Screaming With No Mouth

I grew up in the trailer parks of Northern California, where the meth crisis is at its peak. Our property was always a graveyard for axel-greased car parts and gutted cars. Tractors get overtaken with weeds almost instantly if they’re not used. And just beyond this hell hole was a cherry orchard. When there wasn’t food in the cupboards, I’d spend all day in the peach orchard, gorging on fruit, my shoeless feet caked in dirt, my hair unwashed for days on end.

The only part I didn’t like about our property was a large, looming, weather-worn roadside crucifix. It was bent and discolored, swaying ominously during the storms. It had the words: “SMILE, JESUS LOVES YOU” etched onto it. I’d throw rocks at it, a daily ritual. But the most unsettling part of our home was a ghost that lived with us. I named her Samantha. Sam lived in my mother’s room, specifically her bathtub. I hated taking baths in there. Samantha would watch me, just around the corner. Every time I’d see her from the corner of my eye, she’d disappear in a flash. I could never catch what she looked like.

My mother was a singer. She’d sing in dive bars and sketchy events in the city. She was a hard smoker, lighting a finished cigarette with a new one. She drank a bottle of Chardonnay every day, from the moment she woke up to the moment she passed out in the bathtub. And that’s how Samantha appeared.

She’d watch my mom sleep in the tub. A half-lit cigarette dangling over the side, three empty bottles piled up in the corner. Samantha would never do anything… except watch her. It made me uneasy, since I could clearly see Samantha at these times: she was a black mass, almost like ashy smoke that sat on the covered toilet beside the tub. Sometimes she’d push my mother’s sleeping head slowly under the water and I’d scream: “MOMMY! WAKE UP!” and my mother would angrily splash awake, telling me to “mind my own business and do my chores.”

This became a common thing, every evening at the same time, I’d have to sit in the corner of the room, unseen to Samantha. I was a watchdog, ready to blow the whistle on this murderous specter at any moment. My mother would stay asleep in that tub for hours. I’d bring my pillow and blanket to the corner, vigilant but tired. If I closed my eyes for one minute, Samantha would surely kill my mom.

And then it happened. I fell asleep. And Sam finally did what she came to do. I woke up in the morning to my mother drowned in the tub. I frantically ran to the phone, my panicked, small fingers chaotically dialing 911. But it didn’t matter, she was gone. All my fault, my guilt and grief was so strong, you could smell it through the walls, you could smell it from the street. Even when the firefighters and ambulance entered the home, they could smell it. I managed to dodge Child Protective Services and live in the cherry orchard for two days, but eventually I was found. No more peaches, no more crucifixes, no more greasy car parts. Just stale, lifeless white walls and plastic playgrounds with other kids that don’t understand my grief.

I grew up and started a bakery. Our most favorite item is my cherry cobbler. As for Samantha, I only see her when I pick up the bottle. I know she’s there because she smells like cigarettes and wine.