The Structure of a House is Solid

Chapter 1: Digging Trenches

With a jolt, I awoke and was met by the very first of the sun’s rays as they stole into my bedroom window.. I traced the pattern they made upon my ceiling and listened to the silence that invaded my space, broken only by the meticulous rhythm of my lungs. I heard the grandfather clock ticking away in the downstairs parlor room. I heard the muted hum of the heating unit that I installed a few weeks prior. If I held my breath and did not move a muscle, I could even hear the steady dripping of the leaky faucet in the master bedroom. You get your lazy ass up and fix that damn faucet, Dawn! I flinched as my father’s voice ran through my mind. I tried to close my eyes and retreat inside myself, but he would not let me. Did you forget? If you ain’t up by dawn break, then I break you! Get up! It had been weeks since his death, but his presence still filled every room of this house. I sighed and heaved my body out of bed, grabbed the toolbox beneath my bed, and headed upstairs to the master room. 

I walked across the master bedroom, into the master bathroom within the house that was built and loved by masters themselves. Of course, it was not uncommon to come across old plantation homes in Southern Georgia. We even took field trips as kids to various plantations in the area and toured a few of the dilapidated three story homes, our teachers encouraging and often requiring moments of “mandatory meditation.” However, this house hat’s the thing that freaked me out about this house––it didn’t feel old at all. The ceilings stood tall and strong, the walls were wrapped in polished oak, the staircases danced and whirled as they travelled between floors. It’s as if I am trapped; suspended in a history that I cannot escape, that won’t escape me. Imagine living in a home so magnificent and grand, yet filled to the brim with the stink of blood, broken backs, and oppressed but never broken will. Everyday I woke up alone in this beautifully terrible house, thinking that I would hear the crack of a whip or the somber song of destitute souls. Instead all I hear is silence. 

Once, I asked my father why he decided to buy this house. I remember it perfectly; it may have even been the longest conversation we had ever had. It was last summer and he was out in the yard, refurbishing a crack in one of the columns that formed the façade of the house. After I had asked, he froze mid brush stroke. He looked almost comical with half his massive body hanging off the ladder and his arm half raised as white paint dripped into the grass. Unfortunately, nothing about my father was comical. He lowered his arm and slowly turned his thick neck to glower down at me. Even from afar, I could see the clench in his jaw as he bit down on his cheek and released. He did this whenever he was trying to calm the rage. As he began to climb down the ladder, the metal rungs screamed under his enormous weight. I took an involuntary step back. 

“Why the hell you questioning me girl? You ain’t got shit else to do?” he snarled. 

“No…yes…I…” Breathe Dawn. Don’t let him see you scared. “I just wanted to know.”

“You think I’m one of them crazy niggas, huh? Why on earth would this big ass black man spend his whole life’s earnings on a broke-down house where his own flesh and blood were born and killed as slaves?” 

He began slogging towards me and I could see the beads of sweat racing down the protruding veins in his forehead. He’s yelling now. 

“And why on God’s green earth would said black man continue to put every last cent he has and ever will have into rebuilding this haunted house?” At this point he was close enough where I could smell the tobacco stuck between his blackened gums. 

It took all I had not to run away. 

 “I’m only gonna tell you this once. My great-great-grandfather built this fucking house from the skin off his ass. When the Emancipation Proclamation was passed, he petitioned the government to buy this house. Everyone else wanted nothing to do with him, his friends, children, his wife. He wanted to reclaim what was his, so he refused to leave. And when he walked up these steps he looked his master in the eye and served him them court papers. That dirty white man laughed in his face and put a bullet between his eyes. That laugh’s the last thing he ever heard. My great-great-grandfather lived here, he cried here, and he died here. And I’ll be damned if I let his life go to waste like that. Now get the hell out of me face, ‘fore I put yo lazy ass to work!” 

I had never run so far, so fast in my life. I didn’t speak to my father at all after that, which I think is how he liked it. I just prepared his meals, cleaned up his messes, and never bothered him while he was working. 10 months later my father finally finished the renovations on the house. He rewarded himself with a bottle of brandy and a shotgun to the mouth as he sat in an old rocking chair on his new porch, staring at the stars. Sometimes I wake up to the sound of that rocking chair wobbling in the wind…

The sound of the house alarm jolted me back to the present. I did a quick look at the clock hanging in the bedroom, grabbed a poking stick from the fireplace and crept downstairs. 

It’s 8:30 in the morning. Who the hell would try to rob someone at 8:30 in the fucking morning?

As I softly made my way down the grand staircase, I heard mutters of frustration followed by a loud “Shit!” I ran into the foyer with my weapon held high, but as soon as I turned the corner my heart froze in my chest and my body went numb. Standing 15 feet in front of me was a woman with silver-blonde hair that was pulled smartly into a bun. She stood about 5’6”; not counting the patent leather pumps that decorated her feet. Her face was powdered perfectly and she was dressed in a crisp black business suit. In her hand she clutched a small black suitcase. 

“Mom?” I breathed. The woman turned her gaze towards me and her blue eyes rolled in exasperation. 

“Oh thank goodness, Dawn. What’s the damn code for the alarm?” I stood and stared, convinced that if I moved a fraction of an inch my body would catch fire. 

“Dawn! What’s the stupid code?” 

I jumped and stammered out, “4…552…6” 

The woman punched in the code with precise and delicate fingers. She gave a satisfied smile as the wail of the alarm ended. “Ah, that’s better,” she said as she swiftly brushed by me. She didn’t even turn around as she barked, “Well don’t just stand there silly girl. Bring in my things!” Ignoring her command, I followed her into the living room the way a once-poisoned rat might circle a conveniently placed piece of cheese. 

“What are you doing here?” I finally asked. 

My mother had the nerve to look confused. “I live here, Dawn.”

“No, you don’t. This is my house! I haven’t even seen you in  two years.”

My mother let out a short, mocking giggle that made my blood boil. “Oh I know! Two years and my feet are just fucking killing me! Come now, help me take my shoes off!” 

“Mother, get out of my house. Now.”

“Oh your house? Since when is it your house?” she teased. 

“It took four months of beggins and a little trickery, but Dad finally put the deed in my name weeks ago. So please, leave,” I growled. 

“Oh he did now, did he?” She sauntered around the room, her head turning as if she was looking for the mean old man. “Where is that selfish son of a bitch anyway?”

“He’s dead. He blew his brains out on the porch six weeks ago. I tried to called you.”

My mother froze mid stride. Although her back was to me, I could see the tension in her body. She reached out and laid her hand on a nearby chair as if to stabilize herself. I didn’t so much hear, but see her let out a deep breath. She turned towards me with her eyes blinking rapidly and said, “I know.” 

I felt like I just got hit by a truck. She knew? She knew and she waited six weeks to come home? My mother had never for a second been a warm and loving parent, but this was unexpected even for her. She must’ve seen the disapproval on my face because she quickly snapped, “Would you stop staring at me like that? You would’ve sworn I pissed in your cereal. You didn’t even like the man and he damn well didn’t like you.” 

“Six weeks. It’s been six weeks. He was your husband.” I said.

“Child, please. We may have been married, but we hadn’t been husband and wife since before you were born.” 

“Ok fuck him then! What about me? You waited six fucking weeks to come home to me? I called you! I called you every day for weeks and got nothing. The only reason I’m not in foster care somewhere is because Dad had the decency to off himself after I turned 18! You fucking knew? You were off screwing some senator while I scrubbed my father’s brains off the windowpane? What the fuck is wrong with you?”  

The pause that followed felt like ten years and ten thousand miles had passed between the two of us. I waited for her to fill it, but she just stood there with her arms crossed and face impassive, too stubborn to break the silence. I rolled my eyes in defeat. I had a better chance of finding gold in my backyard than I had of getting this ice queen to feel anything. “Mother,” I said quietly, “Leave. I do not need you here.”

“Well clearly you do. You seem to be putting on quite a bit of weight since I left. And what the hell did you do to your hair? You walking around with a dead possum sewed to your scalp? Do you even own a comb, darling?” 

She strutted over to me and nestle her fingers into my frizzy locs. I swatted her hand away and snarled, “ It’s better than looking like some wannabe politician’s whore.”  My insults rolled off of her like oil on water. She put her cold hands on my face and forced me to meet her piercing gaze. Her voice was calm, tranquil even.

“Do you know why I named you Dawn? I didn’t want you. I didn’t want you for a second. The only reason you made it onto this earth is because the Lord forbade me to take action against you. But when I pushed you out of me and held you in my arms, I felt something that I had never felt before. I felt responsibility. I felt like I owed you some piece of my life and I couldn’t stand it. There you were, so small and pink and…dependent. I didn’t want you and yet I still felt like I needed to be with you. How do you explain that? How do you explain how someone can live their life happy and free, just to be tied down by something that’s less than 8 pounds? So when I held you in my arms, I knew. I knew that my life was over; you were the beginning to my end. Sweetie, you are the dawn of my death.”

With every word that she had spoken, my mother stole something from me. Something she knew I would never get back. Whatever seemingly happy memory I ever had in this house, with this shell of a woman evaporated. Instead I was left with nothing. No breath, no soul, no shred of identity left. I felt every muscle in my body convulse as I struggled to stay afoot. My mother removed her claws from my face and I finally let the tears run free. There was no sound to accompany them, no passionate outcry. I did not have the strength to yell or the will to curse. I felt the walls of my heart ripping, burning like acid inside of me. There was not a single part of me that did not ache. Yet, I had no shock, no anger, and no disgust. All that was left was this haunting sense of clarity. In that moment, I prayed my tears would kill me. 

“You’re not human,” I whispered. “I hate you.”

With a soft smile and an understanding nod, my mother leaned in and kissed the wetness of my face. 

“I hate you, too.” 

※※※※※※※

Chapter 2: Footings and Foundations

“I’m just trying to get a response.” 

“A response from who?” he asked. 

“From anyone, from everyone.” 

The counselor thought about this for a moment, taking loud sips of his coffee and twitching his caterpillar eyebrows in that annoying way that he does. He asked, “And how do you plan on getting this response?”

Having anticipated this question, I gave him my prettiest smile. Confidence, Dawn. Really sell it to him.  “It’s quite brilliant, actually. I’ve noticed that the typical sad girl that cuts herself to Beethoven under the moonlit night, who cries herself to sleep softly but loud enough to be heard, who constantly pinches herself to prove that she is living reality, that girls always gets a response.” 

He just stared at me, baffled. “You realize that you just described someone suffering from dysthymia with possible suicidal tendencies, do you not?” 

“Ah,” I said, pleased he was following my plan. “I am not suicidal.”

“Not yet,” he mutters.

“Pardon?”

He takes an enormously deep breath, and exhales as he leans forward in his ridiculously overstuffed armchair. He locks eyes with me and speaks very deliberately. “Dawn, what do you predict will happen if you fail to procure a response? What do you think this will do to your peace of mind?”

My teeth clench and I barked out a laugh. “What peace of mind? I was born to a hateful, selfish mother and an angry father that has bee trapped in a cycle of abuse that he had no choice but to pass it along to me. I’ve never known peace. My entire existence is a war zone.”

The counsellor sits forward and absentmindedly fingers the hairy mole that grows out of his lip. He must see the disgust on my face because he stops abruptly and looks down at the notepad in his lap.

“It won’t work, Dawn. You’re smart enough to know that––”

 “You’re fucking judging me.”

Shocked by my snarl, he quickly leans back. “I am not…”

“You are! You don’t understand why someone would do this to themselves, why someone would work this hard for a little attention. Why would you? You’ve had a beautiful, happy life. You’ve been doted upon, respected, loved. You couldn’t possibly understand how someone could be so desperate just to feel anything. No one understands. And no one even bothers to try, either.” 

I  put on my most authoritative voice and steeliest gaze. I will make him hear me. I will make them all. 

 “Listen to me very carefully, Charles. The only thing in this world that is truly terrifying is the thought of not being a part of it. Isn’t that the reason everyone goes through such great lengths to avoid death? Remember the race to find the fountain of youth? The controversy surrounding stem cell research? Did you forget about all the crazy ass fanatics sacrificing their dogs and baby brothers in hope of obtaining longevity? But here, I am not just talking about death. That is something that is unavoidable. Only an idiot tries to deny that. I’m talking about literally disappearing. Being alive one moment and gone the next because the people that promised to love you and remember you, don’t. I can feel that happening to me and I can’t fucking stop it. I can’t seem to find a single person to give a shit about me.  I feel like I’m stuck on a huge, deserted island and I’m drifting to the edge of the world. I can yell, curse, and cry but no one hears me. And so I just slowly shrink away into the distance. That’s how I feel every single day. When I wake up in that empty house, when I’m walking down the halls of that ridiculous school. I feel like no matter how pretty I am, how smart, or nice, or funny I make myself people will still look through me because I’m nothing. I feel…like nothing. No good, no bad, just empty. And the only way I know to save myself is to make people see me. I have to be unforgettable. I don’t care how I do it, but they will see me. And they will love me.” 

There was a long pause where we just stared at each other. Finally he says softly, “You’re depressed.” 

Surprised, I gave a hard laugh. “I’m not depressed, Charles. As soon as I get my response, I’ll be the happiest girl in the world.” 

“And until then?”

My smile faded a little, but did not falter. 

“I’ll do okay.” 

Charles realizes that he’s losing me and he struggles to redirect.

“How have you been sleeping? Last time we met, you told me you still have the night terrors.” He flipped some pages in that crabby notebook and read for a while. “They started around the time your mother returned to the city?”

For a while, I considered telling him about my dreams. Well, my dream. It’s always the same one. I’m trapped in a box and there’s nothing around to help save me. Maybe he could help me interpret it. I start to open my mouth, but my lizard brain gets the better of me.

“I don’t have any dreams. I just sleep.”

Charles looks visibly disappointed and I can’t help but feel regretful for shutting him down. He’s not the worst person in the world. He’s old and dated, and I hate the way he always tries to get me have some life affirming epiphany, but I do like speaking with him. He’ll never know that though.

“I have somewhere to be, Charles are we done? Can you sign my attendance form?”

He continues, unfazed by my rudeness. “What’s your plan, Dawn? How are you going to get your response?”

“Oh that’s easy. Poetry,” I stated, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. I can be a real ass sometimes. 

“I don’t expect you to understand or even approve of it. I’m only talking to you because it’s keeping me out of jail. You can’t really help me do anything. I’ve been on my own literally since forever.” I shrug and pass him the crumpled, soda stained attendance form for him to sign. He quickly scribbles his name and passes it back.

“Only two more sessions. We’re getting closer, Dawn.”

I nod gruffly and stuff the paper into my pack, as I stand up to leave. As I am halfway out the door, he calls my name. I turn and look.

“ I see you. You haven’t disappeared to me.”

Without another word I slam the large wooden doors shut, praying the resounding echo is loud enough to mask the sound of my tears.