Loop

My youngest brother Joe had the bluest eyes. Eyes so clear, that when you stare into them, you could see your soul within. Whenever he gazed at me with those startling blue eyes, curly long eyelashes in their full glory, my heart just stopped.

My mother loved to carry Joe around the family. She loved sitting on the sofa while he lay in her embrace for hours, staring up into her face with those blue eyes. She loved to watch him put his short, squishy thumb into his mouth, gently sucking it, letting the pearl of saliva slowly string down his thumb until it trickled onto her arm.

We were a perfect family.

Joe's birth essentially marked a new chapter in our family, especially for me. It was the time when my parents decided to pack up and move into the suburbs after my dad's company relocated there. It was also the time when my family decided to put effort into establishing their image as the perfect, stereotypical suburban family.

We were living the American dream.

Or trying to anyway.

My mother loved visiting neighbors in the evenings, usually bringing a bottle of Chardonnay and a casserole dish over. More often than not, Joe would tag along, and for the rest of the night, our neighbors would witness loving scenes where my mother would endearingly stare into Joe's blue eyes as they go through rounds and rounds of peek-a-boo.

Every night, when Joe was placed in the cradle, my mother would murmur sweet nothings into his ear as she buried herself into his neck and inhaled his sweet, lavender scent.

I know; I watched from the corridor.

After that, when all of the lights have gone out and I could only hear the chirping of the cicadas in the hot, summer night, I would sneak my way into Joe's room.

Under the pale shine of the moon, Joe looked like a cherub. Round, dreamy eyes. Rosy, apple cheeks. Pouty, pink lips.

I never wanted to strangle someone so much in my life.

That was a first in my life, I guess.

I remembered pinching those tiny rolls of fats which were known as arms and wishing that I had them too. At that time, my arm had thinned out -- I was already seven. Thin, lanky and uninteresting in every way. Afterwards, I would use my index finger and gently swipe it over his eyelashes. They were so soft and curly...like a bird's feather. I wanted to pluck them out one by one and stick it onto my eyelids. I wanted to reduce my thin, lanky form into a tiny, fatty being. I wanted to be only able to say words like goo goo ga ga and hear my mom whisper sweet nothings into my ear.

I just wanted to be loved again.

Ever since Joe was born in his full shiny, baby glory, my parents stopped loving me. Joe was the new mantra which they chanted day and night while I was just a reminder of my parents' first successful fortification. When I turned six (which was the year when Joe was born, my mother stopped talking to me. Only bestowing me with a side glance every time I got home from school, she would only bother to stare into Joe's sweet, blue eyes as she sang nursery rhymes while he lay in her arms.

I remembered how those nursery rhymes sounded like when they drifted into my ears. Now, it just felt like a dream.

Hazy, just like my mother.

There was a period of time when I was so devoid of love that I just wanted my shouts to tear through the sky and blast through the entire country. I wanted to ask why my mother and father didn't love me anymore.

Why.

So, I did.

My arms were shaking then; I could feel my thin, lanky body trembling inside out as I waited for my impending judgement. It was one of the few rare times when Joe was asleep and my mom was knitting. In my vision, I saw a thinning blond hair and crystal clear blue eyes --Joe's eyes-- staring straight right at me as I mouthed those words.

I immediately regretted it when I spoke the words out loud.

My mother sat still as she was unable to speak, stunned by my odd question. I could feel the cogs in her brain slowly working their way through as she tried to find an answer which would not hurt my fragile, seven-year-old heart.

I still remembered her warm touch as she hugged me and murmured to me those sweet nothings.

You poor, poor thing. Mummy loves you a lot. How could you say those words?

Lie.

I could feel the coldness beneath her soothing words which seeped into my veins. When I grew older, I finally realized that that coldness was indifference.

It was only on Joe's third birthday when I understood the extent of my mother's indifference. It was already midnight, and Joe had been put to sleep hours ago after he had blown out the candles on his birthday cake. As I drank too much soda that night, I had to make a run for the bathroom. I could feel my bladder contracting time and time again as every second ticked by. I imagined the acidic soda gushing around in my bladder, swirling left and right, right behind the tip of giving way.

I imagine that it would soon burst.

But that was until I heard my mom sobbing from the kitchen. It was a dry, muffled gasp, like she was heaving after staying underwater too long. I was a child, then. Nine, to be exact. I did what most kids would have done -- hide outside the kitchen and silently peer through it. As the yellowish, warm glare hit my eyes, I saw the blurred image of my mother sobbing as my dad held her by the arms. He was comforting her and whispering words I couldn't hear.

My mother's strangled cries continued to fill the silence of the room.

A heaved sob slipped out of her mouth.

A string of words came out of her hoarse throat.

Joe's losing weight. He's not the same anymore.

My dad kept silent, as he continued stroking her hair.

The baby fats on his arm reduced by half an inch. I measured.

My dad hugged her tighter.

I thought that he would have stayed a baby longer... not a boy. Why can't my children always remain as babies?

The sobbing got louder.

My dad finally decided to speak up.

Forget it, Val. After Grant, we got Joe. We can always get another one. You can always get another baby.

My mother's sobbing quieted. She looked up at my dad with hopeful eyes as tears rolled down her cheeks.

Really?

Really.

My bladder gave.

Yellowish liquid started to stream down my pants and trickle onto the ground. The trickle was a loud staccato, further amplified by the sudden silence in the kitchen. Each drop landed on the ground like a ticking time bomb and I still couldn't stop.

Cold sweat dripped down my forehead.

The house was so silent.

Were my parents even speaking anymore?

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Grant? Is that you?

My mother's voice sounded from the kitchen, but it was like an echo, and as her words warped around in my mind non-stop, all I could do was run back to my bedroom.

When my mother checked on me later, I could still feel the liquid trickling down.

Drip.

Drop.

--

That was eight years ago.

Joe's now thin and lanky.

Now, my mother isn't inhaling his baby lavender scent anymore. She doesn't whisper sweet nothings into his ears nor sing nursery rhymes. She doesn't even tuck him into bed anymore.

She's got Chris now.

Before Chris, it was Elias and Mille.

Every baby is a new chapter for her motherhood.

Every baby gets to listen to her sweet nothings and nursery rhymes.

Every baby gets to touch a Chardonnay bottle and smell the casserole.

Every baby gets to play peek-a-boo and stare into my mother's crystal blue eyes.

As Elias, Mille, Joe and I stare at the cradle where Chris lies sleeping, thumb stuck inside his mouth, I carry him up as Joe touches his foot while Elias and Mille touch his hair, forehead and eyelashes.

Always the eyelashes.

Chris doesn't stir.

He continues sucking his thumb, as his eyelids flitter ever so slightly because of the sudden disturbance. His brown, tousled hair is soft like a feather, and I couldn't resist caressing it.

When we finally decided to put him back into the cradle, we gave him a long, hard look.

Round, dreamy eyes. Rosy, apple cheeks. Pouty, pink lips.

What a perfect family we are.