Note: When I’m not writing, I get all kinds of nudges. This story has been percolating for some time, and the other night when I took a bite of my toast, I couldn’t believe what I saw [see image at right]. This inspiring sign strongly urged me to write the mouse story. And this sweet sign at the right is in a big category of “you can’t make this stuff up” experiences.

This is a tale of redemption, a difficult story of many with an abusive step-father, and a testament to claiming our lives as survivors and being good, kind people. Thank you for reading.

Erika M. Schreck

At first the squeaks were so inaudible that we easily doubted we were actually hearing them. Our home that stood among four other homes spread unevenly along a Wisconsin rural road that stretched a mile and a half easily hid the stories unfolding daily within these walls. My sister and I had just eaten breakfast and were now in our shared bedroom, silently gathering what we needed to leave for school as first and third graders. But then we both heard it, undeniably: more distressed squeaks. We looked at each other with worry-implied faces and a telepathic sister knowing, and I remember stepping out into the hallway to get a better listen. I silently motioned her to follow me, as we both stepped with enough stealth to not be heard, following the cry for help. We stepped more carefully as hallway carpet turned to kitchen laminate, and the sound led us from our first few steps into the kitchen and then to the left, to the door-less entry into the front, main, L-shaped room that included our play room and led to the front door, cushioning the kitchen and bearing large, sunlit windows.

Where was the sound’s source? At this point we instinctively knew it was a mouse without visual proof. Days earlier, Mom had recently cried out in disgust as she opened the lower oven drawer where baking sheets and pans resided, “Ugh! Mouse turds! We need to do something.” That was a last straw of sorts. Her words signaled a call to action she’d later share privately with her husband, our step-father. The mice in the basement would scurry as we descended the stairs, and we expected them to be in the basement. Yet once they ventured upstairs, my parents felt intolerant of such cohabitation.

A mouse that seemed more like a baby, given its size, had entered a sticky trap my step-father had planted in this room off of the kitchen. Triangular trap with a sticky floor, this mouse was stuck. My sister and I, frantic to instinctually help, found a small, wooden mallet for our xylophone, and I proceeded to wedge the handle under said mouse in order to free it. I was afraid I’d dismember it, realizing the powerful adhesive, and my eyes got teary and heart beat faster.

“What are you doing?” we heard his voice behind us. It sounded as though he’d been observing us for awhile first before timing his question to both catch us by surprise and imply we were doing something wrong.

I struggled to find my words. “The mouse. It’s… stuck.”

“That’s what the traps are for. GET IN THE CAR.”

The diesel car was running, half parked in the garage and half out, garage door raised. My sister and I were upset now, disappointed in our failure and worried about the tiny creature. I got into the front seat, as my sister climbed into the back, and seconds later he appeared in front of the car, the top half of his body visible, as the edge of the wide hood of the burgundy car created a horizon for our view. The sick smile on his face still turns my stomach now to imagine it, as he held up the trap for us to see, the-mouse-we-tried-to-save in view. He then dramatically dropped the trap to the ground, out of our view, but we saw his raised knee, and we witnessed and heard the stomp. Seemingly proud of himself, he picked up the flattened trap to show us the outcome and tossed it into the silver, aluminum trash can in the garage. I regretted eating breakfast, as my stomach felt sick, and my sister and I both started bawling. “Stop crying,” he sneered. That act of cruelty would replay itself in my mind all day long at school, igniting tears.

*                                               *                                               *

In late spring 2019, nearly four decades since the original memorable mouse incident, my sister moved in with me to share my home in Colorado for an undefined time. She needed to get clearer with her life, and it seemed like an agreeable next step for both of us at the time. Several months into our shared space near the end of that summer, I took my dog Tobias out in the evening, per usual. What wasn’t usual about that night, however, was that after we returned he was jumpy and kept sniffing the perimeter of the room. He’d lie on the couch only to jump off a few minutes later, obsessed with sniffing the floor and near the patio doors. In one of these times of jumping from the couch, he immediately pounced the floor, and I jumped up, matching his attentiveness. I expected to see a larger-than-normal wolf spider emerge from where he’d pounced, yet it was no spider. I blinked, trying to focus on this moving critter in the shadows of my living room, the main light not quite reaching this part of the room.

I blinked again, and finally in focus was a larger creature than a wolf spider, and it made its way around the dog crate, ambled at the base of the stone sitting-ledge area at the fireplace and was running for the hallway. I was frozen. I hadn’t even yet found the words to say what it was, and right as this creature was running down the hallway, my sister opened her bedroom door, saw the creature, saw my shocked face, and yelled, “Oh my god, it’s a mouse!” Right. That’s what it was. She quickly shut her door, and I laughed a bit inside, mostly at myself for feeling like I was in slow motion. Said mouse turned quickly through the doorway on the right, the laundry room, and I finally moved to take action. I guided my dog down the hallway and put him in my sister’s room only to say, “Keep him here with you,” cleared out large items that were on the floor in the cramped laundry room space, and looked for the mouse.

It had run behind the furnace and was peeking at me. This charcoal-slightly-brown-colored, small being seemed so vulnerable, and I wanted to help. And its fast, unpredictable moves created an exhilarating, confusing reaction within me. How could I capture it safely? I knew I would not go to bed without removing it. I shut myself in the laundry room with the mouse for what would be the next several hours. It would stare at me and get brave, and any movement from me scared it to run further behind the furnace. I had the idea to get my largest, half-gallon-size mason jar, put a bit of peanut butter in it, and then run the wide 12” PVC piping I had for soap-making from the floor to the mouth of this jar. And it almost worked. Twice. The first time the mouse ran into the tube and was almost to the mouth of the jar (I was thrilled!), I heard my sister’s voice on the other side of the door: “Are you okay? How’s it going?” Dammit. The mouse ran back down through the pipe to the floor and behind the furnace. I half-whispered angrily to my sister that I almost had it and to be quiet. I’d forgotten to take my cell phone in the room with me.

Again, my plan with the jar was working. I was so excited and was forgetting to breathe. Again, my sister at the door. I was beside myself. I didn’t even answer her the second time, which I know made her frustrated. I stepped out briefly to explain to her, “Stop talking. Twice I’ve almost had it in a jar now!” I immediately felt badly but needed to return to solve this problem. Tobias was now relaxed on her bed, getting all of the anxious petting.

Returning to the room, the mouse had now discovered it could fit its little body on the right side of the furnace where there was nary any room but closer to the door, and I waved the jar close by, so it would scurry back to where I could see it, behind the furnace. Hours dragged on. I was clearly getting a second workout now in the wee hours, crouching and unknowingly cramping a little in my legs. I was doing reiki on the mouse, talking to the mouse, asking forces unseen to please help us all. Never in 14+ years of living in this condo had I had a mouse visitor.

I had MacGyver-inspired moments as I looked up at the shelves surrounding me, assessing my available materials and plotting the way to safely capture this mouse. Finally, I had it. Barricading the two of three ways the mouse could escape from behind the furnace, I placed a flattened Priority Mail Flat Rate shipping box on the floor near the third escape area; I also had an empty, small, lid-removed, translucent plastic tote ready for capture. Just as planned, the mouse eventually crawled out onto the flattened box, and I swiftly placed the plastic container like a dome over the mouse. Instant relief. I was sweating. And giddy. I called to my sister as I lifted the flattened-box-bottom with the plastic “cover” from the floor, saying, “I need your help.” I knew she had to be a part of this.

Once my sister opened the door, we shared relief and calmer breath. “Finally,” I said in an exhaled breath. I told her I needed her help to open our main door and that we’d walk about a block or so to release our friend into an open-grassy area. It was nearly 4 a.m. My headlamp shining on the ground at times reflected off of the plastic box to show a scared-to-move, yet safe mouse, which created waves of glee in me. We reached the field area, and I looked at my sister, acknowledging our team effort, and asked if she was ready.

Slowly and carefully lowering the makeshift trap to the ground, I gently lifted the top, so the mouse could run free. And it did. I wanted to cry. “We saved the mouse! Together!” I exclaimed. My sister and I hugged, and it wasn’t until we returned home that I realized somehow things had come beautifully full circle. There was relief on many levels. What were the chances of so many factors aligning? Somehow we’d created redemption for that mouse we couldn’t save long ago—and for ourselves. And we were still kind and loving. We had been given a second chance.

© 2020 Erika M. Schreck. All rights reserved.