The Cat in the Guest Bedroom
by Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos
CW: Child Abuse & Mental Health
Their mother had prayed for a son. His name would have been Arthur—a strong name for a strong boy. He would have been a gorgeous blond, blue-eyed pilot, like her father. He would have been everything a mother could dream of, and would have loved her like no man ever had. Alas, after thirty-six hours of drug-free labor, all she got for her trouble was a shrieking, red-faced, plain, dark-haired baby girl. Three days of intense procrastination followed; watching daytime TV, eating bland food, and gazing at raindrops zigzagging down the window, confined by the rhythm of formula bottles and stinky diapers. Her face placid—for she refused to wrinkle her way through motherhood—she glimpsed at the disappointingly female infant and picked two possibilities. The child would be called either Maxine or Emelyn. She tossed a coin.
***
By the time she turns six, Maxine rips the clothes Mother chooses for her because tights and dresses get in the way when she climbs trees, and the stupid ribbons holding her messy brown hair get stuck on branches. She hides the shiny, slippery shoes and runs around barefoot. Maxine wishes she’d been born an Arthur and dreams of brown pants and black sweaters and white trainers.
But six years old Emelyn looks such a picture with her bright blue eyes matching the ribbon holding her brown hair so tight it hurts, the aquamarine dress so perfect she can't breathe, and patent leather shoes so pretty they make her pinky toes swell with joy.
By the time she reaches puberty, Maxine thinks she is dying and wonders if anyone will notice her gone. Mother might miss her cooking and cleaning the pigsty they live in. The cat might miss her skin and blood. She uses the pads Mother keeps in the bathroom cupboard and sighs with relief when it stops—she made it, she’s alive.
But Emelyn screams and cries when she spots blood on her underwear. Mommy laughs and laughs, then slaps her face to calm her down, and tells her to get her own pads.
By the time she turns fifteen, green-haired Maxine’s irritation itches like the wool jumpers of her childhood. Why should Mother’s needs always have priority over her own? Her throat grows raw with anger until her voice explodes, ricochetting against the stripped-bare walls. Until Mother grabs her and the cat-o'-nine-tails’ back curves in response to her ungrateful daughter. Until Mother’s fist holds Maxine’s disgusting hair to keep her still while Grandpa's whip—all that remains from the gorgeous blond, blue-eyed pilot—whistles towards her back as Maxine’s soul screams James Hand’s lyrics following the rhythm of the slashing. As Maxine’s soul sings to survive.
But fifteen years-old Emelyn can read Mommy’s mood by the echo of the front door slamming into its peeling frame, by the depth of each line on her face, by the high or low pitch of her voice, by the way she dumps or throws her bag on the chair before slouching on the sofa. On a good day, Emelyn hums as she adds creamy hearts of froth surrounded by cinnamon to the best cup of coffee, and gives the best massages — although no amount of oil can cover Mommy’s yogurt-gone-sour stink. On bad days, Emelyn swallows her tears and lets her mind sing along to James Hand’s lyrics to cover the verbal abuse as she prepares Mommy’s bath, as she cleans, cooks, soothes, cajoles. As she mothers all wrong, because maternal wrath always returns. As does the cat.
By the time she turns sixteen and a quarter, Maxine gets caught with her hand in Tony’s pants, his face resting on her breast as he moans. Mother pulls Maxine’s disgusting hair back home, and the cat soon scratches whole lumps of skin off her chest. She screams and screams and slams the front door as she runs away. No amount of country music can cover her pain. She’ll take her chances out there. It can’t be any worse.
But Emelyn’s sixteen and a quarter’s heart sings languorous country songs until she gets caught staring at Tony mowing the lawn shirtless. The cat’s claws hiss and slash. Emelyn screams and screams and cries and cries and promises to be a good girl. Promises never to look at boys again, never to go near boys. Promises to do better, to be better. But the cat turns deaf and scratches so deep, Emelyn can’t sleep on her back for weeks.
The police find just-short-of-eighteen-year-old Maxine sleeping on a park bench. Tony looks good in uniform. He tries to take her home, but she denounces her mother, shouts abuse, shows the scars on her breasts, her back, her bum, her thighs. She’d rather wait for her birthday in a cell than go home.
As Emelyn’s eighteenth birthday approaches, the cat screeches, scratches, and bites harder. She curls up under the kitchen table, trembling and sobbing until her mother grabs her bag and slams the front door on her way out to another binge. When Mommy doesn’t return, Emelyn waits for her birthday to pass and ambles to the police station and asks Tony to file a missing person report. After the customary house search, she spends the afternoon spring cleaning and boils jasmine oil to remove the past-its-due-date-turned-sour yogurt stench. The unexpected freedom tastes like chocolate cake covered with custard cream and bubbles up her nose like champagne.
By the time she turns eighteen, Maxine is ready to go home. Mother has been missing for a while now. Maxine feels safe.
But the day after her eighteenth birthday, Emelyn jumps when she hears the key rattling in the front door. As her chocolate-flavored freedom threatens to turn to sour yogurt once again, anger bubbles up her nose.
By the time she turns twenty, Maxine attends night school and studies for her SAT tests. She never invites her friends home though; she prefers to meet them on campus, in cafes, bars or clubs.
But Emelyn settles into a routine. She has alarms for everything, from breakfast to laundry, getting ready and going to work, meals, apéritif, bedtime. It’s the only reason her phone rings. She still cooks and cleans after Mommy, but Mommy is locked with the cat in the guest bedroom. Emelyn has drinks with Tony every Saturday night and has a reminder on her phone to ask if there’s any news on the case, or any new sighting. She misses Mommy so much.
By the time she turns twenty-one, Emelyn changes her name to Maxine and dances and sings aloud as she burns the cat-o'-nine-tails to cinders and adds a second air freshener in the corridor to cover the stench of sour yogurt turned green. Mommy is still locked up in the guest bedroom—although she hasn’t made a sound in a while.
Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos is a Pushcart-nominee Breton writer, teacher, mother, nature and music lover, foodie, dreamer. She is a contributor to Poverty House, co-founder of The Pride Roars, and the EIC of Raw Lit. Her debut historical novel Laundry Day was a Novel Fair Runner-up. She lives in Athens, Greece.
https://delphinegg.weebly.com/
by Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos
CW: Child Abuse & Mental Health
Their mother had prayed for a son. His name would have been Arthur—a strong name for a strong boy. He would have been a gorgeous blond, blue-eyed pilot, like her father. He would have been everything a mother could dream of, and would have loved her like no man ever had. Alas, after thirty-six hours of drug-free labor, all she got for her trouble was a shrieking, red-faced, plain, dark-haired baby girl. Three days of intense procrastination followed; watching daytime TV, eating bland food, and gazing at raindrops zigzagging down the window, confined by the rhythm of formula bottles and stinky diapers. Her face placid—for she refused to wrinkle her way through motherhood—she glimpsed at the disappointingly female infant and picked two possibilities. The child would be called either Maxine or Emelyn. She tossed a coin.
***
By the time she turns six, Maxine rips the clothes Mother chooses for her because tights and dresses get in the way when she climbs trees, and the stupid ribbons holding her messy brown hair get stuck on branches. She hides the shiny, slippery shoes and runs around barefoot. Maxine wishes she’d been born an Arthur and dreams of brown pants and black sweaters and white trainers.
But six years old Emelyn looks such a picture with her bright blue eyes matching the ribbon holding her brown hair so tight it hurts, the aquamarine dress so perfect she can't breathe, and patent leather shoes so pretty they make her pinky toes swell with joy.
By the time she reaches puberty, Maxine thinks she is dying and wonders if anyone will notice her gone. Mother might miss her cooking and cleaning the pigsty they live in. The cat might miss her skin and blood. She uses the pads Mother keeps in the bathroom cupboard and sighs with relief when it stops—she made it, she’s alive.
But Emelyn screams and cries when she spots blood on her underwear. Mommy laughs and laughs, then slaps her face to calm her down, and tells her to get her own pads.
By the time she turns fifteen, green-haired Maxine’s irritation itches like the wool jumpers of her childhood. Why should Mother’s needs always have priority over her own? Her throat grows raw with anger until her voice explodes, ricochetting against the stripped-bare walls. Until Mother grabs her and the cat-o'-nine-tails’ back curves in response to her ungrateful daughter. Until Mother’s fist holds Maxine’s disgusting hair to keep her still while Grandpa's whip—all that remains from the gorgeous blond, blue-eyed pilot—whistles towards her back as Maxine’s soul screams James Hand’s lyrics following the rhythm of the slashing. As Maxine’s soul sings to survive.
But fifteen years-old Emelyn can read Mommy’s mood by the echo of the front door slamming into its peeling frame, by the depth of each line on her face, by the high or low pitch of her voice, by the way she dumps or throws her bag on the chair before slouching on the sofa. On a good day, Emelyn hums as she adds creamy hearts of froth surrounded by cinnamon to the best cup of coffee, and gives the best massages — although no amount of oil can cover Mommy’s yogurt-gone-sour stink. On bad days, Emelyn swallows her tears and lets her mind sing along to James Hand’s lyrics to cover the verbal abuse as she prepares Mommy’s bath, as she cleans, cooks, soothes, cajoles. As she mothers all wrong, because maternal wrath always returns. As does the cat.
By the time she turns sixteen and a quarter, Maxine gets caught with her hand in Tony’s pants, his face resting on her breast as he moans. Mother pulls Maxine’s disgusting hair back home, and the cat soon scratches whole lumps of skin off her chest. She screams and screams and slams the front door as she runs away. No amount of country music can cover her pain. She’ll take her chances out there. It can’t be any worse.
But Emelyn’s sixteen and a quarter’s heart sings languorous country songs until she gets caught staring at Tony mowing the lawn shirtless. The cat’s claws hiss and slash. Emelyn screams and screams and cries and cries and promises to be a good girl. Promises never to look at boys again, never to go near boys. Promises to do better, to be better. But the cat turns deaf and scratches so deep, Emelyn can’t sleep on her back for weeks.
The police find just-short-of-eighteen-year-old Maxine sleeping on a park bench. Tony looks good in uniform. He tries to take her home, but she denounces her mother, shouts abuse, shows the scars on her breasts, her back, her bum, her thighs. She’d rather wait for her birthday in a cell than go home.
As Emelyn’s eighteenth birthday approaches, the cat screeches, scratches, and bites harder. She curls up under the kitchen table, trembling and sobbing until her mother grabs her bag and slams the front door on her way out to another binge. When Mommy doesn’t return, Emelyn waits for her birthday to pass and ambles to the police station and asks Tony to file a missing person report. After the customary house search, she spends the afternoon spring cleaning and boils jasmine oil to remove the past-its-due-date-turned-sour yogurt stench. The unexpected freedom tastes like chocolate cake covered with custard cream and bubbles up her nose like champagne.
By the time she turns eighteen, Maxine is ready to go home. Mother has been missing for a while now. Maxine feels safe.
But the day after her eighteenth birthday, Emelyn jumps when she hears the key rattling in the front door. As her chocolate-flavored freedom threatens to turn to sour yogurt once again, anger bubbles up her nose.
By the time she turns twenty, Maxine attends night school and studies for her SAT tests. She never invites her friends home though; she prefers to meet them on campus, in cafes, bars or clubs.
But Emelyn settles into a routine. She has alarms for everything, from breakfast to laundry, getting ready and going to work, meals, apéritif, bedtime. It’s the only reason her phone rings. She still cooks and cleans after Mommy, but Mommy is locked with the cat in the guest bedroom. Emelyn has drinks with Tony every Saturday night and has a reminder on her phone to ask if there’s any news on the case, or any new sighting. She misses Mommy so much.
By the time she turns twenty-one, Emelyn changes her name to Maxine and dances and sings aloud as she burns the cat-o'-nine-tails to cinders and adds a second air freshener in the corridor to cover the stench of sour yogurt turned green. Mommy is still locked up in the guest bedroom—although she hasn’t made a sound in a while.
Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos is a Pushcart-nominee Breton writer, teacher, mother, nature and music lover, foodie, dreamer. She is a contributor to Poverty House, co-founder of The Pride Roars, and the EIC of Raw Lit. Her debut historical novel Laundry Day was a Novel Fair Runner-up. She lives in Athens, Greece.
https://delphinegg.weebly.com/