The Frame by Janelle Bassett

Celia’s on the floor surrounded by legs that get less chubby every day. Her four children, sleeping all around her, have made themselves as long as they can possibly be: arms stretched to full hallelujah, heads tilted back, chins pointed up, mouths open wide enough to be fed footlong subs, and short legs out straight, waiting to kick any sibling who even thinks about it. Her oldest, Ty, had a fever and deliriously requested that she stay close to him all night long in case he needed her to put her hand on his forehead, which always helps. But then the others said that wasn’t fair, that Ty shouldn’t get to sleep with mommy all night long when they don’t get to sleep with mommy for one minute. “The unfairness will keep me awake all night,” Billie told her. (As the second oldest, Billie’s the spokesperson for the small set.)

Instead of bargaining or instructing or soothing her children (so, instead of parenting) Celia gave up on the spot, lying right down on the floor of Ty’s room without changing her clothes or brushing her teeth and the kids, one by one, grabbed pillows and blankets and joined her, road-blocking her every side. Sometimes it was easier to let them have her than to explain why they couldn’t have her.

The children all fell asleep facing inward, facing her. Ty opted out of sleeping in his bed, where he could get the best rest—being sick won’t stop him from making sure his siblings don’t get any extra proximity. They all want her the most. They all thrive when they have her full attention and affection. They all fell asleep with their mouths open.

Sometimes Celia has dreams that she’s trapped inside one of those claw vending machines and there’s four claws above her, all trying to latch onto her head. If she tries to hide under a stuffed Pikachu, the claws will get sad and develop problems that will be her fault and also her responsibility.

It’s a bad sign, she thinks, that even her unconscious mind has been bridled by domesticity. If she has a dream about grocery shopping, she’s going to do something drastic, something involving fire or sex or cars with stick shifts.

She looks at her children’s faces in the dark. Ty looks sweaty and contagious, but regal. Billie seems determined, pouty and somewhat like a mermaid, possibly because she went to sleep with wet hair. Astra’s face is down by Celia’s feet, but even from this angle she looks like Celia’s father, which makes her think of the Dean Martin voice her father used when he was drunk but still having fun, which makes her think that maybe Astra looks like Dino, but no, really Astra’s face looks more like a wide, round antenna. Receptive, symmetrical. The baby, Steve, who they all call Stork, is behind Celia’s back. But they spend hours every day staring at each other’s faces, nursing and swapping warmth, so even though she can’t see his face right now she knows he’s back there looking like a precious, oversized pinky toe.

Part of Celia (the part that finds endless choices to be overwhelming) loves her sweet gatekeepers, her human roadblocks, her little choice narrowers, but the lower back and achy hip part of Celia would rather be on a mattress, would rather have some room to roll. Plus it’s too early for her to fall asleep. The last pokes of daylight are still coming in through the closed blinds.

But getting up is not an option. If any one of them wakes up, they’ll wake the others and then it’s back to zero, back to shhh, night night. She thinks of her husband coming home and finding her like this, flat and sacrificed, and she likes the image through his eyes: she’s the pistil and they’re the petals and together they bloom at night.

Celia, stuck, thinks about all the people out dancing, or about to be: out there free, hot, untethered, wearing bracelets, yelling yes. Does she want to move and sweat to a beat? Does her ass even know any tricks? Can she sing along when the chorus comes back around?

No. Dancing is too many steps ahead, too far-fetched, given her current pace and season. She can’t even picture it, can’t even tap her foot—so, to slow the pace of her imagined freedom, she tries to picture herself standing instead. Yes, she could be standing anywhere. Standing on a curb trying to will herself into a victimless crime spree. Standing at the head of a table trying to make a toast about making an effort. Standing on a rowboat as two demented catfish knock the hull from each side, trying to overturn her decision to stay dry. Standing in a line for a slap across the face, trying not to admit that she needs something much stronger.

Inside the frame of children, she turns on her back to face the ceiling and thinks about how she could very well be a quarter horse standing at the top of a hill in the moment right before it runs down at full speed, joining the others, who’ve found a tasty patch of blooming sally.

“Mom, are you still here?” This reality whisper comes from Ty, whose school nurse sent home a note about a case of strep in his class.

Celia doesn’t want to lie by saying yes or lie by saying no, so she answers by reaching over and touching his forehead, which is burning up to the beat of his pulse. She taps her finger on his temple, dancing along.

Janelle Bassett’s writing appears or is forthcoming in The Rumpus, New Delta Review, Smokelong Quarterly, The Offing, Washington Square Review, Wigleaf and Slice Magazine. Her story collection THANKS FOR THIS RIOT was a finalist for YesYes Books Pamet River Prize. She lives in St. Louis and is a Fiction Editor at Split Lip Magazine.

28 April 2023