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Nothing Bad Happens

Jenny-Lynn Ellis

    Sissy and I are asleep in our room with yellow curtains the night that Mamma wakes us up to meet her new friends. Dreams may be happening when I start to hear talking and music, but I don’t always know the difference between dreams and daytime. I know how old I am and can show you on my fingers—this many:
four. I don’t know what the sixties are or that they just ended. And I don’t know where my Daddy is tonight.
    I am the baby of the family. My other big sisters are sleeping in their own rooms downstairs, but I share with Sissy. She is five. Sometimes she will sing to me at night and I will feel myself float up up up in the air with her pretty voice.
    Before bedtime, if I stand on my tippy toes, I can look out my window and down into the shadowy back yard. When I am twice as old, when I know what the 1970’s are, and that I am in them, I will jump out of that window to show that I am big and that I won’t break my leg. On that day, I will perch on the narrow window sash and my mind will freeze, stuck like the tip of a knife in bone. Sissy and the neighborhood kids will have gotten bored looking up and watching me be scared. They will be gone when I finally bend my shaking knees and stop looking down at the grass. No one will see me when I push off into space and land with my thighs shoved into my chest. No one but me will hear my teeth clack together as I hit the ground. Everything will hurt when I land. But I won’t break my leg.
    With no audience, I will practice how to not to let fear stop me. My sweaty hands will grip the window frame just long enough to bend my body into the leathery shape of a bird’s feet. I will leap and land, then walk through the back yard and into the house through the dining room’s sliding glass doors. I will saunter through the kitchen, wishing to be seen. I will want Mamma to notice what I have done and to say, Sweetheart! I thought you were in your room! How did you get here? But that day, the kitchen will be empty.
    Tonight, when Mamma comes to wake us up, I’m still little and the yellow curtains are pulled together. She opens the door, sending a crooked line of light across the floor. I roll onto my side, away from the brightness. Voices I don’t know creep in from the hall.
    I feel my bed tilt as Mamma sits down beside me and touches my shoulder. My nose wrinkles at the smell of grown-up drinks and smoke on her skin. Sweetheart, wake up! Come and meet my friends! I push my eyes half-way open and see her hair loose around her face. My eye lids fall closed again.
    I hear Mamma’s crooked, late night way of walking as she goes over to Sissy’s bed. Wake up and come see my friends! My beautiful girls. Come on, get up for Mamma!
Her voice is sticky like pink candy.
    She pulls us to our feet, wrapping a warm arm around each of us. We lean into her sides and stagger together down the hallway. Two men sit on our long, gold-colored couch. They look fuzzy in their blue jeans and straight brown hair. There wasn’t a dinner party, so I don’t know why there are ashtrays and drinks and strangers. Sissy and I stand next to each other in our nightgowns, blinking at the bright lamps Mamma has turned on. Light from the kitchen ceiling bends over our heads to the top of the dark basement stairs. See? These are my little girls!
    We start to smile at Mamma’s new friends. I know I am supposed to be cute and sweet.
    Aw, Ragna, you didn’t need to get them out of bed! one of the men says, saying my mother’s Icelandic name with round American sounds. His smile fills his whole face.
    The other man says, Look how sleepy they are! What cutie pies!
He looks from us back to Mamma, who tilts her head and grins.
    Say hi to my friends! We obey her and give a little wave. She tells us to go back to bed.
    Those two are my babies, we hear her say as she turns back to the party that came out of nowhere. But you know, I have seven children! The men’s words melt away as we close our bedroom door.
    Sissy and I go back to our beds and our dreams. I don’t remember anything about the next day, but my mornings were joyful—I woke up happy, and I woke up knowing I was loved. Only decades later did I paint that night in dark colors, resentfully certain of Mamma’s failures. I write the story and recoil at my condemnation. Nothing bad happened. I loved her and loved that she was proud of us. I jumped at every chance she gave me to be seen.

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