Stick Man

"It's raining; it's pouring, the old man is snoring. He bumped his head, went to bed, couldn't get up in the morning," sang Osmond in broken tones, while gently swaying back and forth on his wooden stool in the dank mudroom, picking the wings off of flies, then watching them scurry across the window ledge. Periodically, staring at the overcast sky with a faraway expression, singing the song over and over to himself.

Martha placed her son Osmond in the little room, away from others, keeping him out of sight and mind as kids of Osmond's age came for their piano lessons—lessons that brought a little extra money to help with the expenses for treatments that Osmond needed. Treatments that Jon insisted Osmond should undergo. But Martha saw no reason for this, for all she saw was a little boy that would soon outgrow things like talking to people who weren't there.

"All kids have imaginary friends, Jon. What's the harm? And besides, all kids act out. But if you feel Osmond needs this medication, so be it. Still, I feel it's a bit much," Martha had said.

But when Martha gave her son his medication, Osmond would yawn, rub his eyes, and fight with every being in his body to stay awake. The doctors called Osmond's condition schizophrenia, but Martha only saw a little boy that needed his mother, hugs and kisses, and nothing else.

Doctor's visits and the expense of Osmond's medication placed layers of stress on the Whitman household. A music teacher's salary only went so far, and it was hard enough with two growing boys to feed, plus a mortgage. James, Osmond's older brother, worked whenever he could, but Martha placed book-learning above all else. She would rather have him lose his job than have his studies suffer, even though Martha knew James was only trying to help. Yet, Jon, her husband, insisted on it.

Martha gave Osmond one pill in the morning and another before bed. After a week of pills and a week of seeing her son drugged in a dizzy confusion, Osmond held out his tiny hand to his mother with wide eyes. Martha saw innocence in those dark brown eyes of his. "I don't like taking them, Ma. They make me feel funny."

Martha rubbed the top of her son's head, feeling his hair through her fingers, remembering the day he was born and how she brought him home from the hospital. Her blood ran quick as she thought of a lie, a lie that could form into a bond, perhaps. A living testament that her son Osmond wasn't as sick as her husband thought he was. A lie is a dirty word after all, but a test, ah, a test to show the truth. Now... That's something she could live with.

Martha bent down to Osmond's level. She held the morning pill in her hand but away from her son's grasp. "Can you keep a secret from Pa and your brother?"

Osmond nodded. "Yes, Ma!" he said excitedly.

"Good. So, let's make a deal. I'll throw a pill down the kitchen drain if you tell Pa that you have been taking them. This isn't lying, sweetie, it's to show your father that you're not sick... You know, a test." Martha kissed Osmond's forehead. "I don't like seeing you when you take your pills. It makes Ma very sad to see her baby tired. What do you say?"

Osmond smiled, thankfully giving up the medicine that made him feel so weird. "I won't tell on you, Ma." Osmond threw his boyish arms around his mother, then he kissed her cheek. Martha, likewise, kissed her son on his. "We have a secret that we both share, a bond, if you will."

Martha stayed true to her word as she threw a pill down the drain in the morning and another one at night. But Martha would soon learn that decisions have consequences. And her consequences gave root on Wednesday, her busiest day of the week. Wednesday, a day when she got up early and deep cleaned every inch of the house. A day she got a jump on her extra tasks at hand. And it was that day she lost sight of her son, Osmond, as she hummed an unknown melody to herself while she cleaned.