Cynthia

Cynthia hadn’t smiled in years. And that was really saying something, since she had only been alive for a little over six of them.

“What’s wrong, princess? You eat some sour grapes?”

Grown-ups would always try to prod a smile out of her, especially when they first met her, but they were only ever met with Cynthia’s distinct and slightly unsettling glare.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today, didn’t they?”

She hated their questions and inquiries more than she hated the taste of asparagus--and she hated asparagus. Her exasperated mother had given up on Cynthia a long time ago, and her father took little notice of her. Her mother--a frazzled-looking woman with tired eyes and a sallow complexion--had let go of the dream she’d once had of a darling, precious daughter. The minute the doctor had placed Cynthia into her arms in that hospital bed, she’d had visions of pink ribbons and matching dresses and tea parties, but as soon as the little girl learned to speak, those hopes were dashed away.

“Shut up,” were the first words to leave Cynthia’s frowning lips. Her mother’s spirits sank when such phrases as “go away,” “I hate you,” and “die,” were added to her vocabulary.

“What’s wrong with her?” she inquired after child behavior experts and doctors, hoping that there was a simple explanation for Cynthia’s actions, or, better yet, a simple solution. She saw her daughter as a problem that needed fixing, but none of the doctors could give her an answer that she wanted.

“She’ll grow out of it,” they would tell her. “She just needs a different parenting style. She needs attention. She needs to meet other children.”

But Cynthia seemed even less interested in meeting other children than she did in showing any affection towards her mother. It’s not that she didn’t do as she was told, no, Cynthia was an obedient enough child. The problem was in the look in her eyes, the cold, dead, stare that never wavered, watching her mother with unblinking calculation. It drove the woman’s thoughts to places she didn’t know they were capable of going.

“What are you staring at?” she shouted at Cynthia one day.

But the girl only stared back, frowning and unflinching.

Cynthia’s mother had to leave the room. What was she doing? Shouting at her own child when she’d done nothing wrong? But she was just so...creepy. She found herself in tears.

“What’s wrong with me?” she slammed her hand against a wall.

“Mommy?”

The woman looked up in surprise to find Cynthia, standing in a nearby doorway.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have--”

But she couldn’t finish speaking, for something happened then that astonished her more than any one of Cynthia’s blank stares.

The small girl walked slowly towards her mother, reached out and took the hand she had struck the wall with and examined it closely.

“Mommy, you hurt your hand?” Cynthia looked up at her mother, and for the first time since she could remember, her expression had changed. Gone was the vacant glare, and in its place was something different--something more open, more expressive. Could it be concern?

“Mommy’s fine,” Cynthia’s mother couldn’t stop her tears from flowing now, and she drew in her daughter close to her, hugging her for what felt like the first time in her entire life.

The rest of the day was spent in a haze of relief and bliss. Even when Cynthia’s father came home from work, the woman’s mood didn’t sour. She prepared dinner and fed her family without any of the usual stress and anxiety that it caused her. Her husband even commented on her improved character, and though it was in his usual cutting manner, she took it as a compliment, and raised her chin in satisfaction. Cynthia seemed back to her usual self, but her mother couldn’t help feeling the hope and happiness that their encounter earlier in the day had brought her. She felt like a real mother!

Once she had put Cynthia to bed and her husband had fallen asleep on the couch from his third beer, Cynthia’s mother slid the TV remote ever so slyly from his sweaty hand and switched the channel from basketball to something that suited her tastes much more. She ended up settling for a rerun of a show about home decorating that she’d already seen, but it satisfied her nonetheless. She was quite sure that nothing could bring her down on this day--a day that foretold a future of normality between her and her daughter.

With thoughts of pink ribbons and matching dresses tantalizing her mind once again, Cynthia’s mother drifted off into a doze on the ratty love seat in front of the TV, only to be woken up moments later by a shattering pain in her right hand.

“JESUS CHRIST!” she shouted, falling to the floor and gripping her hand. Her fingers were bent at unnatural angles, and she struggled to keep herself from vomiting from the pain.

She looked up, about to turn to her husband to call for help, when she noticed a small figure standing over her.

There was Cynthia, standing next to the love seat in her pink pajamas, a hammer gripped in her small hand.

“Cynthia? What have you done?”

Cynthia’s mother was about to shout at the girl, to scream and demand a reasoning for such behavior, but then she noticed the huge grin plastered on Cynthia’s face.

“Cynthia…?”

The small girl began to giggle. She pointed the hammer at her mother and laughed and laughed, the most delighted smile lighting up her face.

Cynthia’s mother felt tears prick at her eyes. Her hand throbbed incessantly, but pure joy swelled in her chest. Cynthia was smiling, she was happy. She was a happy little girl.

“Mommy made you happy?” the woman wept with glee, still lying on the floor and cradling her ruined hand. “Mommy made you happy…”

Cynthia and her mother stayed there, laughing and crying together for the first time.