Running With Scissors_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [19]
I glanced at the window, half expecting to see my father clutching a meat cleaver and half expecting to see an elf wearing a stocking cap with a bell on the end waving at me. “Why?”
She turned away. “He has a lot of anger at his mother and he’s projecting it all onto me. Years and years of rage that he’s denied.”
My father had always seemed cold to me. He wasn’t affectionate or loving. He never played with me or touched me on the head like Dr. Finch. Which is maybe why I flinched so much when anybody touched me. But I didn’t realize he was a monster. But maybe that made sense. Maybe that explained why he was so cold.
Then my mother reached out and took my hand. She held it tightly. “God is working through Dr. Finch. The doctor is very spiritually evolved. I believe we’ll be safe with him, and only him.”
How long do I have to stay here? One night? Two? Where will I practice my Barry Manilow lip-syncing? “Can’t I come to the motel, too?” I loved motels, especially the little soap bars and the paper strip across the toilet bowl.
“No,” she said, quickly. “You stay here.”
“But why?”
“Because the doctor thinks that’s best.”
“But why?”
“Augusten, don’t argue with me now. You’ll stay here and be safe.”
I had the sensation of falling, even though I was sitting. I looked up at the clock on the wall, but it had no hands. Somebody had taken the clear plastic cover off the front and taken the hands away. Seeing this caused my eyes to itch, so I pulled at my eyelids.
“For how long? You have to tell me,” I pressed.
My mother stood, looping her bag over her shoulder. She clutched her cigarettes and lighter in the other hand. “Not long. Two days. Maybe a week.”
“A week?!” I said as loud as I could without screaming, even though I wanted to. “I can’t stay here in this house for a week.” I slammed my hand on the table and roaches scattered like a splash of water. “What about school?”
“You hardly go to school as it is,” she said flatly. “A week won’t make any difference.”
She was right about that. From kindergarten I’d been a very poor student, steering clear of the kids and clinging to the teachers, waiting to go home. The only friend I had was Ellen, who peed standing up like a boy, and I only liked her when it was the two of us alone. The rest of the kids hated me, calling me names like freak and faggot. So in truth, a week away from school wasn’t such a bad thing. Unless it meant staying here in this weird house. My heart started beating really fast as I tried to think of something to say to make my mother change her mind. But I felt too confused to think of anything.
She placed the back of her hand against my cheek. “I’ll visit you in your dreams. Did you know I can do that?”
“Do what?” I said, hating her.
“I can travel in my dreams. Once, I dreamt I went to Mexico. And when I woke up, there were pesos in my hand.”
Her eyes scared me. They looked radioactive.
I folded my arms across my chest and watched Freud jump onto the stove, stepping around the burners, settling in the center.
“We’ll be okay,” she said.
Then she was gone.
I stood alone in the kitchen, listening to the dim electric buzz of the clock as it secretly counted the seconds, the minutes, the hours. Briefly, I fantasized about slicing my mother’s fingers off with the electric knife that was hanging by its cord from the curtain rod.
THE CLEANING LADY
T
HE NEXT AFTERNOON I WAS SITTING IN THE TV ROOM when I heard a strange sound. At first I thought it was a wolf. The doctor’s wife, Agnes, had fallen asleep in the wing chair with her head rolled back and her glasses perched on top of her head, tangled in her violet perm. She was snoring. The television was blaring and rolling its screen like it was frustrated that nobody would watch it. And I was sitting on the sofa alone because Hope had gone into the kitchen. I was sitting there watching Agnes snore when all of a sudden I heard the sound coming from somewhere upstairs.
When I was ten, I had an after-school job helping two local