Every evening, my family and I would eat dinner all together at the table. Mama, Papa, and my brother would talk about what they did that day as I sat politely eating and hummed to myself. After dinner, I would take a bath. Mama would kneel next to the tub and help to scrub me down because I would always get so dirty over the day, playing outside and climbing trees and the like. My brother would go do his schoolwork and Papa would leave and do whatever Papa did.
Mama always said a bath wasn't a bath unless the water was hot enough to burn off a layer of your hide and unless you scrubbed hard enough to take off another layer of skin. That meant loosing two layers of skin with every bath, so I used to be deathly afraid of running out of skin to scrub off. Because of that fear, sometimes, when Mama wasn't around, I'd fill the tub with cold water and just sit in it shivering, not daring to scrub off another layer of my precious skin.
Bath time was a very quiet and relaxing time, aside from my paranoia about running out of flesh. At least, it was quiet until I tried to escape the scalding, murky water without completing one very important task.
"Make sure you wash your ears, girl," she'd command firmly, handing the sudsy washcloth to me when I attempted to weasel out of the hated task.
"But Mama." I would whine, pouting and trying to duck away from the washcloth headed my way. I had the mindset that if she couldn't touch me with that washcloth, then she couldn't make me clean behind my ears. Why I hated it so much is questionable. I suppose it was one of the only things Mama ever forced me to do on a regular basis, and that kind of authority was resented. Though, I'm not sure if that was the case or not.
"Don't you 'But Mama' me, missy!" Mama would scold firmly, shaking her head and grabbing one of my ears to pull me towards her. The washcloth was her weapon of choice as she flogged the dirty skin behind my precious ears and I grimaced, both in resentment of her wrath and at the brief pain she caused tugging on my ears.
"Why do we have to wash behind our ears?" I couldn't help whining again, even right after the brutal washcloth skinning.
"Don't give me that sass, child!" And once again, the torturous cleansing would begin. I could never check for sure, but sometimes, I swear the skin behind my ears was beat-red and trying to bleed all over. I tried getting Papa to check for me, but he just scowled and told me to check myself, but that was impossible.
One night, Mama and me were in the bathroom as usual, when I attempted the daring antics of escape, as usual. Mama sat me back down in the hot water with a significant lack of a splash.
"Wash behind your ears, darlin'," she sighed, staring down at the cracked tiled floor beneath her, as if it was hypnotizing with its illusions of grandeur. Something didn't seem right with the way she was acting. It was nothing like she usually acted; Mama seemed broken.
"Why do we have to wash behind our ears, Mama?" I asked in a subdued voice with no hint of whining, only submissive curiosity. Then I picked up the washcloth and went to work on the tiny, filthy bits of skin behind my ears all by myself. It was so seemingly unimportant, but Mama looked up at me and watched.
"'Cause my mama made me wash behind my ears, child." Mama said in reply, still watching me wash all the little crevices back there.
"But why?" I put the ritual on pause for a second to stare at her with unblinking eyes, looking for an answer.
"My Mama used to say that if you washed your ears-- that meant all of your ear, not just part of it, but behind it too. Well, my Mama used to say that if you washed your ears 'nough, you could hear angels singin' ev'ry night before you went to bed," She answered gently with a soft smile on her face, but distraction in her eyes.
"Have you ever heard the angels singin', Mama?" I splashed a little in the tub, bringing the washcloth down from my ears.
"No, baby, I have never heard no angels singin'," Mama whispered softly, staring down at the tiled floor again, while I made a rough semblance of a duck out of the washcloth and made it swim around in the bathtub. She leaned down and picked me up and out of the bathtub, rubbing me down with a towel. "Now off to bed with you."
"But..." I started to protest, but looked at Mama again, and stopped. I went off to bed and tried to hear the angels singing. But I didn't hear any angels singing, just Mama and Papa yelling for a real long time. A couple doors slammed and Mama was crying. I stayed up all night, listening for angels and all I heard was Mama crying.
The next evening, Papa wasn't at dinner. Or the next. Or the next. I asked Mama where he went, but she just got angry and would make me sit all alone in my room without any of her delicious dinner. In the bathtub, Mama wouldn't say a word to me, and eventually, she didn't come in to kneel next to the tub I was in. Baths were much lonelier after that, but I never forgot to wash behind my ears.
Every night, I would listen and listen for those angels to be singing me to sleep, just hoping that I'd be different than Mama and hear them. That would make me special because I would be the only one graced with the songs of the angels lulling me to sleep. But there was one night, when I realized that I didn't know what angels' songs sounded like. Maybe their songs didn't sound like singing at all, but something else. Something really special. That night, Mama was crying again.
Curious still about my angels, I hopped out of bed apprehensively and walked down to what used to be Mama and Papa's room, but it was only Mama's now. She was on the bed, holding her head in her hands and crying. I'd never seen Mama cry before, though I knew the sound from staying up so many late nights.
"Why aren't you asleepin', baby?" Mama said quietly, startling me. I didn't think she knew I was there, but she must have heard me tip-toeing down the hall.
"I was listening for the angels, Mama," I nodded firmly to assure that my statement was true, moving closer to Mama's bed. She looked at me, and sat up, becoming the strong woman that I knew well. I frowned and continued with my story, "But... I don't know what they sound like."
"C'mere, baby," Mama opened her arms and gestured for me to come over to her. It was a gesture I couldn't disobey even if I wanted to because she had trained me so well. "You'll know what they'll sound like 'cause they'll sound like nothin' you've ev'r heard before, child. My Mama told me that when the angels sing, it's like the skies is a'dancin' in celebration."
"Oh." I leaned against her and tried to imagine the skies dancing in joy, before I worked up the courage to ask her what was still plaguing my mind. "Mama, where'd Papa go?" I felt her tense at the question, but she forced herself to relax and answer my inquiry.
"Papa's singin' with the angels now, baby."
"Why would Papa be with the angels, Mama?" I blinked, imagining Papa with the white wings and halo of the drawings of angels I'd seen before. He didn't look right.
"You see, child, Mama and Papa got in a couple big fights and Papa wound up leavin' us here all 'lone. Papa headed to the bars and got himself amighty sick with somethin' that you shouldn't be worryin' about. Some bad men found him and maybe he looked at 'em funny, but they went and put Papa up with them angels," Mama sighed, holding me close to her again, I blinked.
"Sounds like Papa done deserved it, leavin' us like that," I said, sitting up from Mama's hold as she looked at me with sad eyes.
"Maybe, baby. But we should never go a'speakin' ill about those who have died and are up singin' with the angels," Mama sighed and stroked my hair. I didn't understand how she could take this so well. What I hadn't known then was that Mama and Papa were unhappy for a long time before the big fights that indirectly led to Papa's admission into the chorus of angels.
"Mama, do you think if I listened hard 'nough, I could hear Papa singin' with the angels?" I asked, starting to fall asleep in Mama's arms, but still trying my best to listen for those angels.
"Yes, I do, child. Listen with all of you and maybe, jus' maybe, you'll hear Papa and his beautiful voice a'singin' you to sleep." Mama managed a soft smile, still stroking my hair as I could only say one more thing before sleep overtook me there in Mama's hold.
"I always wanted Papa to sing me to sleep."