Play & Book Excerpts
Bright Eyes
(She Writes Press)
© Bridey Thelen-Heidel
Chapter 1: Yes
Lake Tahoe 1982
Lake Tahoe 1982
“Bridey! I need you!” Mom screams on the other end of the phone.
“Mom? What’s wrong? Where are you?” Panicking because I haven’t seen her since last night when she went out with her girlfriends, I look out the living room window like she could be calling from our yard.
“I’m. At. Debbie’s,” she says, choking on each word.
“I’m coming!” I drop my Barbie on the oil stains Al’s Harley dripped on the carpet the last time he rode it out of our living room.
I leap off the porch and land on prickly pinecone pieces. “Ouch!” I shout, hopscotching across the dirt driveway and pulling stabby bits out of the bottoms of my feet that don’t yet have summer callouses because school’s only been out a week.
Sprinting to Debbie’s house around the corner, I slip by the neighbor’s fence where my initials BT are carved underneath the initials BM. The boy who scratched them into the wood acted like he didn’t know how to play doctor the first time I showed him. After the second time, he carved our initials together.
I push Debbie’s door open and see my mom slumped over the kitchen table, still wearing the burgundy blouse I picked for her to wear out. Crouching on the gold-speckled linoleum next to her, I smooth her blonde curls away from her face. “Hey, Mom.”
Her pink, puffy eyes stare into mine, like she’s trying to remember who I am. “Hey, baby.” She whispers, snot dripping onto her jeans.
“Hi.” I force a smile. “I’m here. It’s okay now.”
A big breath sits her up straight, and she wipes her nose with the back of her hand. Tears stream down her cheeks as she shakes her head. “Oh, no, baby, it’s not.” She pulls me to her and sobs harder than I’ve ever heard. Smothered in her Tabu perfume—which I usually love—my nose burns because it's soured overnight, but I’d never pull away.
“Did someone die?”
She searches my face for her answer, then looks over her shoulder to make sure we’re alone. She whispers, “I’m pregnant.”
“What?” I shake my head, not thinking I heard her right. She coughs like she’s unsticking the answer in her throat. “It’s Al’s.”
His name knocks me on my butt. I shove it back at her with both hands, scooting myself across the cold linoleum—“No. No. No.”
Mom reaches for me. “I know, baby. I’m sorry.”
My back against the kitchen wall, I bury my head between my knees and wheeze the way I did when Al lived with us. I close my eyes, but he’s there—black eyes, black hair, black boots—waiting in the dark like always. My eyes open to get away, but she’s there—teary eyes, sad face, hands outstretched—hoping I’ll come to her like always. With no way to get away from them, I wrap my arms around my knees and cry, “Why’d you do this? It was so hard to get him to leave!”
“Come to your mama,” she says in the hushed voice she started using when Al moved in.
My head shakes no, but my body can’t help but go to her because she’s all I have. I climb into her lap to let her hold me the way I’ve held her a thousand times. Wiggling into position, we giggle because I don’t fit anymore. Draped across her lap, my legs dangle over the side as my bare toes sweep back and forth over the cold linoleum. “Mom?”
“What, baby?”
“Please don’t let him come back.”
“He won’t.” She exhales what sounds like all the breath her body can hold and pulls me back on her chest, wrapping her arms around me and sniffling back tears I know she’s afraid to cry because she might never stop.
I stare up at Debbie’s ceiling covered with popcorn kernels painted white. Counting the kernels feels as impossible as counting the freckles on my arms and reminds me that even though Mom said Al is Black Irish—whatever that means—he’s not Irish Irish like me and doesn’t have freckles, so the baby probably won’t. We won’t match—at all.
The sun’s gone from Debbie’s kitchen, and goosebumps replace my freckles. “Mom? You wanna go home?”
She wipes her nose on the back of my T-shirt—soaked in her tears and sticking to my skin—then begins moaning the way I do when my stomach hurts. Her arms squeeze tighter around me as she rocks us in the heavy wooden chair. Her warm breath on my neck drops my eyelids closed, and I lose myself in the rhythm of the rocking—the two of us bobbing up and over waves that grow bigger as she moans louder. Floating in our ocean, Mom’s hands slip down my sides and grip my T-shirt like she’s holding onto a life jacket instead of wearing it. I’m saving her from drowning.
Again.
When I open my eyes, the kitchen is almost dark. I move to loosen her grip and wake her from wherever she drifted off to. Under me, she whispers. “So, do you want to keep this baby?”
Keep the baby? I repeat her question because I don’t know what she means. But before I can ask what not keeping a baby means, she slides me into the chair next to her. Knee-to-knee, she mittens her hands with her sleeves and wipes her eyes and nose. Her pout bends into a smile. “I have an idea!”
Copying her, I gulp air and dry my eyes with my T-shirt. “What is it?”
“You can be the dad!” Mom says, patting my thighs and smiling. She crinkles her nose like she ate something gross. “We don’t need Al! I’ll put your name on the birth certificate!”
“Huh?” Her solution is even more confusing than the problem. “What do you mean I can be the dad?”
She points to herself. “You know, I’m the mom”—then points to me—“and you’re the dad. We’ll raise the baby on our own!”
Her puffy brown eyes beg me to understand, and I want to, but her look that’s happy and sad and scared and excited all at once is one I’ve seen too many times since Al moved in. Her confusion about him never made sense because I knew the first time we met that Al was a monster. Now she wants to have the monster’s baby. “No Al? Won’t he care?”
Mom touches her forehead to mine. “I’m not gonna tell him.”
“What?” I pull away and tug at the neck of my T-shirt, soaked in tears and snot.
She leans back and smooths her blouse and hair, like she’s finally ready to leave Debbie’s kitchen. “We’ll go back to Juneau and keep the baby a secret from him.”
“Forever?”
She nods. “If he never knows there’s a baby, he’ll never look for us.”
“But how can I be a dad? I’m not a boy.” Snot drips onto my lip, and I wipe it with my forearm—smearing the slippery slime across my freckles. “And I’m only ten.”
Mom laughs. “I know you’re ten, Bright Eyes, but we can do this!” She stands up. “Are you ready?”
I stare up at my mom, wishing I believed she wouldn’t tell him, wishing I believed he wouldn’t come back. But she always lets him back because she can’t be alone, and I don’t count. I’m also not allowed to say no to her—ever—so I answer the only way I can.
“Yes.”
“Mom? What’s wrong? Where are you?” Panicking because I haven’t seen her since last night when she went out with her girlfriends, I look out the living room window like she could be calling from our yard.
“I’m. At. Debbie’s,” she says, choking on each word.
“I’m coming!” I drop my Barbie on the oil stains Al’s Harley dripped on the carpet the last time he rode it out of our living room.
I leap off the porch and land on prickly pinecone pieces. “Ouch!” I shout, hopscotching across the dirt driveway and pulling stabby bits out of the bottoms of my feet that don’t yet have summer callouses because school’s only been out a week.
Sprinting to Debbie’s house around the corner, I slip by the neighbor’s fence where my initials BT are carved underneath the initials BM. The boy who scratched them into the wood acted like he didn’t know how to play doctor the first time I showed him. After the second time, he carved our initials together.
I push Debbie’s door open and see my mom slumped over the kitchen table, still wearing the burgundy blouse I picked for her to wear out. Crouching on the gold-speckled linoleum next to her, I smooth her blonde curls away from her face. “Hey, Mom.”
Her pink, puffy eyes stare into mine, like she’s trying to remember who I am. “Hey, baby.” She whispers, snot dripping onto her jeans.
“Hi.” I force a smile. “I’m here. It’s okay now.”
A big breath sits her up straight, and she wipes her nose with the back of her hand. Tears stream down her cheeks as she shakes her head. “Oh, no, baby, it’s not.” She pulls me to her and sobs harder than I’ve ever heard. Smothered in her Tabu perfume—which I usually love—my nose burns because it's soured overnight, but I’d never pull away.
“Did someone die?”
She searches my face for her answer, then looks over her shoulder to make sure we’re alone. She whispers, “I’m pregnant.”
“What?” I shake my head, not thinking I heard her right. She coughs like she’s unsticking the answer in her throat. “It’s Al’s.”
His name knocks me on my butt. I shove it back at her with both hands, scooting myself across the cold linoleum—“No. No. No.”
Mom reaches for me. “I know, baby. I’m sorry.”
My back against the kitchen wall, I bury my head between my knees and wheeze the way I did when Al lived with us. I close my eyes, but he’s there—black eyes, black hair, black boots—waiting in the dark like always. My eyes open to get away, but she’s there—teary eyes, sad face, hands outstretched—hoping I’ll come to her like always. With no way to get away from them, I wrap my arms around my knees and cry, “Why’d you do this? It was so hard to get him to leave!”
“Come to your mama,” she says in the hushed voice she started using when Al moved in.
My head shakes no, but my body can’t help but go to her because she’s all I have. I climb into her lap to let her hold me the way I’ve held her a thousand times. Wiggling into position, we giggle because I don’t fit anymore. Draped across her lap, my legs dangle over the side as my bare toes sweep back and forth over the cold linoleum. “Mom?”
“What, baby?”
“Please don’t let him come back.”
“He won’t.” She exhales what sounds like all the breath her body can hold and pulls me back on her chest, wrapping her arms around me and sniffling back tears I know she’s afraid to cry because she might never stop.
I stare up at Debbie’s ceiling covered with popcorn kernels painted white. Counting the kernels feels as impossible as counting the freckles on my arms and reminds me that even though Mom said Al is Black Irish—whatever that means—he’s not Irish Irish like me and doesn’t have freckles, so the baby probably won’t. We won’t match—at all.
The sun’s gone from Debbie’s kitchen, and goosebumps replace my freckles. “Mom? You wanna go home?”
She wipes her nose on the back of my T-shirt—soaked in her tears and sticking to my skin—then begins moaning the way I do when my stomach hurts. Her arms squeeze tighter around me as she rocks us in the heavy wooden chair. Her warm breath on my neck drops my eyelids closed, and I lose myself in the rhythm of the rocking—the two of us bobbing up and over waves that grow bigger as she moans louder. Floating in our ocean, Mom’s hands slip down my sides and grip my T-shirt like she’s holding onto a life jacket instead of wearing it. I’m saving her from drowning.
Again.
When I open my eyes, the kitchen is almost dark. I move to loosen her grip and wake her from wherever she drifted off to. Under me, she whispers. “So, do you want to keep this baby?”
Keep the baby? I repeat her question because I don’t know what she means. But before I can ask what not keeping a baby means, she slides me into the chair next to her. Knee-to-knee, she mittens her hands with her sleeves and wipes her eyes and nose. Her pout bends into a smile. “I have an idea!”
Copying her, I gulp air and dry my eyes with my T-shirt. “What is it?”
“You can be the dad!” Mom says, patting my thighs and smiling. She crinkles her nose like she ate something gross. “We don’t need Al! I’ll put your name on the birth certificate!”
“Huh?” Her solution is even more confusing than the problem. “What do you mean I can be the dad?”
She points to herself. “You know, I’m the mom”—then points to me—“and you’re the dad. We’ll raise the baby on our own!”
Her puffy brown eyes beg me to understand, and I want to, but her look that’s happy and sad and scared and excited all at once is one I’ve seen too many times since Al moved in. Her confusion about him never made sense because I knew the first time we met that Al was a monster. Now she wants to have the monster’s baby. “No Al? Won’t he care?”
Mom touches her forehead to mine. “I’m not gonna tell him.”
“What?” I pull away and tug at the neck of my T-shirt, soaked in tears and snot.
She leans back and smooths her blouse and hair, like she’s finally ready to leave Debbie’s kitchen. “We’ll go back to Juneau and keep the baby a secret from him.”
“Forever?”
She nods. “If he never knows there’s a baby, he’ll never look for us.”
“But how can I be a dad? I’m not a boy.” Snot drips onto my lip, and I wipe it with my forearm—smearing the slippery slime across my freckles. “And I’m only ten.”
Mom laughs. “I know you’re ten, Bright Eyes, but we can do this!” She stands up. “Are you ready?”
I stare up at my mom, wishing I believed she wouldn’t tell him, wishing I believed he wouldn’t come back. But she always lets him back because she can’t be alone, and I don’t count. I’m also not allowed to say no to her—ever—so I answer the only way I can.
“Yes.”
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Bridey Thelen-Heidel’s chaotic upbringing meant changing schools between Alaska and California more than twenty times. A Lewis and Clark College graduate, she lives in South Lake Tahoe with her husband and daughter and teaches at her alma mater.
A TEDx speaker and frequent podcast guest, Bridey performed in Listen to Your Mother NYC and has been published in MUTHA Magazine. A fierce youth advocate who’s been voted Best of Tahoe Teacher several times by her community, Bridey’s work with LGBTQ+ students has been celebrated in Read This, Save Lives by Sameer Jha and the California Teachers Association’s California Educator. |
Bridey Thelen-Heidel
Photo Courtesy: Bridey Thelen-Heidel |
