Heather M. Browne

Splitting

Heather M. Browne

(Summer 2020)

The day split open like an overly ripe watermelon, spitting disdain all around, in seeds and juice. I didn’t hear it crack or explode. It burst silently, without any warning or provocation. I didn’t even know a fruit could explode from within itself, just by being. But when I walked in, there it was, ripped open, with flesh and rind rotting. My stomach churned savagely as I held back a gag, my mouth swelling with saliva. They say the heart is the tastiest part; the core, the firmest and the sweetest. But mine was just the shell, bereft of innards, exploded like a grenade that left stinking, jagged remnants everywhere.

This day when everything split was a late summer lightning storm day. I’ve always loved the rain. Maybe even more than the wind because it doesn’t merely push away the unwanted debris of life, but it washes everything, taking away the dirt and smut, leaving you with that rich, earthy, acrid scent. It feels and smells settled. And I love how the colors of life seem brighter, sharper, and in some way, new.

Tonight, I needed something to be new, fresh, and, somehow, restored. It had been a tumultuous summer, Mommy peeking out in moments between the lightning flash of her mind. Her weather changed drastically in any given moment. And my tummy, which had been filled with dread for weeks and weeks, was suddenly waiting and hoping. It started to vibrate. In my ears I could hear its hum, its patriotic marching-in-rhythm tune. My fingers, on alert, were waiting to snap and keep time; tingly with the energy pulsing within them and all around, for what was next. And like a watchful dog, my ears perked. There’s a lot of buzz and excitement in watching the sky crack open in light and sound, the outpouring and the cleansing of rain.

My family would sit on the old brick steps for hours watching lightning storms. My parents and my sister would ooooh and ahhhh as I ran around wild in the rain. I can run with wild abandon. And if you run really, really fast, you can simultaneously hear your heart pounding in your ears and the beating in your chest.

While we waited for the unleashing, Mom sat smoking cigarette after cigarette, Benson & Hedges 100’s from the golden box, which hissed angrily in the rain. I watched the droplets speckle her cigarette, transforming each landed spot transparent. The tobacco packed tightly on the inside glowing red as it burned. I was seeing its heart, her heart, which both intrigued and scared me. Neither felt constant. I knew I could lose her in an instant. But in this second, both glowed and burned bright, like her anger. My stomach recoiled, waiting, feeling this power. Everything that you are holding onto is lost, in the exhale.

I don’t think any of us were able to truly exhale. Every day my mother was losing her ability to stay here, to stay settled. She was smoking more and more, trying to suck something in. I was frantic to stay busy, constantly occupying her space and time. Running, dancing, needing, trying to spark something, anything to make her stay. She was getting too thin. Her skin was starting to get a little transparent. She tore much more easily, and at fifty-three, she had begun to sag. Her mascara pooled in the wrinkle of bags under her eyes. She didn’t sleep much, even with all the bourbon or her gallon-sized jug of Gallo.

I leapt and sang, trying to grab her attention on this hot humid night, my body sticky in spite of the rain. I was anxious, hoping for some relief in the glow of lightning. A message from the gods that there was something greater out there, whose anger was louder than mine. Whose voice could drown out Mom’s unwanted ones. I think she heard too many voices in her head.

The storm brewed, but didn’t purge in relief. And Mommy’s eyes were getting that glassy vacant stare, maybe from too much bourbon. I was getting scared. I felt myself pulling back on the top of my head, trying to look sensible and secure, standing tall, while I nervously chewed on the insides of my raw mouth. I needed to find a distraction.

I ran into the house remembering I had kept a leftover box of burning snakes, the 4th of July treat, those little charcoal tabs you lit and watched as they grew into ashy gray pythons or rattlers. There were six snakes waiting to uncoil in my box. I lit them all with Dad and Mom watching. Dad was home more often this summer, I thought, as I lit the first match. Was that from a lack of work or out of concern? Neither answer was good. I blackened the first snake with my match. Come to think of it, we had eaten a lot of blackened hot dogs this summer, and watermelon, corn because they were cheap. I lit another snake.

I had just turned sixteen, which came and went without celebration. Did we even have cake? Life right now wasn’t very sweet. I wasn’t feeling very wise, or old, or about to launch off into anything grand. I just wanted to slow everything down to help life make sense. If we could hold on to this moment, maybe we didn’t have to exhale and burn out.

My older sister was smart enough to be occupied; boyfriends and alcohol, part-time jobs and beach bonfires—anything to keep her away from the house. But I didn’t drive yet, so I was stuck burning snakes, and hoping for thunder with Mom and Dad.

I lit another. One by one I lit each snake on top of a piece of foil to keep them from marking our old brick walk. Mom loved blocks of old brick. Ours were from broken-down churches and other buildings. I like the smell of burning things, that sharp strong scent. I breathed in the charcoal in the air, my nostrils filling, the hairs inside on alert, like me. I needed to escape.

I found some escape in the theater. I was really good at being someone else. And when I ran, I pretended that I was an Olympic sprinter. It was exhilarating to be anybody other than me. I overheard a hiss instead of applause. My snakes, better at evolution, were burning and writhing in pain, growing out of themselves, like intestines squirting out of an abdomen or a nasty cyst that popped open. It fascinated me how one little tablet could explode into a four-foot ash trail and tail. I loved to watch them squirm and coil around one another. Six burning snakes intertwined in a hug.

My family, for some reason, didn’t hug. It is the one thing that I always really wanted; to feel that in being here I somehow made it better. Because in a hug, it feels like you stop, you stay, just as you are, in that moment, and that can make everything, no matter how crazy, okay.

I lit another snake. Mom lit cigarette after cigarette and sip after sip from her jug. We sat on the porch for hours, waiting for the sky’s show that never came. The sky never let loose that night. It didn’t go as planned. It never tore apart in glory or lit up the sky in wonder and awe. It just stayed overcast, gray, and heavy, like my snakes. My feet were heavy from running. Or maybe the night was more like my Dad, slumped against the brick wall, pens lined up neat in his chest pocket. I saw that my Dad was there; I could see his body propped up by the wall, but he said and did nothing. Maybe it was too exhausting, watching my Mom find her own solitary pleasure in cigarettes and booze, and me trying to find my own while putting on a show. Or maybe he was just beaten down and depressed. I thought of him like he was a used-up washrag, there.

Eventually we all went in. No talk, no applause nor laughter.

“I’ll be careful I don’t start a fire,” I said, balling up the snakes in the tinfoil. I should have thrown them out into the metal trash can behind the house, but I didn’t. Maybe I was being lazy, but I threw out my ashy snakes, hugging on to one another, in the trash can under the kitchen sink. It was a butter yellow rectangular trash can, matching the yellow paint on our kitchen walls, the type of trash can that could easily melt.

Leaden with disappointment, I tucked away the matches in the drawer and washed my hands. I went to the bathroom and was brushing my teeth getting ready to end this uneventful day, when Mom suddenly stormed into the room, her feet pounding. Her face was ghostly, as pale as my deceased snakes. She was shaking uncontrollably and screaming, “Why are you trying to burn the house down? Why do you want us all to die? Why are you destroying everything?”

Wait? What? What? Where was this coming from? With my mom you had to try and stitch her thoughts, which were much too loose, together. Think Heather, think. Where is there truth here? Where is the truth in her craziness? Find it, where? Where? And then I saw the trail of ash on her face and the tin foil accusingly crushed in her palm.

“Oh, God, oh, God, no!” I always had to be so careful and safe. But I had forgotten where I had thrown out the ball of snakes. “Oh Mom, no! No!” I pleaded. I was shaking, screaming. “I swear it was an accident! I-I-I was lazy, I- I wasn’t thinking. Mom, it’s me! Mom!” Oh, dear God, come back! “Mom, it’s Heather. You know I would never want to burn our house down, never!. Mom, please! Mom, Mom, you know!”

I tried to reach out and touch her hand, but she ripped it away from me, her eyes aflame. She was on fire. And no matter what I said, thoughtlessness, laziness, not knowing why, nothing was the right answer.

She dragged me into the living room, made my father hold me securely in the chair while she got her wine and cigarettes. “Hold her down, Fred. Don’t let her get away. Don’t let her move. She’s trying to burn our house down!”

My father, confused but obedient, clamped my wrists down hard onto the chair’s wooden arms. What the hell was happening?

“Fred, hold her. I am calling the police.” She ran to the phone.

Oh, God, no! “Mom? Mom, wait! It’s a mistake! Mom, it’s a mistake! Dad? Dad!” He was looking back and forth between us, confused. I screamed, “Dad! Help me!” frantically looking at my father. He had to know. He had to. I kept pleading, trying to explain that I didn’t think, I was just lazy, that I should have been more careful, that I knew better, but nothing I said appeased them. Nothing I said made any difference. Hostilely, he jerked his head back at me, slamming my wrists down even harder. “Ow! Dad?”

Sweat drops were popping out and lining up below his nose, mimicking the pens imprisoned in his pocket. “Why would you do such a thing? What the hell is wrong with you?” Dad demanded, his eyes stabbing at me, his voice booming and furious.

I started shaking, uncontrollably. Oh, dear God, no! This can’t be happening. My dad actually believed my Mom. In that one split second, he believed her, and all her craziness. He stood there glaring with her, against me, for the very first time. But, how? How could he believe her? Why couldn’t he see?

I was shaking my head no, no, no! as my body was shaking furiously, back and forth, fast as a rattlesnake. And this split me, wide open, with tears exploding out of my eyes and pouring out, all over my evening sky. Our thunderstorm had finally come. I was split, just like that watermelon. And there was nothing that could be done, nothing to put me and nothing to put it back together. There was no way to get rid of this horrific aftermath and the stench that now covered everything.