Blowup Mattress

It was on this day when I knew that I hated police stations. I hated how sterile it looked and smelled. Gray and blue-ish walls turned to my least favorite colors. The waiting room was the worst. I could hear my little brother and I’s stomach’s grumbling, desperate for food, and all they could offer was something from the vending machines. I declined but I made sure that my brother had at least something in his stomach. It was a long three hours since being carted away in the police car. I held onto my brother tight that day. I wanted to never let him go.

            My hair was in a messy ponytail, my mom’s old Mizzou sweatshirt from when she was a sorority house cook, my favorite light washed jeans and my white converse shoes. That morning, I woke up extra early to get myself ready for the bus stop and as always, to wake my little brother, Micah, up so that I could walk him to school. He would out his favorite Nike outfit with the matching shoes and we would proceed to the bathroom as always. My stepdad’s morning routine consisted of making a cup of coffee and lighting up a cigarette in the living room. I hated that cigarette smell in the morning and wished he would smoke outside. The apartment was small and cigarette smoke would seep into my clothes.

            I usually would give Micah a quick wash up since he took a bath the night before, assist him with brushing his teeth, and style his hair but he always liked doing that because it had to be parted a certain way. For a six-year-old he was pretty independent, but he knew that he could always count on his sister for assistance. Of course, there were mornings where he was difficult. He didn’t like getting out of bed, putting clothes on him was like putting clothes on a squirmy cat, and he hated brushing his teeth and if he could he would go around with his breath stinking all day. On days where he didn’t cooperate with me, my stepdad would handle him. Handling him always resorted to the belt, but I tried to avoid being present for that because I hated watching my brother cry uncontrollably. My stepdad lived by the motto of, “What goes on in this house, stays in this house.” So, I was trained to normalize the belt and keep things moving. Especially for the sake of not getting yelled or lectured at.

That morning, Micah just didn’t want to go to school at all. He didn’t want to wash up or put lotion on. He made it difficult for me to even put underwear on him. My dad overheard me repeating, “Come on, Micah, you’ve got to put these on” and came into the bathroom. It was in that moment where life was in slow motion. Him forcing him to brush his teeth, spanking him, crying, making his toothpaste suds swallow down his throat, coughing up for air, forcing him to throw up, strong hands around a small neck, kicking, and more crying. I sat on the edge of the bathtub staring at the floor. Kicks and bruises shaped like hands meant “What goes on in this house” stays. My stepdad asked me while holding a cigarette in his mouth if I needed a ride to school. I declined and walked to my bus stop.

It was on this day when I knew that I hated conference tables. I hated how they lead to phone calls and how it led to sitting into an office until 12 in the morning. Waiting for a phone call to figure out where we were going to be placed was the worst. I could hear my little brother constantly asking if we were going to go home and all I could say to him was that everything was going to be just fine. I didn’t like lying but we weren’t going to go home, and he didn’t need to know that. It was a long hour since leaving the police station. I held onto my cell phone that day and called my sister. I never wanted that conversation to the end that night. I didn’t want to be alone with my own thoughts.

The doorbell rang. My eyes were puffy, and Micah kept looking at me as I was holding his hand. She welcomed us into her home and told us that everything was going to be just fine and we believed her because we didn’t know anything else. She offered us a change of clothes for pajamas and a bed to sleep in for the night. I declined the bed so that my little brother could sleep in it. That night we slept on the couch. I realized that we had to go to school tomorrow and that I didn’t have any change of clothes. I didn’t go back home to pack a bag or two. I didn’t go back home to say goodbye to my room. I didn’t go back to my room to grab my favorite blanket. I didn’t go back to grab my pictures of my mom or my journal that I wrote in every day. The next day, I wore the same outfit in hopes that nobody noticed.

A week being into this new home and Micah didn’t know what it felt like to sleep alone. The lady gave me the bed to sleep in at night and gave him a blowup mattress. Getting ready for bed felt like I was getting ready to aid a wounded soldier who constantly needed their bandages removed and put back on every five minutes. Getting ready for bed felt like I was back at the age of 10 when I couldn’t fall asleep because I was making sure my mother kept her oxygen mask on every waking moment. It was on that day when I knew he hated blowup mattresses. He hated how they didn’t feel like a regular bed.

The blowup mattress was pretty old, but the lady was sweet and made it as comfortable as possible with plush blankets and a little teddy bear that he could sleep with. I would lay him down for bedtime and remind him every time that it will be okay. He never believed me, but I didn’t blame him for it. The social workers always gave us high hopes and let us down when the opportunity presented itself. We didn’t believe or trust anyone, we just knew we wanted to go back home even if that meant going back to “what goes on in this house, stays in this house.”.

Sometimes I would fall asleep on the mattress with him to make sure that he felt secure. I’d slowly creep up from the blowup mattress just to find that it had a hole in it. I guess the weight of two people on one bed was starting to become too much after a few nights. Duct tape couldn’t keep it from blowing out air anymore and so some nights he suffered by sleeping on the actual floor. Luckily, it was carpeting so it wasn’t too bad for the both of us. I was grateful that I had somewhere to lay my head that night.

Micah still didn’t know that home wasn’t an option for us anymore and my grandparents so desperately wanted him to live in their home. Blood was thicker than water in that situation. Since I had no blood ties with my grandparents, they didn’t want me and besides, no one in the foster care system wanted teenagers anyways. However, I couldn’t imagine living life without my brother being there to interrupt me doing homework, or cartoon watching on the weekends, or play basketball at the school playground down the street or be there to tell that everything is going to be okay.

Six months went by and it was on that day I knew that goodbyes were getting harder to say. I hated how they felt like promises unkept in my mouth. The taste of sweet and sour candies except the sweetness never came after. I wondered as Micah left this place we called home for a bit if he will forget the nights we slept on that blowup mattress and if he will remember our nights spent together. “At least he’s safe.” I would always tell myself. “At least he’s found a home.”