“If you gave him epilepsy, I’ll kill you,” she grabs me and hisses, her eyes wild with rage. “I’ll KILL YOU!” she screams, frantically.

My eyes widen, and I take a step back. Now is a good time to leave the kitchen and hide. I consider, for a moment, the question of my safety. Did she mean it? Would she really kill me? And how would she do it? I don’t think she really would, as that would get too complicated, but I am not entirely sure that she wouldn’t. But if he was OK, so would I be. And the neighbor said this sort of thing was common among children his age.

He was only 3, and he had had some sort of seizure. That’s what the neighbor called it. (It made me feel better to know there was a name for that empty look on his face.) Our parents were watching a movie in which we quickly lost interest. We had been lying down on the living room floor, poking each other and generally being silly to amuse ourselves. I don’t know who started it, but one of us began to roll our eyes at the other, producing stifled giggles and more eye rolling in response. I roll my eyes at him, and he laughs, and he rolls his eyes at me in return. I cover my mouth and laugh. Suddenly, I notice his eyes won’t roll back down, they’re stuck in his head, like he’s dead. I think he’s joking, so I laugh and nudge his arm. His eyes won’t move. Now I’m scared.

“Something’s wrong with J. We were playing, and his eyes are stuck,” I say, as I nudge my father’s leg.

My mother screams “What did you DO?”

“I didn’t do anything,” I say, “we were playing.”

“What kind of game eez dees?” she shrieks.

He tells her to calm down, and he goes next door to get our neighbor, the retired doctor. Rick comes over and takes a look at J.

“It looks like he’s had some sort of seizure. It could be epilepsy, or it could just be a seizure. It happens sometimes, in children that age. Let’s get him to the hospital.”

They take him to the hospital, and J stays overnight. Dad disappears into his study. She’s in one of her moods, and I’m staying as far away as I can. There are strange sounds coming out of the study, something like a dog quietly yelping. I open the door to Dad’s study, just a crack. He’s standing in the corner, draped in his prayer shawl, shaking back and forth and praying to God. His body is trembling so violently, I wonder if he is having a seizure. The noise he is making sounds so strange. Deep down, I know what it is, but I try to think of some other explanation for that unsettling noise. Any explanation at all. But there is none. My rational, reasonable father has reached his wit’s end. My father is crying. I have never seen him this way, and I know there is nothing I can do to help. I carefully close the door and walk away. I climb the stairs to the second floor, each step heavier than the next. I walk into my room and shut the door.

I’ll be safe here. And he’ll be OK. This sort of thing happens sometimes to children his age. I know he’ll be OK.

I am bad.

I can see it on her face. She is red, she is rage. She screams and screams and screams. Her face is like a Japanese mask, a giant scowl and lines where her face has creased around the down-turned mouth, the flaring nostrils, the forehead. I try not to look at the mask. I cannot bear to see the disgust in the grimace, the wrinkled nose. Her eyes are filled with an unquenchable fire that burns, burns, burns anger. When she looks at me, I shrink. I am certain she hates me, and I look away. I look down. I try to drown out the noise, the never-ending stream of words that come flying out of her mouth like a thundering swarm of bees. I don’t understand what she’s screaming about anymore, the words all blend together. I make myself small, tiny, invisible. In my head she is far away, a buzzing mosquito in the distance, a radio blaring somewhere on land while I’m underwater. If I can just look down and hear her like a distant echo, I’ll be OK. It’ll be over soon. She’ll stop and all will be quiet. Calm. Silent.

Silence. Stillness. In the silence the world is open in my head. I lie back on the ottoman in the living room, legs dangling above the floor, head dangling on the other side. I look up at the ceiling and imagine the world upside down. What would it be like to live up there on the cottage cheese-textured upside-down floor? What if all the furniture were up there instead of here? How would it stay there and not fall down? How would it feel to walk up there, in the air, flying free? Would right-side up become upside down? What would it feel like not to exist at all? How does it feel when you don’t feel anything? What does it mean not to be? When you close your eyes and never wake up is it black and empty? Like the big open stillness of outer space? Is that where grandma is? Does she feel nothing? How can you feel nothing if it’s nothing and you can’t feel?

The buzzing is getting louder, sharper. She is screaming high pitched noises, grunted, throat-scratching words like a dog barking.

“LISTEN TO MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

I tune back in.

“YOU MISERYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!”

I am miserable.

“LOOK AT MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

I turn my head to look at her, hoping this is the end.

“WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOUUUUUUUUUUU?”

I look at her and say nothing. I know this is the kind of question that needs no answer. My eyes are moist, but I hold back the tears. If I cry, she’ll give me something to cry about.

“GODDAMNIT! WAIT TILL YOUR FAHDER GETS HOME! YOU MISERY YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!”

It doesn’t make sense to call someone misery. I know she means that I make her miserable.

She stomps off into the kitchen, still shouting. I am alone. It’s quiet. The tears begin to fall. I sit on the floor, hugging my knees, head down. I know I am bad. I just don’t know why. And I don’t know what I can do to be good again. I bang my forehead against the wall. Once. Twice. Three times. It hurts. There is no way out. I am a bad girl. I know this because she hates me. She hates me, hates me, hates me. (But how can I be bad? I don’t even know what I’ve done. Hitler was bad, and I haven’t done anything close to what he did.)

But she hates me.

Hates me

hates me

hates me.

I am misery.