Inertia
by Alby Heredia
It’s one of the warmest days of the year, but summer was over if you measure it by the school calendar. The day’s hot sun is deep on the horizon. Jamie starts kindergarten tomorrow but all that’s on his mind is the swing.
Jamie runs to the swing and grabs the long chain that connects the impossibly-hard, rubber seat to the giant metal frame.
“Time to go, Jamie,” his mother yells as she folds up the blanket that served as their headquarters in the park that day.
“No,” Jamie says, and he sits on the swing’s seat.
The blanket’s folded, Frisbee, paper kite and makeshift picnic basket are ready to go. There was just enough food for Jamie and his mother. His father hasn’t been seen since Jamie was two.
“Honey,” calls Jamie’s mother. Her bangs fall into her face for the nine thousandth time today. She licks her fingers and hooks them behind her ear. She’s left them long because Jamie cried the last time she cut her hair.
“But I wanna swing, Mommy,” says Jamie.
“Sweetheart, we have to go home. It’s getting dark.” She starts towards the swing set.
“Please, Mommy.” And it was over, just like it always was. A martyr to Jamie’s happiness. She believed she owed that much to him.
Jamie’s legs pump back and forth skimming the sawdust but the swing barely moves. He’s gripping the chain, smiling at his approaching mother.
“It’s time to go baby,” she reiterates, even as she pushes Jamie forward. An object in motion tends to stay in motion and she has been in motion since Jamie was born.
Jamie laughs a throaty, gurgly laugh. “Higher!”
Jamie’s mother pushes and the swing arcs forward and back. The park is nearly empty now. Other families have gathered their things, dogs are releashed, car doors creak and slam in the parking lot, engines rev.
Jamie swings past his mother’s head, her bangs fall into her face. Forward. Back. Forward. Back.
“Higher!” Jamie screams. And she pushes harder.
“Watch, Mommy,” shouts Jamie, and at the apex he cranes his neck and purses his lips. His spit lands in the sawdust.
“No spitting, Jamie,” she says. Jamie’s body arcs past her head and she pushes down and forward again with one hand.
Back. Forward.
Jamie crane’s his neck again. This time the spit follows him back in a long string; sticky spittle spatters his mother’s shirt, then face.
“Damn it, Jamie! I said no spitting!” She’s angry now, and the next time Jamie passes her head she’s wiping the spit from her cheek, her forehead.
“I’m sorry, Mommy. Don’t stop!” She takes a breath then pushes harder, now with both hands. Forward. Back. And the next time harder. Her face is flushed, her eyes shine in the waning daylight.
With her effort, the swing is nearing ninety degrees and the chain becomes slack at the top of the arc and Jamie falls straight down a little with a jerk before the chain goes taut again on his way back to her.
Jamie’s not yelling anymore; his hands begin to sweat on the steel chain.
She’s pushing with all her strength; pushes until she slips, falls.
The swing arcs out. Back. Jamie’s mother screams and she extends her arms to diffuse the impact. The swing connects with her hands, her arms, but mostly her body. Jamie’s jumps off the swing, his face glowing white. Jamie’s mother props herself up in the wood chips beneath the swing, sobbing.
“Are you O.K., Mommy?” the boy asks. He’s shaking. He reaches to her, strokes her forehead, pushes her bangs back out of her face.
She doesn’t answer immediately, she just sits, tears streaming down her face as she rubs her ribs. The light on the horizon twists orange, red and then violet.
Jamie buries his head in her lap and cries too.
When the sky is deep purple she stands, brushes the sawdust from her pants and takes her son by the hand. They carry their belongings to the car across the cooling asphalt parking lot.
The house is quiet that night and without objection Jamie eats his cooked carrots with dinner when his mother tells him to.
He’s in his pajamas by 8:45 with teeth brushed. His mother quietly reads him his favorite bedtime story on the couch and when he asks if he can stay up a just a little later she answers no and tucks him into his own bed. Kisses him on the head.
She stands naked in front of the bathroom mirror inspecting the darkening bruise on her ribcage when she hears the whimpers. Jamie’s used to sleeping with his mother. It had just been easier that way after the father left, despite everyone’s telling her that it was the wrong thing to do. She bends and pulls the handle on the bathtub. Her bangs fall into her face. The water roars and the din fills the room, drowning out all other sound. She reaches into a drawer and retrieves scissors. Bending over the sink, she quickly but carefully cuts her bangs to reach no farther than her eyebrows. She smiles. The bath is filling and she steps into the steaming water and leans back into the warmth that surrounds her. Her fingers move to the hardening flesh over the bruised ribs. Things are moving in a new direction and Sharon can feel it.