What’s a Mother to Do
Kyra Kluge
The sun had barely set in the sky, and dozens of commuters were coming home to their bedrests in the tiny town of Combs, Arkansas. The woman in the tiny, green, aging house sat down into her wicker cushioned chair in the kitchen, smartphone clutched to her ear. Her fingers shook slightly as she opened a book in her hand—The Teenage Brain. On the antique end table next to her sat another book, already read and set aside. The woman buried her face in her hand as she waited for the person on the other end of the phone to pick up.
The phone rang several times before the other person finally answered. The woman startled as the ringing suddenly stopped, replaced by the breathing of the one she had called—she still wasn’t quite used to these new smartphones; she was far more accustomed to the old landline. Adjusting her glasses, she opened the book to the first page just as her husband started speaking.
“Sarah, is that you?” her husband said, his voice muffled by the sound of others talking, phones ringing, and keyboards clicking around him.
“Yes, dear, it’s me,” the woman said, adjusting her grip on the phone as she heard her husband’s soft, gentle voice coming through the speakers.
“What’s wrong, Sarah?” her husband asked.
“I’m calling about Maya. She… she’s having those thoughts again. I’m worried about her, dear,” the woman said, wringing her hand against her beige sweater before squeezing it in between her legs, covered in a floral long skirt. “She left the house about an hour ago and won’t answer any calls… I’m afraid she’s gone to see that man again.”
“What man?”
“You know, the one she’s been talking to for a few months now. I know she is… I’ve seen her chat history. I was worried, I just had to check. I think his name was… something starting with a ‘Z.’”
“It’s alright. I’m sure when she gets the help she needs, Maya will thank you for doing what you had to do,” Sarah’s husband assured.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. People always say at first that they’ll refuse the help, but they’re thankful once it’s over.”
“I’m worried she’s being taken advantage of. I’m worried they’re abusing her, telling her that she’s something she’s not, and they’ll turn her into one of those druggies, Abe,” Sarah said.
“Sarah, I’m worried that you’re too worried. There’s a simple solution to this. We’re going to send her to therapy. Do you know where she is right now?” Abe asked.
“I told you; she probably went to see that man again. I don’t know where they meet. I’ve never really seen Maya leave the house before until she met him. You don’t think he’s some sort of drug dealer, do you, Abe? Or some kind of… what’s the word, ‘pimp’? She’s only seventeen, Abe.”
“Good Lord, I hope not. Do you need me to come home, Sarah? I’m working overtime right now for the car payment, but I can hop on the late train if you need me,” Abe said. “Sounds like Maya needs to learn some sense.”
“Yes, please. I need you here, dear. You’re my rock in these times. Lord knows I’m trying, but…” the woman sighed, looking at the book on the end table. She closed the psychology book in her hands, placing it underneath the other on the table. “I don’t know if it’s good enough.”
“Lord give you strength in these trying times,” Abe said. “I’ll take the late train, then.”
The woman gently put down the phone, sighing deeply once more before standing up. She would need all the strength she could get to help her child, surely. It had been a while since she had left the house on her own volition, so leaving to go find Maya would take some mental preparation.
Leaving the kitchen, Sarah made her way to her child’s room. The “M” engraved into the door had been scratched to unrecognizability long ago. She pushed the door open, letting it open in its entirety before stepping in. She stopped in the doorway. The bedroom was a total mess—the white bed sheets were strewn across the room, an old soccer ball was resting against the wall, and there were red, dot-like marks on the desk.
Red?
Sarah looked closely at the desk. There was her daughter’s laptop, an old contacts case, bloodstained razor blades, alcohol wipes, and a book colored like cotton candy. The woman scowled at the book, pushing it aside and gingerly picking up the razor blades, making sure not to cut herself. Glancing at the red dots next to them on the desk, the woman sighed and put the blades back down.
Maya, why? You didn’t have to do this. I only want the best for you.
Leaving the room, the woman walked through the hall, passing the family paintings, paddle, and many lovingly bright family photos on the wall. As she passed, one of the photos caught her eye—a framed photo of her daughter, smiling and beaming at the camera at one of her soccer matches from second grade.
She stopped to take the photo off the wall, absentmindedly stroking the smooth sheen of the glass in her hand. A few droplets of tears fell on the frame.
“Oh, Maya. You poor girl. I’m so sorry. I’ll be there to rescue you,” she said, clenching her fist and hanging the frame back on the wall as the image of that man filled her mind.
That man. The one manipulating and controlling poor Maya to his heart’s content; the one having her believe such horrible, vile ideals—the woman knew at that moment that she had a mission—a mission ordained by the Lord to perform in Abe’s stead. The woman grabbed what she needed from the end table in the kitchen and left the house.
My daughter used to have so much fun when she was younger. She was the star student, the star athlete, and my star child, Sarah thought as she left the house, walking towards the town bridge.
And yet she still got these sorts of thoughts in her head—I never thought she’d be the type! Of her own volition, no less. No chance!
I plead with her to think about it just a little more, and to be mature, but just a few more words from that man doomed me. So, what’s a mother to do? What’s a mother to do when their only child, the child they’ve raised for seventeen years, wants to do something so absurd! Doesn’t she know how freaky people like that end up looking?
She’s going to have destroyed her body by the time she realizes what she’s done. It’s my duty to protect her from such a fate. I don’t want her to be mistreated. I don’t want her to be abused. I don’t want her to end up like that.
“Oh, Lord, give me the strength I need.” Sarah inhaled deeply as she walked through the night, passing through the now empty town as stores and businesses began closing shop. “Give me the strength I need to set my child right.”
It was a quiet night; the crickets could be heard in the distance. A small suburban town was nothing like the big city, Little Rock, where the woman’s husband worked, and she was grateful for it. Cars gently drifted by, night lights were beginning to flicker on while storefront lights flickered off, and one could breathe in the fresh yet humid air of the midsummer night. The woman continued mumbling scripture to herself as she made her way to the end of town.
The number of cars passing by the woman on the old, unpaved roads began to trickle down to a couple before she finally made her way onto a small footpath that led into the forest, where a bridge ran over the town’s river.
“Maya?” she called out, hoping someone would hear her.
A young man stood in the middle of the town bridge, leaning against the stone railing, taking in the sights and sounds. Crickets were abundant; the subtle rustling of the tree leaves in the breeze filled his ears, and the rushing water of the river below was tantamount. The stone railing under his arms was cracked and failing, and leaning too hard against it might be a hazard.
This would be the last time he would be here before he left for good, so he made sure to absorb it all while he could—this place that had been such a spot of solace for so many years. He took out his phone—his most precious possession—and opened his messages, the comforting blue glow of the screen illuminating his face in the sheer darkness of the woods surrounding the bridge.
He read the last message again from his only friend.
Isaac, I’m sorry. I won’t be able to get those testosterone injections I promised you. I’m being moved to a different spot in the hospital, away from storage. I can’t really leave my shift there. Let me know if you’re alright. I’m going to look for another opportunity. I hope you’re the one getting this and not your mom. xoxo, zad.
The young man reminisced on his life so far as he scrolled through the rest of the messages. All he had ever wanted was to be himself. Every day was agony. He wanted to rip and tear at his own skin. He wanted to jump out of his body. He wanted to get rid of these awful things on his chest. He wanted to not feel so alone in this experience.
“Maya?” he heard a voice call out into the darkness from the footpath on the way to the bridge. It sounded like his mother—and despite everything, hearing the name still felt like a bullet ripping through his heart.
I’m not your daughter.
“Maya, are you here?”
The voice was getting closer. The young man knew what was in store for him if he stayed on the bridge—he’d seen his father researching nearby conversion therapy sites online in the past couple weeks. He was not in the mood for more ranting and raving from his mother, who’d gotten a new favorite book as of late—Irreversible Damage.
That’s not my name. I know who I am.
“Maya, come home, please!”
There was nothing for him here in this place. He knew that much. He would have to run away to a safer place…
So, Isaac climbed onto the railing, and took a step forward.
Kyra Kluge, class of 2026, is a sophomore from Ho-Ho-Kus who plans to major in Medieval Studies and minor in Creative Writing. She hopes to pursue a writing career after graduating.
Kyra wrote this piece in Professor Alfredo Franco’s Introduction to Creative Writing course during the Fall 2022 semester. Professor Franco selected the piece for publication in WHR.