"Camille and I will have drinks in my bedroom," she said to the others, fixing her hair in the sideboard mirror. She was dressed for it, I realized, already in her nightgown. Just as I had as a child when I was summoned to her, I trailed her up the stairs.
And then I was inside her room, where I'd always wanted to be. That massive bed, pillows sprouting off it like barnacles. The full-length mirror embedded in the wall. And the famous ivory floor that made everything glow as if we were in a snowy, moonlit landscape. She tossed the pillows to the floor, pulled back the covers and motioned for me to sit in bed, then got in next to me. All those months after Marian died when she kept to her room and refused me, I wouldn't have dared to imagine myself curled up in bed with my mother. Now here I was, more than fifteen years too late.
She ran her fingers through my hair and handed me my drink. A sniff: smelled like brown apples. I held it stiffly but didn't sip.
"When I was a little girl, my mother took me into the North Woods and left me," Adora said. "She didn't seem angry or upset. Indifferent. Almost bored. She didn't explain why. She didn't say a word to me, in fact. Just told me to get in the car. I was barefoot. When we got there, she took me by the hand and very efficiently pulled me along the trail, then off the trail, then dropped my hand and told me not to follow her. I was eight, just a small thing. My feet were ripped into strips by the time I got home, and she just looked up at me from the evening paper, and went to her room. This room."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"When a child knows that young that her mother doesn't care for her, bad things happen."
"Believe me, I know what that feels like," I said. Her hands were still running through my hair, one finger toying with my bare circle of scalp.
"I wanted to love you, Camille. But you were so hard. Marian, she was so easy."
"Enough, Momma," I said.
"No. Not enough. Let me take care of you, Camille. Just once, need me."
Let it end. Let it all end.
"Let's do it then," I said. I swallowed the drink in a belt, peeled her hands from my head, and willed my voice to be steady.
"I needed you all along, Momma. In a real way. Not a need you created so you could turn it on and off. And I can't ever forgive you for Marian. She was a baby."
"She'll always be my baby," my mother said.
~*&*~
I fell asleep without the fan on, woke up with the sheets stuck to me. My own sweat and urine. Teeth chattering and my heartbeat thumping behind my eyeballs. I grabbed the trash can beside my bed and threw up. Hot liquid, with four kernels of corn bobbing on top.
My mother was in my room before I pulled myself back onto the bed. I pictured her sitting in the hall chair, next to the photo of Marian, darning socks while she waited for me to sicken.
"Come on, baby. Into the bathtub with you," she murmured. She pulled my shirt over my head, my pajama bottoms down. I could see her eyes on my neck, breasts hips, legs for a sharp blue second.
I vomited again as I got into the tub, my mother holding my hand for balance. More hot liquid down my front and onto the porcelain.
Adora snapped a towel from the rack, poured rubbing alcohol into it, wiped me down with objectivity of a window cleaner. I sat in the bathtub as she poured glasses of cold water over my head to bring the fever down. Fed me two more pills and another glass of milk the colour of weak sky. I took it all with the same bitter vengeance that fueled me on two-day benders. I'm not down yet, what else you got? I wanted it to be vicious. I owed Marian that much.
Vomiting into the tub, draining the tub, refilling, draining. Icepacks on my shoulders, between my legs. Heat packs on my forehead, my knees. Tweezers into the wound on my ankle, rubbing alcohol poured after. Water flushing pink. Vanish, vanish, vanish,, pleading from my neck.
Adora's lashes were plucked clean, the left eye dribbling plump tears, her upper lip continually bathed with her tongue. As I was losing consciousness, a thought: I am being cared for. My mother is in a sweat mothering me. Flattering. No one else would do this for me. Marian. I'm jealous of Marian.
~*&*~
I was floating in a half-full bath of lukewarm water when I woke again to screams. Weak and steaming, I pulled myself out of the bath, wrapped a thin cotton robe around me—my mother's high screams jangling in my ears—and opened the door just as Richard busted in.
"Camille, are you okay?" My mother's wails, wild and ragged, cutting the air behind him.
Then, his mouth fell open. He tilted my head to one side, looked at the cuts on my neck. Pulled open my robe and flinched.
"Jesus Christ." A psychic wobbling: He teetered between laughter and fear.
"What's wrong with my mother?"
"What's wrong with you? You're a cutter?"
"I cut words," I muttered, as if it made a difference.
"Words, I can see that."
"Why is my mother screaming?" I felt woozy, sat down on the floor, hard.
"Camille, are you sick?"
I nodded. "Did you find something?"
Vickery and several officers tumbled past my room. My mother staggered by a few seconds later, her hands wrapped in her hair, screaming at them to get out, to have respect, to know they'll be very sorry.
"Not yet. How sick are you?" He felt my forehead, tied my robe shut, refused to look at my face anymore.
I shrugged like a sulking child.
"Everyone has to leave the house, Camille. Put on some clothes and I'll get you to the doctor's."
"Yes, you need your evidence. I hope I have enough poison left in me."
it's hardly the same situation. she had a mother once, a long time ago. a fine mother, though she doesn't remember or think much of the life she had back then. but there's still something she relates to in all of this. the way someone can care for you with a tenderness that is violent, that you know is dangerous, but the gratitude and love you feel because you wanted someone to be tender towards you.
she was so alone for so many years and all she had was delilah, and she fought her and dismissed her and distanced herself from her as hard as she could, and eventually she gave up on trying.]
[isn't that a mood, camille. for once, she doesn't smile.]
Why?
[i do think she understands that this is a manipulation, something to make her small and helpless, the way she prefers, but she wants to not understand.]
[She does notice that. It helps some. Grounds the woman in her mind.]
She's sick. In the head. [In oh so many ways. Camille grimaces and tosses her hair, scrambling for the ease of dry recitation.] Munchausen's by Proxy. It's a behavioural disorder. Regular Munchausen's get attention by making themselves sick. The by proxy crowd gets attention by making someone in their care get sick.
[i guess it does cast some light on why camille is so pushy about these things. she wouldn't want to admit she sees a mother in delilah; delilah is awful. but camille has to see this in her own mother.]
About twenty years too late to do any good. But yeah, I helped.
[And for her trouble she was rewarded with a good man vanishing and a family tree reduced to cinders. From there it was a straight into Frank Curry's basement suite. Neither sister came with her.
Her throat seizes. Camille covers her eyes suddenly. Soundless, until she speaks through the choke.]
[Her lips pull in, half smile. She has to keep blinking or she'll start in on the waterworks. Have to hold it. Save the crying jag for an empty room and a pillow.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
2/2 (EXCERPT) ((SPOILERS, CW: parental/caregiver abuse, self harm, vomit, urine, sadism, exposure))
And then I was inside her room, where I'd always wanted to be. That massive bed, pillows sprouting off it like barnacles. The full-length mirror embedded in the wall. And the famous ivory floor that made everything glow as if we were in a snowy, moonlit landscape. She tossed the pillows to the floor, pulled back the covers and motioned for me to sit in bed, then got in next to me. All those months after Marian died when she kept to her room and refused me, I wouldn't have dared to imagine myself curled up in bed with my mother. Now here I was, more than fifteen years too late.
She ran her fingers through my hair and handed me my drink. A sniff: smelled like brown apples. I held it stiffly but didn't sip.
"When I was a little girl, my mother took me into the North Woods and left me," Adora said. "She didn't seem angry or upset. Indifferent. Almost bored. She didn't explain why. She didn't say a word to me, in fact. Just told me to get in the car. I was barefoot. When we got there, she took me by the hand and very efficiently pulled me along the trail, then off the trail, then dropped my hand and told me not to follow her. I was eight, just a small thing. My feet were ripped into strips by the time I got home, and she just looked up at me from the evening paper, and went to her room. This room."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"When a child knows that young that her mother doesn't care for her, bad things happen."
"Believe me, I know what that feels like," I said. Her hands were still running through my hair, one finger toying with my bare circle of scalp.
"I wanted to love you, Camille. But you were so hard. Marian, she was so easy."
"Enough, Momma," I said.
"No. Not enough. Let me take care of you, Camille. Just once, need me."
Let it end. Let it all end.
"Let's do it then," I said. I swallowed the drink in a belt, peeled her hands from my head, and willed my voice to be steady.
"I needed you all along, Momma. In a real way. Not a need you created so you could turn it on and off. And I can't ever forgive you for Marian. She was a baby."
"She'll always be my baby," my mother said.
I fell asleep without the fan on, woke up with the sheets stuck to me. My own sweat and urine. Teeth chattering and my heartbeat thumping behind my eyeballs. I grabbed the trash can beside my bed and threw up. Hot liquid, with four kernels of corn bobbing on top.
My mother was in my room before I pulled myself back onto the bed. I pictured her sitting in the hall chair, next to the photo of Marian, darning socks while she waited for me to sicken.
"Come on, baby. Into the bathtub with you," she murmured. She pulled my shirt over my head, my pajama bottoms down. I could see her eyes on my neck, breasts hips, legs for a sharp blue second.
I vomited again as I got into the tub, my mother holding my hand for balance. More hot liquid down my front and onto the porcelain.
Adora snapped a towel from the rack, poured rubbing alcohol into it, wiped me down with objectivity of a window cleaner. I sat in the bathtub as she poured glasses of cold water over my head to bring the fever down. Fed me two more pills and another glass of milk the colour of weak sky. I took it all with the same bitter vengeance that fueled me on two-day benders. I'm not down yet, what else you got? I wanted it to be vicious. I owed Marian that much.
Vomiting into the tub, draining the tub, refilling, draining. Icepacks on my shoulders, between my legs. Heat packs on my forehead, my knees. Tweezers into the wound on my ankle, rubbing alcohol poured after. Water flushing pink. Vanish, vanish, vanish,, pleading from my neck.
Adora's lashes were plucked clean, the left eye dribbling plump tears, her upper lip continually bathed with her tongue. As I was losing consciousness, a thought: I am being cared for. My mother is in a sweat mothering me. Flattering. No one else would do this for me. Marian. I'm jealous of Marian.
I was floating in a half-full bath of lukewarm water when I woke again to screams. Weak and steaming, I pulled myself out of the bath, wrapped a thin cotton robe around me—my mother's high screams jangling in my ears—and opened the door just as Richard busted in.
"Camille, are you okay?" My mother's wails, wild and ragged, cutting the air behind him.
Then, his mouth fell open. He tilted my head to one side, looked at the cuts on my neck. Pulled open my robe and flinched.
"Jesus Christ." A psychic wobbling: He teetered between laughter and fear.
"What's wrong with my mother?"
"What's wrong with you? You're a cutter?"
"I cut words," I muttered, as if it made a difference.
"Words, I can see that."
"Why is my mother screaming?" I felt woozy, sat down on the floor, hard.
"Camille, are you sick?"
I nodded. "Did you find something?"
Vickery and several officers tumbled past my room. My mother staggered by a few seconds later, her hands wrapped in her hair, screaming at them to get out, to have respect, to know they'll be very sorry.
"Not yet. How sick are you?" He felt my forehead, tied my robe shut, refused to look at my face anymore.
I shrugged like a sulking child.
"Everyone has to leave the house, Camille. Put on some clothes and I'll get you to the doctor's."
"Yes, you need your evidence. I hope I have enough poison left in me."
no subject
it's hardly the same situation. she had a mother once, a long time ago. a fine mother, though she doesn't remember or think much of the life she had back then. but there's still something she relates to in all of this. the way someone can care for you with a tenderness that is violent, that you know is dangerous, but the gratitude and love you feel because you wanted someone to be tender towards you.
she was so alone for so many years and all she had was delilah, and she fought her and dismissed her and distanced herself from her as hard as she could, and eventually she gave up on trying.]
...She poisoned you?
no subject
Camille's eyes are wrenched shut. She's got her arms folded but white knuckles the fabric of her sweater.]
Yeah. [She pulls her lip in between her teeth for a wretched grin-cum-grimace. Biting down.] Momma loved herself a sick little girl.
no subject
Why?
[i do think she understands that this is a manipulation, something to make her small and helpless, the way she prefers, but she wants to not understand.]
no subject
She's sick. In the head. [In oh so many ways. Camille grimaces and tosses her hair, scrambling for the ease of dry recitation.] Munchausen's by Proxy. It's a behavioural disorder. Regular Munchausen's get attention by making themselves sick. The by proxy crowd gets attention by making someone in their care get sick.
no subject
[i guess it does cast some light on why camille is so pushy about these things. she wouldn't want to admit she sees a mother in delilah; delilah is awful. but camille has to see this in her own mother.]
...You helped him catch her.
[but by risking her own life.]
no subject
About twenty years too late to do any good. But yeah, I helped.
[And for her trouble she was rewarded with a good man vanishing and a family tree reduced to cinders. From there it was a straight into Frank Curry's basement suite. Neither sister came with her.
Her throat seizes. Camille covers her eyes suddenly. Soundless, until she speaks through the choke.]
I wanted help Marian.
no subject
[she thought of marian in the memory. another little girl.]
A sister?
no subject
[Another swallow. She pulls her hands away. Not crying, but just barely skirting the brink.]
She passed away when I was thirteen. I never realized what was happening to her.
no subject
[so that's who she would have wanted to save with the wish.]
To sacrifice such innocent children to her whims. [hurting children is just one of those things that makes her ballistic.] I'm sorry, Camille.
no subject
[Her lips pull in, half smile. She has to keep blinking or she'll start in on the waterworks. Have to hold it. Save the crying jag for an empty room and a pillow.]
...Thank you. Laudna.