Illustration by Morgan Maurer, 2011

We brought Ben’s ashes home on a sweltering Thursday in July, six and a half months after his sudden death on a bleak midwinter’s day.

As with many days of that year, Simon and I were quiet on the drive to and from the funeral home, lost in grief for our stillborn child. The unspoken question between us—what now?—would remain unanswered for months, long after we placed Ben’s ashes in the room that would have been his, closed the door and tried to leave the pain inside.

The night he died we fought over a small, stupid thing that had been festering for months. I went to bed angry; Simon went to the basement to resolve the problem – a utility sink blocked up with accumulated household detritus. We woke up mad the next day, too proud to apologize or admit how silly we’d been. It was the day before New Year’s Eve, 2003.

Thirty-nine weeks and four days into pregnancy, I was tired, ready to bring my baby home and be done with aching hips and heartburn. I wanted to meet this new little wonder who was coming to change my life. Outside, it was cold and gray, mirroring my exhaustion; inside, Charlotte, our three-year-old, had an ear infection and fever, and, much as we wanted Ben, we were nervous about bringing a second child into our lives.

That last morning, I stewed in the doctor’s office, angry with Simon, annoyed by the doctor’s slight delay, wishing my regular OB weren’t on vacation. I didn’t notice that my boy wasn’t moving. Blind to everything but myself own self-righteous annoyance, I was confident Ben wasn’t going to arrive anytime soon.

When I finally got to the exam room and on the table, Dr. Todd, a doctor new to me and my pregnancy, rolls out the Doppler heartbeat monitor. He smears cold jelly on my stomach and places the microphone on my belly. Static. He tries again, and still, nothing. He asks where we usually hear the heartbeat, and I indicate the right side of my belly. He tries again. Nothing. My heart starts to beat a little faster.

Dr. Todd remains calm and tells me he thinks the Doppler machine has been dropped on the floor a few too many times, and runs off to retrieve another. We try again. We wait. And nothing.

But then, very faint, is a rapid heartbeat. Dr. Todd says he thinks it might be my heartbeat, and checks my pulse. It is, indeed, my heart racing with fear.

I look at him and say, “Please tell me not to panic.”

He says nothing.

Dr. Todd keeps trying with the Doppler, then says, “I’m going to send you over for an ultrasound to see what’s going on.”

I think that’s when I knew that Ben was dead. I don’t let myself believe it; I tell myself I’m going to have an emergency C-section after the ultrasound and start planning a phone call to Simon.

As I walk out of the office, the receptionist calls out, “Have a Happy New Year.” I think, “If you only knew.”

In the ultrasound room, I lie down yet again while a technologist puts gel on my belly and runs her wand over my protruding stomach. I hold my breath and stare at the ultrasound screen, at my perfect little boy, looking desperately for something, anything, to help me decipher what is happening.

Another doctor enters the room; Dr. Baird is young, with long brown hair, about my age. She briefly looks at the screen and reaches out to grasp my hand. “How are you feeling right now?” she asks.

“I’m feeling pretty scared.”

“I’m sorry to tell you,” she says softly, “but he’s gone.”

And this is when my world stopped.

~

Minutes later, someone leads me down the hall to a small room used for moments like this. There is a box of tissues on a coffee table, some pamphlets on grief, a sofa and two standard medical office armchairs, a side table and telephone. One window looks out onto a cloudy December day, traffic moving past, people bundled up against the cold waiting for the bus. I cannot fathom the world that is carrying on outside this place when I need to tell my husband Ben is dead.

I dial our phone number, wipe away my tears and tell Simon, calmly enough, that I have bad news.

But I don’t know how to tell him the next thing I must say. I gulp for air like a fish on dry land and gasp it out: “The baby died,” and burst into tears once more.

Normally unflappable Simon falters. “What should I do? What should I do?” I instruct him to phone our neighbor and ask her to watch Charlotte. I tell him where to find me in the hospital, begging him to get here soon.

Sobbing, collapsed on the floor, I phone my friend Patty. She’s not at work, but doesn’t answer at home. I phone my friend Sandy at her job. No answer. In desperation, I phone Patty again. Miraculously, she answers. She is home with her children and parents-in-law, and after I say hello, my voice breaks again.

“Patty, the baby died.”

And I cry. She insists on coming to me immediately, her composure a brief respite from the agony of unrelenting sorrow.

Unable to make more calls, I wonder why I didn’t know that Ben was dead. Dr. Todd and Dr. Baird come check on me, help me up from the floor and into an armchair. I ask them how I could not have known Ben was gone, but they have no answers. “I don’t care what you think you did or didn’t do,” says Dr. Baird, “Whether you missed a prenatal vitamin once or ate something you shouldn’t have: you did nothing wrong.” It doesn’t help. For now, I am too stunned to be rational; my heart is twisting itself into knots. It was my job to keep Ben safe, and I failed.

Shortly after Simon and Patty arrive, Dr. Baird returns to talk about what happens next. Our options are few: Doing a caesarean on a mother whose baby has died is too risky, she tells us. Labor can be induced, however, and she suggests we go home, get some rest and come back in the morning. There is no way I can go home and sleep while my baby lies dead in my belly, so we arrange to return that evening, after we’ve found someone to look after our daughter. Once our plan is set, we get up to leave.

Walking down the white hallway in the glare of fluorescent lights, in some bit of cosmic cruelty, all we hear are the heartbeats of other women’s babies. There are doors on either side of us, with other pregnant women, unknowing, unconcerned, bathed in the joy of their particular miracles. Patty and Simon, on either side of me, keep me from dropping to my knees and succumbing permanently to my grief.

~

Just before six o’clock that night, Patty drives us to the hospital. I remember strange and ordinary things from that night: I picture Patty in her winter hat and coat, hugging us goodbye, watching her minivan pull away. The night sky is beautiful, deep and dark. Before I turn to go inside, I catch a glimpse of stars and wonder if Ben is up there too.

~

On the building’s second floor we try to remember where to check in. A young resident sees our confusion and points us toward the Labor and Delivery doors. Thankfully, he doesn’t make any of the polite exchanges many might in this situation: “Good luck” or “Congratulations.” Maybe he sees the sadness on our faces, maybe he knows.

Once we are settled in our room, we are assured that we will be given as much privacy as possible for as long as we are there. A nurse asks me an extensive list of questions to help pinpoint why our baby died: do we have a cat, and did I clean out the litterbox while pregnant? Did I eat rare meat or raw seafood? Is there any family history of birth defects? The answer to all is no. We can think of no reason why our son is dead.

Later, the nurse takes twelve vials of blood from me, which will be tested for various disorders. I have an IV of Pitocin, an IV for fluids, an IV of antibiotics to treat a strep B infection. Another needle is inserted into my spine for an epidural, which helps the physical pain, but there is nothing to be done for my mental anguish. The epidural, however, doesn’t completely take, and they kindly give me another narcotic drug, one I would ordinarily have refused. It eases my fear and anxiety, but can’t cut the ache in my heart.

Throughout the night, Simon and I alternately sleep (another blessing of the epidural is that the numbing of the contractions allows me to rest), read, and cry. And I think, maybe, just maybe, Ben isn’t really dead.

Around 5 a.m., someone tells me it’s time to push. The doctor is called, the nurses return to hold my legs and Simon holds my hand. It is quiet in the delivery room, somber. Through the night I’ve heard other women down the hall, shouting as they push their babies into the world. I am scared of what we might find when Ben is born. Is he deformed? What will he look like? Why did he die?

Unlike a regular delivery, no one offers me a mirror to watch the baby arrive. They don’t ask me to hold my legs, nor do they have Simon help. I am positioned so that I cannot see whatever might emerge below. And I am grateful for that.

I push when I am told, and, at 6:01 a.m., Ben is – what? What should I call this process of birthing, his delivery into the world? There is no word for this. How, I will later wonder, can we be given a death certificate for someone never, officially, born?

Minutes after his birth, I push out the placenta and the doctor cries, “Look at that. There’s a knot in his umbilical cord.” Dr. Todd shows us a perfect knot, pulled tight. “He must have wriggled himself around, probably weeks ago, and then last night pulled on his cord and died.”

“Did it hurt him?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “He wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

I burst into tears, and wail out to the room, “I want my son. I want my son.”

Simon pulls me close, and we cry.

~

Sometimes it feels like Ben was just a dream, a shadow that passed across my life, like the shadow of an airplane over my backyard on a bright summer’s afternoon. But the effect of a shadow never lasts as long as the effect of this child in my world. I will spend the rest of my life longing to go back to him, to the day he was born.

My world turned to ash that day seven years ago; all I knew, all that I held on to, flaked away and crumbled into dust. I built that world up again, but the solid core has weakened, the edges are soft. Those ashes I hold in my hand and heart; my son’s ashes, in an urn, sit now in my living room. Neither is palpable, but they hover invisibly, like wisps of smoke after a candle has been extinguished.

My world has not ended, but I have learned how much can be lost, and how quickly. The question—what now?—no longer lingers in the air. The answer was in what we were doing all along: we just go on. Slowly, the pain recedes, changes us, and becomes forever part of who we are.

Virginia Williams’ essay “What No One Tells You” was published in the anthology They Were Still Born: Personal Stories About Stillbirth, in November 2010 by Rowman & Littlefield. She has worked as a columnist for ClubMom.com, an online community with over two million members, contributed articles to the Absolute Write e-newsletter, the web site WeddingChickie.com and worked as a Buzz Blogger for Prevention.com. Williams blogs about parenting after a loss at http://www.landofbrokenhearts.blogspot.com, and is currently at work on her first book.

Read our interview with Virginia here.

Illustration by Morgan Maurer, 2011

In an article titled ‘Estrangement,’ in a summer 2008 issue of AARP, the writer, Jamaica Kinkaid articulates her attempt to come to terms with the fact that she stopped speaking to her mother three years before her death.

Her effort, however, is not full of regret, but incomprehension that she misses her mother, incomprehension that she does not wish to be buried next to her and, also, does not know if she wishes that her own children be buried beside her someday. She ends with the words, “I do not know, I do not know.”

The loss of my mother fills my life with a similar unknowing. My mother was, as her favorite student described her during his heartfelt and perfect eulogy, difficult. And it was her difficulties that my brothers and I, as adults, responded to, not her ease. I learned to dismiss every concern she brought up, about my brothers, their wives, her grandchildren, me, my life, my father, and her health. Her own regrets and sorrow were so deep that I feared that I, too, would fall into that bottomless well and never come up for air, or that my affirmation of those sentiments might seal her forever in that tomb of despair. Had I been listening harder, perhaps, I might have heard the mothering behind what she said, might have assumed, rather, the role that she wanted of me, of a gentle and caring child, of the never-grown-up companion I had once been, of being again the girl whose goal in life had been to wear her clothes and do what she did for a living, teaching literature and Greek & Roman Civilization to armies of devoted boys.

Instead I was the opposite of her. I prided myself in taking no shit from anybody. I was flamboyant where she was conservative, boisterous where she was quiet, and forswore the undying affection of schoolboys and replaced it with the fickle attention of grown men. I frolicked in the man’s world that had circumscribed her life and I laughed when she spoke of devotion, consistency and simplicity, never letting on that in act though not in word, I was all those things. Whereas she had waited, as refined women of her time did, to have her appearance or clothes or work admired by other people, I paid myself compliments. I wrote about politics when all she cared about was the pride felt in seeing her children’s bylines. Somewhere during all those shenanigans I recall seeing both delight and fear in my mother’s eyes.

She seemed to both love the cloak of freedom that I had flung so seemingly easily around myself, and fear for my life. I was not a good woman, I was not a good wife. Somewhere down the line, my husband was bound to leave me. Somewhere down the line, I would need something besides flair and flourish and did I have those other, inner resources? I did, I do, but I was not going to let her see those aspects of myself that were so similar to the strengths she possessed. All I would say in response to her “he might leave you,” was, “and if he does I won’t spend my life running after some man who doesn’t want me.”

In more ways than one, I was trying to define for my mother a life that I wanted her to live. I wanted her to be more like the person I was playing for her. I wanted to rub away the timidity that overcame her whenever she boarded an airplane to America, the kind of thing that would lead airport officials to fling her bags around and deny her compensation for lost luggage and which I could secure on her behalf with no greater skill than a simple steady glare that would leave her full of awe at powers she believed I had; powers she was glad I had, in this strange, unfriendly, place, but whose acquisition she regretted for, as far as she could tell – and she did tell it! – they had exacted the price of tenderness. I wanted to nullify all of her regrets and fears, to drag her into the future where everything was impossibly hard and yet also possible and full of loveliness. I wanted to put make-up on her face, I wanted her to wear the beautiful clothes she owned but never put on, falling back constantly on her worn saris, the old skirt, the tattered nightdress.

But I held that tattered nightdress to my face when I returned home for her funeral, and breathed in not what it showed to the world – its faded, overused fabric – but the sweet perfume it had earned for itself and still held. My mother’s life was full of a doing with which mine could never compare. She had no time for the kind of self-creation with which I had become so adept; she was too busy making a living, staving off hopelessness and, more than everything else, helping the people who came looking for her in a ceaseless stream… People who did not care that she wore no make-up, that she traveled in buses and scooter-taxis in a country where such travel is perilous even for the young and healthy, that she sometimes opened the door to them with a smile, sometimes – quite often – with a scathing, unfiltered criticism, did not care that her home was an uncertain refuge where sometimes the gate was padlocked, and the phone unanswered and nobody could find her, or that she was awash in eccentricities that led her to scream for Brand’s Essence of Chicken as though it was a cure certified by the pantheon of multi-origin Gods whom she worshiped, drive her children out of her house “to go live anywhere,” or hang a sign on one of her precious plants with the following statement: “We are very poor and we have no money for your religious festivities. If you have any money to spare, please leave some here – Happy Vesak, Happy Christmas, Happy Ramazan, Happy Deevali!” That spirit perfumed her clothes, her hair, her life. It did not make everybody admire her, indeed many people – most specially her students – were terrified of incurring her wrath, but it made them love her unabashedly. It made them write to her and come and visit her carrying the cakes and sweets she was not supposed to eat, willing to forgive her moods. That spirit frayed her clothes, splashed them with mud, ripped at their seams.

Over the course of the two days before she died, my mother had hauled a chair to be mended (so the set could be given to my oldest brother), cleaned her house, given her sister money for an operation, called up all her friends, all her relatives, all her favorite students, and all of our friends, and, of course, secured for herself a bottle of Brand’s Essence of Chicken. She had given away much of her wardrobe of beautiful, unspoiled saris and dresses, and most of her vast collection of perfumes. Whatever precious jewelry had not already been given away had been robbed. On the day she died, unbeknownst to any of us, she was so weak she had to ask the woman who worked for her now and again, to boil water for her and bathe her. On that day, after that bath, she used whatever strength she had left to sit down with one of her students to help her with a college application, an application that has since secured a place for her at an Ivy League school. She climbed into a car carrying two saris she wanted to give to the servant of the friend who came to pick her up, and spent most of the journey laughing. She suffered a heart attack right as she was trying to field a telephone call from another student’s tennis coach. She left mid-thought, mid-act, mid-goodness.

I can tell myself a variety of things to stave off the grief that I feel. I can say my brothers were there, their wives were there, she was not alone. I can accept what other people say to me, that a mother does not remember the disappointments, but rather the good times. I can say that she knew, she knew, that though I did not write and did not call, my inner conversations were always with her, that every time I stood before a crowd, or walked down a street or performed some good work or signed a book, or sang to my daughters, what I felt was her presence, her glad acknowledgement that yes, heaven be praised, he had not left me yet, I was still the most beautiful person in the room, the smartest one, the best, in all things the best. In her absence I will never again be that “best” that she saw whenever she looked at me. In a crowd full of women, in my mother’s eyes, I was always more than any of them. On a shelf full of books, mine was better. My words were articulated more clearly, my clothing was more stylish, my deeds were greater, my husband was perfect, my children flawless. I can tell myself stories but they are as useless as my wearing the cardigan that I had bought for her during her last visit, as futile as my attempt to fill it up with her, to feel her around me.

What I remember now is not all the things that I did not affirm in my mother, all the things that I wished she hadn’t done or said, but the things she did do. What I remember is that she brought me music, theater, literature, language, a sense of humor, confidence, strength, joy, and a model of motherhood that runs in my veins as naturally as my blood.

I remember that she found it funny when I placed 38th in a class of 40 students and asked flippantly if I had failed math too, as we walked hand in hand away from the Convent I attended. What I remember is that when I was expelled from that convent for an array of irreverences but subsequently invited back, my mother – though she screamed at me in private and threatened to cut off my hair which, she said, was the source of all my problems – dismissed the offer from the nuns and enrolled me in a “school more suited to (her) daughter’s spirit, intelligence and interests.” What I remember is that she paid for piano lessons when we did not yet own a piano, swallowing her pride and letting us go next door to practice. I remember her voice pouring song after song into all of us, bringing Ireland, England and America to us through lyrics and melodies and that those songs still take the edge off the acts of governments that were also discussed in the house. I remember that she polished the floors of our house on her hands and knees with coconut refuse and kerosene and now and then with polish, that she planted every blade of grass in the garden and pruned her lawn and hedges with hand-held shears that left blisters on her piano-playing fingers and that out of the arid earth that surrounded our city home, she could make flowers bloom. I remember that she gave me a girl-only space in a house that held so many permanent and transient visitors, and that it contained a dressing table, a fan, an almirah, a bed, a table, a bookcase, and the silk bedspreads that had once been gifted to her, and that all of these things made my room magical in a time when magic rarely translated into concrete evidence. I remember that she listened to me read, that when I asked her if she was sleeping, the answer even when it took a while for her to say it was, always, a comforting “no, of course I’m not sleeping!” I remember that she encouraged me to wear my hair short and climb our roof and play French Cricket and run faster than the boys and, also, to steal guavas and skip school to attend cricket matches…

And I remember that she spent a teacher’s salary on buying bolts of fabric that she stored in a suitcase, beautiful cloth waiting to be turned into dresses by the best of seamstresses according to designs I sketched in ballpoint pen. I remember that except for there being no compromising on decency and modesty, she put no restrictions on the clothes I chose to put on, literally and metaphorically. She stood by and let me be everything that she was not. I wish I had done the same for her.

Not long ago, just before I left for a residency where I finished writing my second novel, completing it on the first anniversary of my mother’s death, I went to listen to Jamaica Kinkaid read and speak at Bryn Mawr College. She read from new work, from a story that is told from the perspective of two children who scorn their mother for writing and writing about her own mother, her country of birth. Her answers to the questions posed afterward continued to reflect that conflict. But when I went to introduce myself to her and mentioned that I had used her words to guide me through this new lifetime of grief, she reached out and held my hand. “Oh my dear,” she said, gazing deep into my eyes, “now you are truly an orphan. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter that your father is here with you, when your mother is gone, you are orphaned.”

There are things for which we are never prepared. Childbirth is one of them. The loss of a mother is another. It has been said that, as human beings, there are only three or so significant decisions that we make: whom we marry, whether or not to have children, where we choose to work and live; each of these decisions narrows the world a little further, concentrating our attention on the work involved in succeeding at any of this. But the death of a mother, I have discovered, unravels those decisions and the accompanying work. It has set me adrift in a place where nothing at all makes sense, where there are no anchors or guarantees, where even the statement, “you are going to be taller than me,” uttered to a daughter at the bus stop this morning, comes with a shadow sentence which tells me, even if I don’t say it aloud, that I can make no promises: of the return of the bus, of the greeting at the door, of years in which she might grow into a height that exceeds my own. I can only promise that there will be regret and that the world will, one day, become dislocated for them as it has become for me. But it is a promise I cannot articulate; it waits for them as it did for me.

Ru Freeman was born into a family of writers and many boys in Colombo, Sri Lanka. After a year of informal study at Murdoch University in Perth, Western Australia, she arrived in the United States with a Parker ink pen and a box of Staedler pencils to attend Bates College in Maine. She completed her Masters in Labor Relations at the University of Colombo, and worked in the field of American and international humanitarian assistance and workers’ rights. Her creative work has appeared or is forthcoming in Guernica, Story Quarterly, Crab Orchard Review, Kaduwa, Pebble Lake Review and elsewhere. She has been awarded four consecutive writing scholarships to the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference and been a fellow at Yaddo. She is a contributing editorial board member of the Asian American Literary Review. Her debut novel, A Disobedient Girl, is published by Atria Books/Simon & Schuster in the USA and Canada, by Viking/Penguin in the UK and territories, and has been translated into Dutch, Italian, Simplified and Complex Chinese, Portuguese, Turkish and Hebrew. She calls both Sri Lanka and America home and writes about the people and countries underneath her skin.

Read our interview with Ru here.

Illustration by Morgan Maurer, 2011

The grass I’m lying on is wet and hasn’t been cut in several weeks judging by its length. There’s a small bug slowly crawling across one long, flat blade and I watch, fascinated by the fact that something could move so carefully, so unaware of the chaos all around it.

This insect lives contently in a universe of its own. I am vaguely aware of movement behind me. I sense, rather than hear, people shouting from above me. I pay no attention; I am happy to watch the bug make its way through its little world. Everything is quiet. Still. Like the world is holding its breath for one small moment.

Behind the bug the background is a blur; my glasses were knocked clean off of my face with the first hit Marco landed.  I can only focus a few feet in front of me. Now, lying on my stomach in the grass beside the bus stop, the morning dew seeping through my coat, I am content to lie here in this sudden and surprising silence for the rest of my life. No more teasing. No more going to the bus stop and waiting in fear to see if Marco is going to walk to school or ambush me near the oleander bushes at the intersection where the other kids wait for the bus. A small gallery of children that has become a loyal audience for my daily hazing.

Last week Marco was sick and didn’t come to school and the other kids were actually disappointed that I was left alone. I made a joke about it, the first step on a long journey toward a sarcastic and self-deprecating sense of humor. “Sorry guys,” I said. “No show today.” I smiled at them like we were all buddies.

Buddies.

These kids who had never once helped me out while I was pushed around the street like a rag doll. Never ran and got an adult from the neighborhood when this bully, this giant kid who was old enough to be a sophomore in high school but had failed so many grades he was still in middle school, pounded me day after day.

They are bored.

And I am the show.

And this is the way of my world.

And today I have had enough. Today, I am finally tired of sneaking back into my house without my mother seeing another black eye, split lip, or random abrasion that I try to explain away as a playground injury.

A particularly rough game of touch football at PE.

A bathroom door that swung open at an inopportune moment.

But never a bully.

My mother will not know what to do about a bully.

Her idea of how to handle things will be to report it to the school. To call the sheriff’s department and file a complaint. Worst of all, to go to the bully’s house and talk to his parents in an attempt to “sort things out.”

Things that will only make my life worse. My teasing more intense. The image of my mother holding my hand and standing next to me at the bus stop with the other kids, this image, it’s beyond horrible.

And she’ll do it too.

I secretly confided in my stepfather, a career military man who, although not a great thinker by any stretch of the imagination, had a certain masculine philosophy that seemed appropriate at a time like this.

“You’ve got to fight this asshole,” he told me one night after I admitted that my cut lip was not from getting hit in kickball.

I blinked in astonished surprise.

“Red,” I said (He was Red to everyone who knew him. I didn’t find out his real name for years. I’m not even sure my mother knew it when she married him). “This guy is huge. He’s fifteen or something.”

“Get a stick,” he said.

I just blinked again.

“Or a rock, or a brick, whatever,” he said. “What I’m saying is, get an equalizer. If the guy is bigger than you, get something to take away that size advantage. It doesn’t matter how big a guy is, if you bash his head in with a stick, he’s gonna go down.”

“Something like a knife?”

“No. Never ever use a knife.” He was adamant, and I remember thinking that this was odd. What could be a greater equalizer than a knife?

He went on. “And if he tries to use a knife, just tell him you’re going to take it away from him.”

The idea of me and my skinny body telling anyone that I was going to take a knife away from them seemed absolutely ludicrous, but I didn’t mention this to my stepfather.

“What I’m trying to tell you is, even if you get beat up, it’s better than being afraid to go to school. It’s better to fight your enemies than to run away. Don’t ever run away from trouble. Be a man and fight for yourself, or you’ll never be able to look yourself in the face.”

This was not only the longest piece of advice Red ever gave me, it was also one of the most profound.

It’s also how I ended up on my belly on the side of the road.

Another Northern California weekday. Forty degrees or so, light fog, and a pack of twelve year olds waiting for the bus in their Lacoste polo shirts and Levi’s Jeans. I arrived in a pair of blue, threadbare corduroy trousers (one of four I owned) with very visible hem marks from where my mother lowered them at the start of the school year. This was her way of saving money. Buy pants that were several inches too long for me and then just “let them out” as the year went on. As a child my body grew up, not out, and I was able to wear my clothes for as long as my mother was willing to patch up the knees and elbows of my middle school wardrobe.

I made my way to the bus stop each morning, the corduroy zip-zipping as I walked down the hill towards the intersection below my house. No one else wore pants like mine. The other kids had designer labels and shopped at the mall for their clothing, and they weren’t hesitant to let me know it.

Marco began picking on me at the beginning of the school year and I never found out why. I was a small, skinny kid, but that was hardly unusual at my school. I wore glasses, but this too was not unique. I was poor, but so was he. If I was going to psychoanalyze the situation I’d say that he was beating up on me in order to fit in with the other, more affluent kids in the neighborhood, only he wasn’t. Marco treated me like shit everyday he was there, but made no effort to talk to the other children at the bus stop.

Even at school, he hung out by himself. Occasionally, someone would report that he was “smoking weed” with some older kids from the high school out behind the large dirt circle that served as the school’s track and field course. But never was it apparent that his punishment of me led to any sort of social advancement.

Marco was huge for seventh grade. Not only had his parents started him late in an attempt to “make him bigger for sports” a not entirely uncommon event in my neighborhood, somewhere along the way he had seen fit to fail a grade or two. Thus, at fifteen years old he towered over the rest of the kids waiting for the bus like an ogre. He couldn’t have looked more intimidating if he tried. He was the perfect bully; straight from central casting. His hair was cut, if it could be called that, into a shaggy, jet black mullet that perpetually hung in his eyes. He wore an olive drab fatigue jacket year round, beat up and dirty with US Army tapes still above the pocket, blue jeans stained with motor oil, and black motorcycle boots that he stuffed his enormous feet into. He looked like a cross between a heavy-set Joey Ramone and a Mexican wrestler and he scared the shit out of me.

But today I have had enough.

Today, when Marco pushed me at the bus stop, I turned around and hit him in his eye as hard as I can. I had to stand on my toes to do it, or maybe I just jumped up when the time came, it’s not really clear anymore. I’m not sure what I thought would happen. In all of the movies that I’d seen, the bully went down like a stone when the victim finally stood up to him. I imagined Marco clutching his eye, collapsing on the ground in pain. Perhaps, in my more dramatic pugilistic fantasies (and there were, admittedly, several of these) blood spurted forth and my attacker permanently lost the use of his eye.

Of course, none of these things happened in real life.

In real life, Marco took a small step back and gave me a surprised look.

Then he threw me to the ground like a rag doll and began kicking the shit out of me.

Somewhere during the journey from standing erect to huddling in a fetal position on the ground my glasses had flown off. I could feel kicks hitting my ribs and shoulders as I lay there, but also something else.

Relief.

I had stood up to Marco, and now, in my seventh grade logic, he would see that I wasn’t going to take it anymore and leave me alone. He wouldn’t have any choice; bullies don’t pick on kids who stand up for themselves. This was the irrefutable law of every television After School Special.

Faintly, in the distance and between the kicks, I can hear a low rumbling noise.

Salvation.

Delivery from pain.

The School Bus, hallowed be thy name.

The one rule held amongst all suburban children, regardless of their social status, was that all mayhem stopped when grown-ups arrived. Especially teachers or other school employees. The bus was no exception.

The blows stop and I hesitantly get to my feet. I can see a big green Marco-blur moving towards the intersection where the other children are forming an orderly line. I can feel hot salty tears covering my face that I don’t remember crying. I am waiting for my face to swell up, my legs to give out. For someone to tell me that my nose is covered in blood.

None of this happens.

The show is over.

It’s time to go to school.

Someone touches my arm.

A girl that I’ve never seen before is handing me my glasses. They’re wet, and one of the arms is bent, but they are otherwise unharmed. I stammer out a thank you but when I look up she is gone. I carefully straighten them out and place the gold rimmed teardrop shaped lenses on my face. My mother suggested these frames when I started wearing glasses a year earlier because they “looked like something a motorcycle rider would wear.” My guy who lives across the street from me is a motorcycle rider. He spends all day working on his bike in the front yard, shirtless in faded jeans. Old, blurry blue-green tattoos cover his arms like a disease, their original shapes lost to time. Sometimes I wonder what they mean, and how this skinny, weather-beaten man ended up in our moderately safe suburban neighborhood of used American cars and weekend Nerf football games.

My stepfather says he’s a dirtbag.

I wipe water from my face and blink a few times to clear my eyes. My world is a bit clearer, my body starting to ache. My head still buzzes with what has just happened. The rest of the world moves on, but something in me has changed. Slight, imperceptible right now, but growing.

I walk over and stand behind Marco who is last in line for the bus. We shuffle forward, inching towards the open door of my savior, big yellow #31. I can hear the offbeat tic-tic sound of the windshield wipers, like an irregular heartbeat, as it starts to sprinkle. My jacket is already soaked from the damp ground where I was tossed. There is dirt on my sleeve, and my trusty blue cords have a rip in one knee.

In what seems like a dream, I grab Marco by the sleeve and lean in close so that only he can hear me. I don’t know why I do this, only that I have an intense need to confirm what I feel here, now, at this moment. That things have changed. Things are different. I can feel him tense up, but I know that he won’t do anything with the bus right here.

I say, “We’re done now.”

I say, “This is over.”

I have no idea where this is coming from, I only know that it’s true.

Marco turns and looks down at me, and I notice that his left eye is red where I hit him.

“Nothing’s over,” he says. He points a finger at his hurt eye. “If this turns black, I’m going to kill you.”

“We’re done Marco. It’s over.”

My body is shaking and I want to cry but I’m too young to understand that this is adrenaline and it’s normal. I’m twelve years old and I think that I’m weak because my voice is shaking so hard that it sounds like I’m freezing to death while I stand here.

Marco faces away from me and we get on the bus. I used to worry about him picking on me during the ride to school, but not anymore. My worst fear was getting into a fight with him, and now I have. I am concerned that his eye might turn black, and that he will get mad again, but part of me also hopes that it does. A kid can say that nothing happened at the bus stop, that he didn’t lose the fight, but every child knows that the kid with the black eye is the one who got his ass kicked. If people at school think that I kicked Marco’s ass, that won’t be such a bad thing.

I would like to say that all of the kids on the bus are looking at me differently now. I would like to say that they all have a new respect for me that wasn’t there before, but I can’t. I am still the poor kid who shops at Woolco for his school clothes and has patches on the knees of his corduroy pants. I am the one who wears polo shirts with a tiger on the pocket instead of an alligator or a man riding a horse. I am the one whose mother trims his bangs once a month and calls it a haircut.

I am the one who hit Marco in the face and gave him a (possible) black eye.

The bus driver (who also looks like he might be a motorcycle rider) gives Marco and me the once over and then shuts the door.

“You want to sit up front behind me kid?” he says.

There is a long moment where the only sound in the world is my breathing and the Steve Miller band singing “Abracadabra” from the driver’s radio bungee corded to the dashboard. Marco has already sat down and stares at me from a few rows back. He sits by himself, like he does everyday. He looks angry, but that’s the way he looks all the time, and I’m through being afraid every day.

I look back at the driver, slouched in his chair, smoothing out his whispy blonde moustache. I can see a pack of cigarettes poking out of the pocket on the olive drab fatigue shirt he is wearing. There are military unit insignia and name tapes on the shirt in all of their proper places. Army units. I wonder briefly if our driver was in Vietnam but he looks too young. I am only twelve and a boy and war is still something romantic and misunderstood to me, something I will later learn is fought by boys not much older than I am now.

“No thanks,” I say. “I’m okay.”

I make my way back to an open seat near the emergency exit, my ribs starting to throb and my glasses crooked, a stupid grin on my face.

Kevin Jones’ work has been featured in The New York Times, Ink Pot, and the anthologies Home of the Brave: Stories in Uniform and Boomtown: Explosive Writing from Ten  Years of the Queens University of Charlotte MFA Program. He lives on Florida’s Gulf Coast where he teaches writing and literature.

Read our interview with Kevin here.