My Mother Says I’m Too Sick to Leave the House

SPEAKER_1 (0:18)

The wind picks up, sending dead leaves scraping down the street and driving a chill through my bones. I should have brought a jacket out with me, but there's no way I'm going back inside, and I pray Mom doesn't bring me one.

It took me two full days of constantly asking, but here I am, finally alone, sitting on the front porch in my wheelchair just as 2.3 rolls around.

Mom always has excuses for why I shouldn't do things. She says I'm fragile, delicate. She says a head cold could cause a chain reaction in my immune system that might land me in the hospital again, or worse.

Over the years, I've learned how to wear her down. It usually takes more energy than I have, but I was determined to make it out here sooner or later, or die trying.

Because I've become convinced that I'm not really sick, that Mom is making me sick on purpose.

I'm 19 now, and this life of being confined to a wheelchair or a bed is all I've known. It has been a life of pills and injections and doctor visits. There have been good times too. Trips to amusement parks, our monthly outing to the movies, the occasional exciting TV interview orchestrated by Mom. And for a long time, I thought I was sick. For a long time, I thought Mom's unceasing presence at my side night and day, signified her devotion as a mother. Now, I'm sure it's the opposite. She's always there because it's how she controls me. It also explains why she doesn't allow me to have a phone or internet access.

As another gust of wind tugs at my clothes, I glance at the closed screen door.

The interior door is open and I can hear Mom talking on the phone about another interview she wants to do.

She's very good at talking to people.

I thought the interviews were about money, donations. But after my conversation with Dr. Fletcher three days ago, I don't think that's the case. It's about attention. That's all it has ever been about.

My breath catches as I see the mail carrier down the street, walking with his satchel from house to house.

We live in an old New England neighborhood, and all the houses are close together. The only mailboxes are those attached to the houses, usually next to the front door. Which means he has to walk up, and I can talk to him, ask him for help.

He's coming.

I rehearse my little speech once more in my head, heart thudding sickeningly in my chest. The man produces a small stack of mail from his satchel, and lifts his head, noticing me. I smile, careful not to show my rotting teeth. He smiles as he starts up the three steps. Something's wrong. It takes me a moment to realize I can no longer hear mom talking. Just as I'm about to say, I need your help, mom steps out through the screen door, glancing at me before she greets the mailman.

Hope shatters. Tears want to come, but I force them away.

Mom and the mailman chat, but I barely hear their words over the despair roaring in my head. I look away.

After a moment, I hear my name and return my gaze to them. Mom and the mailman both look at me, the former with hard eyes and the latter with an expectant expression.

I don't know what I've been asked, but even if I did, I wouldn't dare speak. If I did, I'd either start sobbing or blurt out my little speech. God knows what Mom would do then. Probably what she always does when trouble rears its head, talk her way out of it.

After an awkward moment, Mom says, He must not be feeling well. He's a sick boy. My sorrow calcifies into rage at the look of pity the mailman gives me. Once the man is gone, Mom wheels me inside without a word. Outside, the wind howls, and I feel like howling right back. Will tonight be the night? Will she give me too much of some mystery drug, either on purpose or by accident, and finally end my life?

I consider refusing the pills, the injections, but the last time I tried that, Mom waited for me to fall asleep before injecting drugs into my bloodstream.

I woke up while she was doing it and passed out soon after. When I came to 12 hours later, I had painful bruises all over my chest and stomach, as though she'd beaten me while I was unconscious. No, I'm not doing that again. I have to stay alert and awake. I have to come up with a new escape plan. I think Dr. Fletcher is my best bet. After all, he's the only reason I know what I know. I've suspected it for a little while now, but for the past three days, I've been sure.