Kill Tuesday

Spring 1993.

Five minutes to 7 p.m., my eyes burn, my stomach rumbles, and my empty hands are sweating. Eight of us are waiting for On High to initiate the conversation and until then we sit in silence. My mom walks into the kitchen and nearly brushes my shoulder, just a suggestion of hello, and I jerk out of reach. She sighs and I roll my eyes.

Tuesday nights suck. We all end up crying at some point. My mom calls it growth; I say it’s torture.

Tonight, Mitch, Randy, and my step-dad are sitting at the table with me. No one here is a friend of mine; I am fifteen and Mitch is considered the voice of the youth at twenty-nine but he may as well be one-hundred for how much we have in common. I used to think their problem was age, convinced that everyone almost thirty and up were freaks. My grandparents were definitely weird, with all their fire and brimstone beliefs, and my mom and this crew are into a very mean version of self-help, but after spending more time with friend’s parents, who grill hot dogs at social events and don’t talk about hell or hang out on conference calls with cult leaders, I’ve accepted that the problem is my family.

I blink and my head bobs in the direction of the table, pulling me towards rest. I’m always tired after school. The rocking motion jolts me back up. There is no way I want to give the others ammo to use against me. I shove my fingers in my eyes, prop up the lids, start gathering intel on everyone else. I know they are doing the same. If there is anything I've learned over six months of Kill Tuesdays it’s “better them than me.”

On High says she’s as holy and pure as the Virgin Mary and named these calls Kill Tuesday after Mitch’s ex-wife called us a cult. We all laughed, with On High, not at the truth of the crazy ex, but the name doesn’t feel so funny when it’s happening. Kill Tuesday, On High says, is dying to our ego to bring us closer together as a community, keep us connected to her even across distance. Mostly, we just end up snitching on each other for hours and feeling like total shit by the end of the night. On High lives in Ohio and despite distance and the limits of a speaker phone, she can do some real damage.

My step-dad is flipping through a yellow legal pad and I notice the hairs sprouting along the curve of his freakishly large ears. Gross. Randy is checking the time on his wristwatch, nestled on his freakishly hairy arm. Also gross. Mitch has sweat dripping down his sideburns; my damp hands have nothing on him. Super gross and noteworthy. My mom is standing at the porch door, staring out into our boring backyard. We live in the suburbs, there’s nothing to see. I wonder what she’s thinking about.

My dad left when I was about five and then she left me with my grandparents. She said she loved me but she hadn’t been able to hide the twitch of smile and the ease of her movements as she walked out the door all those years ago. When she showed up last year and said a daughter needs a mother and she was taking me back, I nodded. My mom with her sleek bob and red lipstick was more modern in comparison to very strict holy roller grandparents so I was cool with leaving. Too bad I didn’t know that a guru named On High told her to get me.

My elbows rest on the table and I narrow my eyes; Randy's checking his watch again. That is definitely worth slipping into conversation.

"Good evening, everyone."

The deep voice reaches out of the speaker phone, each word followed by a breathy exhale. The first time I heard On High speak, I'd laughed. She ripped me a new one for that and I’ve worked very hard not to give her more motives to tear me down again.

"How blessed we are to be together once again on a glorious Tuesday."

At the sound of her voice, my mom scurries to the table. Objectively, my mom is a class A bitch. I'm not saying that because I'm a bitter teenager living under her roof. She stares at people with pursed lips, while saying, over and over again, that Michigan is below her. She grew up in Chicago and deeply resents suburban life. But with On High things are different. She is submissive and meek. She lived with On High last summer, in a house on a cul-de-sac where she slept in the attic. They called it a meditative retreat but it sounded like a lot of dishwashing and cooking, which definitely aren’t my mom's thing. My mom is a jewelry maker, of decorative, not functional pieces, and she doesn’t cook, not for me at least.

"How is my precious flock this week?"

Mitch blinks four times, one after another. Something is definitely going on there. Randy doesn't look at his watch again but he shakes his hairy wrist. My step-dad has his hands in prayer position on top of his, definitely not looking at what is written. He'll get blasted for trying to squeeze in even the tiniest bit of work. My mom stares vacantly at the speaker phone, my parent's most extravagant purchase since I've lived with them. Everyone is holding their breath.

"We are all here, ready to rock n roll for your Highness!"

My mom flinches at the sound of my voice and the rings on her middle and pointer finger flash as she presses down on her diaphragm. She's told me several times that I give her heart palpitations but I can't figure out why she doesn't give me more credit. On High hates waiting for acknowledgement and usually laughs at my humor. Besides that first Kill Tuesday, I’ve done alright.

And just like I hoped she would, On High chuckles.

"Good to hear, Nicole. And how was practice?"

I swallow, surprised that she remembers my practice schedule when my own mother doesn't, but I make sure not to hesitate in my response.

“Great! I applied that breathing technique you suggested and coach said I’ll start next game!”

It’s a lie but there is no way that On High could know that.

She doesn't respond and I begin to wonder if my mom passed her the school's number. Mitch bites the inside of his cheek, pushes up his glasses and I squish both of my hands under my legs and lean away from the speaker phone. I consider commenting on Mitch's nervousness, but decide to wait. Sometimes, if we are too eager to rat each other out it backfires and she turns on the squealer.

Finally, after a few minutes that feel longer than the entirety of practice, she responds.

"Good. Anastasia, were you at practice?"

My mom's eyes flick in my direction and I shrug. No parents go to practice.

"No, On High. I was working on the necklace for your Jubilee."

"A mother should be more present in a child's life," On High says.

"Absolutely, On High. I am only able to be a mother because of your greatness and guidance."

I keep my face blank but dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands. Sometimes, I wonder if she’s a mom or a puppet.

It was okay the first month I was here. My mom and her husband showed me around the city, we ate pizza on Fridays, I enrolled in school and tried out for the basketball team. Then, after my first practice, my mom said the transition period was over and told me that I needed to join a group. "If you aren't participating in an organized group of principle and discipline you have to leave my house," was how the invite was worded. Basketball didn’t count; that left her group. I'd already made new friends and compared to my grandparent’s 8 p.m. bedtime, mandatory 5 a.m. prayer sessions and skirts only rule, my mom's group seemed chill.

It's not.

Everyone is silent and we wait.

"So that's it? I reserved this hour for all of you and no one has anything to say."

"We were just waiting…" Mitch works up the courage to speak but it's too soon.

"How dare you interrupt me! Do you know how many people sought me out today? Do you? Hundreds! Hundreds of people every day seek my wisdom and knowledge and you ungrateful-"

I tune her out at that point, familiar with this tantrum, and hope it passes fast. Mitch's lips are pressed tight together and I give him an encouraging nod; if he cries it will piss off On High even more.

The nervous energy in the room makes my mom's stillness all the more notable; she flashes her gaze in my direction, without a single hair moving out of place, then she flicks her eyes to the speaker phone. When she opens her mouth, I’m unprepared, but later I’ll wonder why I didn’t anticipate her betrayal.

"On High, how desperate I am for your wisdom. I apologize for not speaking up immediately, I was struggling to find the words to express my deep sorrow. Nicole doesn't want to go to your Jubilee and has refused to respect my command."

I grasp the edge of the table; it's either that or wrap my hands around my mother's neck. On High is quick to make the shift from generalized rant to laser focused attack.

"Nicole? What is Anastacia telling me?"

My heart is beating so hard that my throat pulsates. I know my mom is capable of this. Dumping me. Ignoring me. But it still surprises me every time.

"It’s junior prom…,” I begin to reply but can’t find the right words.

My mom crosses her arms and tilts her head to look at me. She’s the only one. Everyone else holds their breath and looks down.

"Nicole! I demand you speak with the courage you purport to have!"

Junior prom is the weekend of On High’s whack-o jubilee and there's no way I’m going to Toledo to kiss this woman's wrinkly hand.

"Randy lost weight…Mitch is nervous…"

"Coward! You ungrateful brat. Do you have any idea what you owe your mother? What you owe me?"

She starts listing all the ways I'm not worthy, no good, downright rotten. My clammy hands go ice cold and my jaw is going to shatter from the way I’m clenching it. My mom crosses her legs and watches me, as if making eye contact with me is an act of love.

On High drones on about my failings and no one says a word. I lean over and push the mute button.

“Why did you do that?” I ask her, my voice choppy as I fight against tears.

“Nicole, take it off mute!”

My mom’s voice is sharp, as if she has some authority in my life. As if pleasing her should be my priority. I look at the rings on her fingers and realize I don’t have any memories of holding her hand.

“When did sucking up to this mean old hag become more important than your own daughter?”

“Nicole! I am your mother. I want you to develop character. Do as I say. ”

No one in the group says a word. I hold her stare.

“Take the phone off mute and apologize immediately!”

Mitch groans as if in pain and presses the mute button, leaving small drops of sweat behind. On High continues her tirade, unaware of what I said. I slap my hands down on the tabletop and don't feel the sting.

"Go fuck yourself!"

Everyone gasps.

I look directly at my mom and show her my middle finger. “You’re a shitty mom.”

I stomp through the house and slam the front door.

Outside, it’s deathly quiet, like only the suburbs get at night. No people and no sounds of nature. Just absence. I am breathing hard, and as my chest constricts and the air gets trapped, I squint my eyes, look to the horizon and tell myself to get it together.

There’s one street light, weakly illuminating cars in neatly aligned driveways. There are four cars at the curb of our house; the only house with outsiders over on a Tuesday night. Because only my mom is a part of a stupid cult.

The door lock clicks and I realize my cheeks are wet with tears. I shiver and do some jumping jacks to warm up. I crack my knuckles and wipe the tears with my sleeve. A burning sensation flames through my hands. Looking down, I realize that the skin is dry and my knuckles are cracked, small lines of flaky skin revealing tender red flesh below. I have nowhere to go.

My grandparents live in Chicago, about four hours by bus from Grand Rapids. I have no money and my empty stomach isn’t providing the energy I need to walk the nearly ten miles to the bus stop. I lift my cracked knuckles and brush them silently against the beige door, savoring the pain. A car drives by and I turn my head towards the sound of the engine, closing my eyes against the bright light. The asshole has his high beams on.

My dad was like that, the kind of guy that didn’t give a shit about making things uncomfortable for other people. I last saw him when I was four, almost five, and don’t remember much but now that I think about it, he was just like On High. My last memory of him was when he curled his hand into a fist and plowed it into my mom’s face, cracking her lip. I screamed from where I was sitting, too old to be in a highchair, the straps cutting into my legs, but he insisted that I eat there. The table was covered with a yellow table cloth, embroidered with brown crosses, courtesy of my grandmother. My mom hissed when he made contact and I pounded my fists on the tray. The blood scared him away and after he left, my mom looked at me and promised that I’d never have to sit there again.

She did keep that promise.

Maybe I’ll just ask for a snack. She bought me my favorite flavor of fruit roll-ups; it’s not like she’s going to eat those. I bang my flat palm on the door and wait, convinced that the thumping sounds I hear are my mom coming to get me.