Forgotten

A short story
by Mitzi McMahon

She could have not done it, could have pretended, once again, that being ignored didn’t bother her, or maybe a smaller chunk of Mama’s thigh pinched tightly between her sharp, two-year-old incisors would have worked just as well, but at that moment, with the sun playing peek-a-boo and the wind whipping crinkled, burnt-orange maple leaves into frenzied twisters and the TV blaring the second in a daily series of four hour-long talk shows and Mama reclining on the couch, the phone at her ear and the curly cord wrapped around her forefinger, it all bubbled up, the frustration over her physical body’s limitations—legs that buckled, clumsy fingers, mouth that garbled every word—and the resentment at being confined within such small, dense parameters, so that when combined, they boiled over and spikes of rage erupted causing her to strike out at the closest target, Mama’s thigh, and, though she immediately regretted the act, just as Mama’s arm and hand cocked back and their eyes locked, she was sure that Mama remembered the contract they’d agreed to, the one that stipulated who would play which role and detailed the lessons to be learned, so sure that Mama’s hand landing on her bottom came as a surprise, and when she turned loose of Mama’s thigh and looked up, she saw that the light had gone from Mama’s eyes and realized that Mama hadn’t remembered after all.