from the young man at the cash register. At home she ran a hot bath and Etta came in to use the toilet just as she sank into the tub. Etta peed with her eyes closed.

Later that afternoon, Cecilia stood outside Etta’s bedroom door. An unfamiliar rage crept up her chest. She charged inside and flipped on the light. Standing at the foot of her mother’s bed with tight fists, she realized that she wanted Etta to hurt her. Being smacked by her at least meant that she existed in Etta’s small, sad world. By then Cecilia had felt for months like she was dead to her mother. Etta stirred awake and looked at her.

“Hit me, Etta,” she said, shaking. “Go on. Hit me!”

She’d never called her mother by her first name before.

Etta’s expression was empty. She looked from Cecilia’s trembling face to the light switch on the wall and she sighed again. She put her head back down and closed her eyes. Henry’s footsteps traveled through the front foyer downstairs and into the kitchen. He’d been looking for dinner but there wasn’t any. Not today. The two pills Etta had given her were still on the bedside table. Cecilia wasn’t sure why she didn’t want Henry to see them. She took them and flushed them down the toilet.

“Is she not feeling well again?” Henry was filling the kettle when Cecilia came into the kitchen.

“Headache,” she said. They were all so good at lying for one another, at pretending things weren’t as bad as they were. He nodded and looked again for leftovers in the fridge. Cecilia turned on the radio to fill the room so that they didn’t have to say anything more.