Page 7 of Shadowface 1979

She was out last night; I can tell from her puffy eyes, smudged eye shadow and lip liner around her puckered lips.

We’ve barely been here three nights, and she’s already found the local bar. Likely from the trucker who drove us here three days ago.

She’s a pretty woman, or at least she used to be before life was unkind to her and she started drinking. Her hair, once shiny and lush, is stringy. Her eyebrows are permanently etched together, and she scowls a lot. Her skin has developed a grayish tinge since her fall from grace seven years ago. She’s only in her early forties, but life hasn’t been kind to Mama.

She used to be the pastor’s wife in the small town we lived in until he kicked her out of the house and the church. Then the man I thought was my father shunned me, too.

No child of his would have white hair and, depending on my mood, white or red eyes to match—a symbolism of evil. He knew from the moment I was born I wasn’t his.

She blows out a drag. “I don’t understand why you feel the need to go to school. Aren’t you sick of it?”

The stares, the name calling, the bullying.

I frown at her and carry on to the fridge, grabbing a cracker and dipping it into a jar of honey and sucking on it.

I blink at her. “Sick of what?”

“Aren’t you sick of people calling you a freak?”

“Mama, we talked about this yesterday. You know how important this is to me.” Sure, people call me a freak at first, but then they get used to me and realize I’m a quiet girl who stays to herself.

She lets out a huff and stabs the cigarette out on the ashtray. “Doesn’t mean I understand it any. Girls like you shouldn’t go to school. You need to stay hidden. People don’t want to see people like you.”

I dip my cracker one more time before popping the entire thing into my mouth and stare at her. I want to say all sorts of things to her. Like how she wouldn’t survive without me, that I’m not a freak or evil, and that inside I’m a perfectly normal young girl with feelings and needs not unlike her own. That I just want to be accepted for who I am. But that would just set her off—and I don’t want to set Mama off.

“I’m so close, Mama. Three more months, and I’ll be done with high school.” Despite all the places we’ve lived, I’ve kept my grades up, and I only need a few more credits to graduate.

She scoffs and heads to the fridge and pulls out a Coors Banquet. “I don’t understand you, Diana. Is this house not enough for you?”

I give her a flat stare, and she sighs, drawing her eyes to my mid-section, where the belt is pinching me. “Fine, but when you get home, I need you to go to the market.” She looks me up and down, waiting for my reaction.

“With what money?” I ask her, glancing at the six-pack of beer in the fridge.

She pulls out a dollar bill and waves it at me. “Don’t you mind that. I need eggs, milk, bread, and honey. And don’t ask any more questions on how I get my money, girl.”

Honey. At least there is something we can agree on. Honey naturally suppresses my appetite, and since she’d prefer to spend her money on beer rather than groceries, I eat a lot of honey.

I snag the dollar bill from her hand and head for the door. Her welfare check won’t arrive for a while, so I guess she’s found a way to get by without it.

Mama places her beer down and moves to the couch and settles on her knees. She will spend the rest of the day in prayer. This is what Mama does every day: she smokes, drinks and prays, the holy trinity of Mama’s life. As if prayer will help her any.

I open the door, eager to leave this house. The energy doesn’t seem right here.

“Diana?” She lifts her head slightly before I can slip out.

I run my hand down my white hair, which I braided earlier and move it over my shoulder. My albinism isn’t something I can hide very well. “Yes, Mama?”

“You’re not going to kiss any boys, are you?”

My heart sinks at the question, thinking about what happened the last time she found out a boy tried to kiss me. Someone saw us in the hallway and told the principal. His mother called Mama, telling her to keep me away from him.

The pinching in my groin serves as a stark reminder of what she did to me after.

“No, Mama.” I sigh. “Boys aren’t interested in kissing me.”

She gives the sign of Christ. “Well, maybe God loves me after all. Now leave me be and let me pray for you, Devil’s Child.”

I’ve never understood Mama’s reasoning how white hair and eyes were a mark of the devil. Then again, I’ve also never truly understood my mother’s version of our religion. Having not stepped foot in church since we left, I’ve always had my own relationship with Christ.