Taking the Measure of Things
by Terri Mullholland
Mary bought a new tape measure for the occasion. It was important to be accurate, that’s what Mother always used to say.
Mother used to measure them once a month, putting lines of black marker pen on the back of the kitchen door with their initials next to them. All six children, all those lines.
Mother liked numbers. She taught the children to like numbers too. Numbers were things you could trust—unlike words. Words were never to be trusted.
When Mary was ten, Mother started measuring their feet and hands, their arms and legs, then she moved on to the circumferences of their heads. This time noting the numbers down in her private notebook, not on the kitchen door.
Every night, Mother whispered the numbers under her breath as she kissed them goodnight. The each had a unique string of numbers like prayer beads.
Once, Mother told Mary she’d like to take out their hearts and measure their love for her. She’d put her hand on Mary’s heart—sharp fingernails pushing through the fabric in Mary’s dress, scrabbling for her skin. In the end, she settled for putting her head to their chests and counting their heartbeats. Mary closed her eyes, stroked Mother’s hair in time to the lullaby of her murmured count.
It was only when Mother said Jimmy was getting too big-headed and tried to carve off a bit of his skull that they took her away.
For a long time, there were no tape measures in Mary’s life. None of the foster families ever measured or touched her. They used words not numbers—and Mary knew that words could never be trusted. She missed the ritual of the measurement. She remembered Mother’s cool fingers, her nod of satisfaction when Mary’s head was pronounced within the normal range. That’s when Mother loved her best.
Mary uncoiled the new tape measure from its case and smoothed it out. She ran it up and down each arm and leg, the plastic tape tickled her skin. She measured her hands and feet, then her chest, her waist, her hips, took a deep breath, measured her head. Her fingers met at the centre of her forehead—they were cool, like Mother’s.
She checked the number on the tape measure. Her head had grown since Mother’s last official measurement. Now it was too big, much too big. What would Mother say?
Mary took a knife from the kitchen drawer. She held it at an angle against her right temple where she noticed a slight protrusion. Maybe if she took off a little bit of the bone at a time?
If she could just get the numbers right, then Mother would come back.
Mother would come back and love her again.
If she could just get the numbers right.
Mother used to measure them once a month, putting lines of black marker pen on the back of the kitchen door with their initials next to them. All six children, all those lines.
Mother liked numbers. She taught the children to like numbers too. Numbers were things you could trust—unlike words. Words were never to be trusted.
When Mary was ten, Mother started measuring their feet and hands, their arms and legs, then she moved on to the circumferences of their heads. This time noting the numbers down in her private notebook, not on the kitchen door.
Every night, Mother whispered the numbers under her breath as she kissed them goodnight. The each had a unique string of numbers like prayer beads.
Once, Mother told Mary she’d like to take out their hearts and measure their love for her. She’d put her hand on Mary’s heart—sharp fingernails pushing through the fabric in Mary’s dress, scrabbling for her skin. In the end, she settled for putting her head to their chests and counting their heartbeats. Mary closed her eyes, stroked Mother’s hair in time to the lullaby of her murmured count.
It was only when Mother said Jimmy was getting too big-headed and tried to carve off a bit of his skull that they took her away.
For a long time, there were no tape measures in Mary’s life. None of the foster families ever measured or touched her. They used words not numbers—and Mary knew that words could never be trusted. She missed the ritual of the measurement. She remembered Mother’s cool fingers, her nod of satisfaction when Mary’s head was pronounced within the normal range. That’s when Mother loved her best.
Mary uncoiled the new tape measure from its case and smoothed it out. She ran it up and down each arm and leg, the plastic tape tickled her skin. She measured her hands and feet, then her chest, her waist, her hips, took a deep breath, measured her head. Her fingers met at the centre of her forehead—they were cool, like Mother’s.
She checked the number on the tape measure. Her head had grown since Mother’s last official measurement. Now it was too big, much too big. What would Mother say?
Mary took a knife from the kitchen drawer. She held it at an angle against her right temple where she noticed a slight protrusion. Maybe if she took off a little bit of the bone at a time?
If she could just get the numbers right, then Mother would come back.
Mother would come back and love her again.
If she could just get the numbers right.
Terri Mullholland (she/her) is a writer and researcher living in London, UK. Her flash fiction has appeared in various journals and anthologies, including Ellipsis Zine, Litro, and Mercurious. Her pamphlet of hybrid pieces Weather / Patterns was published by intergraphia books. When not writing, she can be found curled up with one of her many foster cats and a good book. Find her at https://www.terrimullholland.com/.