Thursday

She thought of her body as a bomb-shelter because she felt as if she’d housed many within her barricaded walls. Five children had come and exited in a whirl of joyous sorrow. She couldn’t keep them safe now that they were out and free and trouble was like a pot of coffee on the stove, constantly brewing and ready to boil over.

While making them French toast, she worried about the many possible accidents and atrocities that could take them away from her while they were outside of her protective grasp. Why only yesterday the remains of a woman had been found in a plastic bag. Her skull was bleached pearl-white and glimmering in the watery swirl of a forgotten dumpster, while the last remaining scraps of her dress were singed and torn. She’d read this in that morning's paper digested between chews of toast saturated in coffee.

Her children’s voices echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls and floorboards until they finally stopped and rested with her. Now would come the myriad questions that was her lot to respond to each morning.

“Your mittens are in the drawer beside the socks.”

“Yes, I remembered to sign the permission slip for your field trip.”

“No, you may not go to Ethan’s house afterschool.”

If anyone had asked her what her religion was, she would have answered, “Mother” as she sing-songed the same litany each day with the same blissful care.

Her husband was gone having fulfilled his duties and been devoured, headless and erect like a praying mantis. There was no need for him now; she had found other means of obtaining her brood.

Shuffling along the cold boards of the house, she remembered the many pleasant days she’d spent in the park watching the mothers playing with their children. It had given her a pleasant ache to be there with them, hearing their happy laughter, watching the mother’s push them on the swings or wipe away snot, dirt and tears. She’d tried for years to try to conceive and failed. Each doctor’s visit brought another heartbreak and another sense of failure, until she became so obsessed with the idea of becoming a mother that her husband had her hospitalized. Sometime after she’d been released from the drug-induced haze that had held her and her dreams captive, she was blessed with the first of many blessed events.

Rubbing crust from the corners of her sleepy eyes, she remembered how it had all come about. It occurred on one of those twilight nights when the air crackles with the first hints of autumn. The baby, her baby was cooing happily in its stroller. She remembered how she’d watched it, him that day and how much joy she’d felt. She had been born and reborn when she’d become a mother. It felt like something inside of her that had been clamped shut had suddenly opened; blossomed. Only one challenge blocked her joy and it was easily removed with some chloroform, a knife, some gasoline and a garbage bag.

She looked at the clock, remembering the time, and hurried herself about the house, making sure it was ready and waiting for her next arrival. She’d felt a tug a few weeks ago and felt it was time to add to her happy little family, but then looked at the headline in the morning paper and decided to wait until things gentled down. For now, she would bake some scones for afternoon tea, that would be savory and ready for when her children came home and the sweet little girl from across the way would join them with her mother’s permission of course.