It was a shack poorly converted to a house, a shack filled with mice. Mice in walls, mice in halls, mice in ceilings, mice popping out of cupboards, mice scampering across the floor; a house which never lost its mice. Population diminished but never annihilated though relentlessly attacked by my determined mother.
She trapped, she killed, she walloped them with her broom all the while assuring me, ‘It’s okay, Love. They’ll never hurt you.’
Much as I loved her, I couldn’t believe her.
At night, tucked in bed, lights out, the volume of the skittering, scampering in the walls increased. An aggressive pounding on the shared wall with my brother’s bedroom, the point of impact mere inches above my head - the scurrying of hundreds of little feet, me shaking, then with brave ferocity, joining in on the barrage with beating fists.
Him yelling, ‘Fucking little bastards,’ me, the younger one, the good child, wishing I could use the same language.
The gruff male voice shouting from the living room, ‘Settle down. It’s only a bloody mouse. Don’t wake your sister.’
And the insolent reply, only I hear. ‘Just who do you think is the one thumping the wall, old man?’
I stop, not wishing to bring down further wrath upon either of us.
Flash forward thirty-five years. Five adults sit at a rectangular table in a small, moldering office. Frustrated school staff and feuding ex-spouses, attempting to co-parent an out of control ten year old, are meeting at my request, to discuss growing concerns around MJ’s escalating behaviours. The dueling parents occupy seats on the window side of the room. The mother quietly scoots her chair away from her ex and moves closer to the head of the table where the principal sits. The psychologist is to her left and to his left is me, the resource teacher, hemmed in with my shoulder brushing one wall and my back, the other.
The conversation ebbs and flows, voices raise and voices lower. Information is shared, rejected, questioned, accepted, dismissed ad nauseam. The air grows malodorous; tension permeates the space.
Sudden skittering and scrambling next to my ear, my arm raises reflectively and I bash the wall. Once, twice, thrice, then realize what I’m doing and drop my arm. Eight eyes focus on me, demanding an explanation.
I stammer, ‘Mice.’
All continue to stare. I cringe.
‘Mice - in the wall.’ I shiver. I grip my pant-leg, willing my hand not to break free to pound again. ‘Don’t you hear them?’ I feel my body temperature rising and I flush from scalp to toenails.
MJ’s father recovers first, slaps his knee and brays. His spittle dots my notebook.
My principal glares and clears her throat. ‘Now, where were we before…’
Our psychologist attempts to pick up the thread of the conversation.
I sink lower in my chair. I want to disappear, to dissolve, to die. I still hear the goddamned mice. They’re likely laughing, too.
The dad leans across the table and slaps his palm down hard on the table in front of me. I jump, my nerves shattered. His voice harsh, more flying spittle, sneers, ‘You’re fucking afraid of a fucking mouse?’
The child’s mother grimaces. Tears brim on her lower lashes and she mouths, ‘Sorry.’
I straighten my back, tilt my chin upward and look him in the eye — you goddamned fucking bully, I think but thankfully do not say.
‘Yes,’ I say, trying for a professional calm I do not feel, ‘as we were discussing prior to my, um, wall-thumping transgression, a great deal of long-lasting damage can occur during childhood. Our concern for your child is because of threats he has made as well as information he has shared with several adults on staff.’
MJ’s mom nods her head and, as though a taut elastic band breaks, the contents of her heart fly from her lips.
His dad raises his hand and she flinches. He shoves his chair back, yanks on the ex’s sleeve. ‘We’re leaving. Now.’
She resists, colour leaves her hands as they grip the armrests. He
hesitates, then strides from the room, wrenching the door open and slamming it
on his way out.
‘I am so sorry,’ she says again, and
takes a deep grounding breath. ‘How can we get my boy back on track?’
Although there is no resolution, the newfound resolve shown by the mother leaves all feeling somewhat more positive. And as for me, until I spend more time in ‘exposure therapy,’ I’ll be the one positioned far from any walls.
About the author
Louise moved from land-locked Calgary, Alberta to Victoria, British Columbia to enjoy ocean views. Instead she spends hours in her basement writing about the uncommon in the commonplace.
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