Part 2 ~ Times Tables
The little girl felt sick at her stomach. She fought back the urge to vomit and cry as she lay in bed wondering where her mother was. The fear of what lay beneath her bed was not as urgent as the more immediate fear that her mother might not come back this time. Her younger brother was in the next room sleeping. He didn't seem too upset by the fact that their mother had disappeared two weeks earlier. He might have been worried but he wouldn't let it show, and they never talked about it. They both knew that their family was different. The word dysfunctional had not yet been coined to describe what life was like in the Taylor's home. How do you describe hell? All she knew was that they were the family all the neighbors on the quiet cul-de-sac whispered about, and that whenever she would go over to a friends house to play their parents would look at her with softness in their eyes. Her best friend Erin told her that everyone on their street could hear the fighting.
One times six is six, two times six is twelve, three times six is eighteen, four times six is twenty four…
The last time she had seen her mother she was screaming gibberish at the top of her lungs. She was spitting out words with so much force that they were unintelligible, the whites of her eyes making her look like a wild animal. The little girl didn't know why her mother was so angry at her dad, but she had gotten use to it being a common everyday occurrence. She had torn the telephone out the wall for the umpteenth time and was throwing dishes at him. When she ran out of dishes she reached into the freezer, pulled out the ice cube tray and began pelting him with ice cubes. All HE was doing was ducking behind the kitchen table, trying to reason with her to no avail. She commonly worked herself up into a lather over the most insignificant things while her father remained calm. If he had better judgment he would have put her into an institution where she belonged, but all he would do was wait patiently for the unpredictable storms to pass, hoping that he could somehow repair the damage. She never understood why.
Five times six is thirty, six times six is thirty six, seven times six is forty two, eight times six is forty eight…
When her mother slammed the front door behind her, the little girl went over her father to console him. One of the ice cubes had hit him on the head and it was bleeding. She wrapped her arms around his huge frame with tenderness. 'Daddy', it's alright. I love you.' she began to say when suddenly the loud sound of crashing metal and glass drew her attention outside. She went to the living room window and could see her mother screeching backwards out of the driveway in her car, then putting it in drive again to ram full throttle into the rear of his car for a second time. Then a third. What was she doing? That was a new car. One that she had insisted on having like a spoiled child. It wasn't even a week old and she had just demolished it, but somehow she was still able to drive off to wherever it was she was going.
Nine times six is fifty four, ten times six is sixty, eleven time six is sixty six, twelve times six is seventy two…
Alone in the stillness of her bedroom she began to wonder if maybe her mother had given herself an accidental concussion and was wandering around somewhere confused. Her father had gone out looking for her again tonight, asking Erin's mother to come over until he returned. It was getting late, but the little girl kept repeating her multiplication ritual, trying not to think about anything else. If she made a mistake she had to start over again from the beginning. It had to be perfect. She had gotten all the way up to her 10 tables now.
One hundred times one is one hundred, one hundred times two is two hundred, one hundred times three is three hundred…
In her minds eye, the sums began to take on a new shape. They turned into days, and then weeks, and then months until she became aware of the prospect that her mother might not back at all. She stopped multiplying and drifted off into the most deep and restful sleep that she had ever had.
poem by Sara Fielder
Added by Poetry Lover
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