Sam Dwyer
Mom took me by the hand and led me across the parking lot towards the small crowd of people standing in front of the old brick building.
“That yer date, Maddie?” one woman with frizzy blonde hair says.
“She’s a cu-tie!” says another lady with blonde frizzy hair; I looked down at my new shoes.
Most of the people are smoking. I hate cigarettes; they smell so gross. I’m glad my mom doesn’t smoke. I cover my nose and mouth with my hands while my mom talks.
“Hi, Maddie,” a man with a leather jacket says, “Nice to see you again, and who’s this?”
“This is my daughter, Abigail.”
“Hello Abigail, gosh you’re big, how old are you?”
“I’m ten.”
“She’s turning ten next week.” My mom betrays me. Sometimes, as my dad used to say, my mom doesn’t know how to go with the flow.
“Oh, so you’re getting excited about your birthday then? Are you having a party? Can I come?”
Mom laughs, “Abigail says that parties are for babies.”
“It’s just not a big deal, turning ten.”
I feel so awkward. I look at my new shoes. They are really cool. They have pink, sparkly laces.
“Oh I think it’s a pretty big deal. My daughter just turned twenty. We couldn’t have a party – she lives too far away, now.” The man says and I look at him in the eye for a moment and he looks sad.
“I’m sorry.” I tell him.
“Do you like cookies? You should go inside and get some.” He says, and I’m confused because I thought we were talking about his daughter who he misses.
“Let’s go get some cookies before they all get eaten.” Mom says.
She leads me up the stairs to a heavy wooden door that I try to open for her but can’t by myself and we go inside. We walk across a big, musty smelling room with a brown carpet. Many brown plastic folding chairs face a table; seated at the table are two saggy and faded blue and yellow striped chairs. Through a serving window with blue trim I can see people standing in the kitchen, which is where mom takes me.
“Hi Hannah, is coffee ready?” my mom asks.
“Sure is, Maddie. Here.” she pours mom a cup, “Nice to see you again. And you,” she looks at me, “must be Abigail. Your mom and I are good friends. I’m Hannah.” She’s really cool; she has stars tattooed on her wrists and a poufy, gauzy scarf. I wish I had a poufy, gauzy scarf. We shake hands. “I like your shoes. Those laces are so pretty.”
I make sure to look her in the eye when I say “Thank you.” My dad says that that’s very important, and I want Hannah to like me.
“We ordered them online and just got them earlier today.” Mom says.
“I guess you didn’t need a ride, huh, Hannah?” A man dressed all in black with his hair slicked back and his face angry looking interrupts, “I mean, I guess you didn’t need a ride because you didn’t call. Yeah. You made it here just okay I see.”
“Yes, thank you for offering though, Matt. My other friend lives right down the street from me, so it’s really no problem for her to give me a ride. If I get in a jam, I’ll give you a call.”
“Yeah, okay.” He abruptly grabs two Oreos from the open box on the counter and walks quickly into the main room and takes a seat, staring ahead at nothing.
“That was aggressive.” My mom says.
“Yeah. Another miserable one.”
“Aren’t we all, here?”
My mom is miserable?
“Would you like a cookie, Abigail?” Hannah asks.
“Yes, please.” I would also like to be invisible.
“Take as many as you’d like. I’m going to sit down, now.”
“You can have three.” My mom holds up three fingers. “I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
I take two pecan Sandies, which are my favorite, and one Oreo. I watch through the serving window as Hannah is waved over to a small group of other cool-looking young people. The hall is filling up, and I know that people are watching me as I leave the kitchen and walk along the edge of the main room, inspecting the bookshelves. Lots of bibles and old books – who is Jonathan Edwards? I pretend to read it, and look to see if Hannah and her friends are watching me, but they aren’t.
My mom hugs me from behind and I close my eyes.
“Are you ready to come sit, sweetie? Do you want to bring your book?”
“No.”
We sit, and I can’t see the man in the green hat who has begun to speak, and I can’t understand him well, either, because he mumbles.
“What’s he saying?” I ask.
“Shhh.”
There is a lot of talking, and then two men, one of whom is crying, go up to get silver coins and a hug.
“Do you have a coin, mom?”
“Yes. Hush though.” She digs through her purse and hands me a silver coin.
“Is this money?”
“No, read it.”
On one side, it says:
God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, and Wisdom to know the difference.
On the other side arranged around a triangle, it says:
TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE. UNITY. SERVICE. RECOVERY. 24 HOURS.
I turn it between my fingers for a little while, and then give it back to her. I notice that the man sitting next to me smells terribly of cigarettes. He has great big tattoos on his forearms, but I can’t tell what they are because they are dark and blurry, and his skin is so tan. He notices me looking, and for a moment I am scared that he will be angry, but instead he turns his arms so that I can see better.
A new man stands up to talk. I look at my shoes – these pink, sparkly laces are so cool. My friend Lindsey said so earlier today when I was at her house, and so did Hannah. I lean over so that I can look at them more closely. They say “All Star” on the tongue, with a star between the two words. They have pink stitching, and a green rubber heart on the rubber side part near the front. My mom and I bought them online after dad left to get better. Mom was crying and so was I because she was, and she said,
“I know what will cheer us up. It’s trite, but why don’t we go online and buy new shoes. You want a new pair of sneakers?”
I nodded, “What does trite mean?”
“It means that something’s predictable; that it’s been done before.”
“Is that bad?”
“Not always.”
I don’t understand why buying new shoes could be a bad thing. If you spent all your money on shoes and then didn’t have any left over for food, I guess. I undo the laces and then retie them.
“Stop fidgeting,” my mother whispers, “listen, he’s telling a story.”
The man is standing, and says, “…And I didn’t care, and my moms stopped talking to me after I stole her money to buy, you know, to score. And then we were driving around, you know, high on crack, and she said ‘you know, there’s five percent alcohol in Nyquil.’ And I said ‘lets get some of that!’ you know, cause I wanted to get high. So we drove to one drug store but there was a cop outside, so we drove to another and then we stole a bunch of bottles of Nyquil and drank them…”
“Mom, where’s the bathroom?”
“Can’t you wait? Grownups use the bathroom beforehand, you know.”
“I really have to pee, mom.”
She points me in the right direction and I excuse myself past the people sitting in our row and walk down a dark hallway decorated with posters. They’re like the kind that I have in my school, only they talk about God and are faded and old looking. I find the bathroom and walk from one end to the other.
I count the tile squares from one end of the cold bathroom to another, then look at the urinals and the paint on the radiator, which is pale blue and chipped in places so you can see that originally it was painted pale yellow. I stand on top of the toilet and jump to grab the top of the stall. It has a sharp edge that hurts my hands! I pull myself up anyway, and sit on the corner swinging my legs in the air. Sometimes at school my friend Lindsey and I get bored and we go to the bathroom together and do this.
The doorknob turns and I stay very still; a young man walks in. He goes to the sink and turns the faucet on; touches the water, waits, and then touches it again and slowly washes his hands. He’s tall and slender, with soft looking straight dark brown hair; he’s wearing a black sweater and dark jeans. He looks at himself in the mirror and runs a hand through his hair, rolls his shoulders and exhales loudly. He turns away slowly from his reflection and then jumps around quickly and pretends to shoot himself – “powpow!” He takes out his phone, runs his fingertips against its screen and holds it to his ear. He’s cute, I decide.
“Jacky-o? Hey dude, just calling to say that I’m not coming down to the city this weekend. … Yeah, I’ve got the car still, that’s okay? … Right. Okay.” He turns and sees me for the first time; he jumps a little and blinks. “Jacky? There’s a girl perched on top of the bathroom stall. … No, she doesn’t look like orphan Annie; she’s blonde.” He laughs, “Yeah. Okay, Ciao.”
“What are you doing up there, little friend?”
“Nothing.” I tell him; I am ashamed at how shy and quiet I am. I want to be bold.
“Oh? How did you get up so high, then?”
“I climbed.”
“Oh, hm, yeah? And why are you here?”
“My mom brought me. She didn’t bring me last week, but she brought me this week because she can’t afford a babysitter and because my friend Lindsey’s parents couldn’t take care of me. They are at a dinner party. And my Dad is sick and he is somewhere getting better.”
“I see,” he looks down, “I’m sorry about that.”
Why is he sorry? What did I say wrong? I’m so embarrassed. I want this cute boy to like me.
I must look upset; “It’s alright,” he says, “lots of people in my life are sick too. My name’s Grady. What’s your name?”
“Abigail.”
“Nice to meet you, Abigail. Do you live around here?”
“Yes. I live on Whitwood farm. My family’s always lived there.” I am very proud of this; everybody in town knows my family and where Whitwood farm is. Grady doesn’t seem to, though.
He raises his eyebrows, “Is it nice?”
“Oh yes, very.”
“Hm. Well Abigail, I should go sit back down, but I have a proposition for you. If you’d like, when the meeting is over you should introduce me to your mother, and tell her that I’ll babysit you in the future, for free, so that you don’t have to come to meetings, if she wants. You having to hide here in the bathroom is depressing.”
“Okay.”
He reaches up and we shake hands.
“Okay, I’ll find you later.” He says, and then leaves.
Oh my god, he could be my babysitter? I’m excited. I don’t want to have to come here anymore. It’s so boring.
I jump down off the top of the stall – it’s higher than I thought, and when I hit the floor I fall forwards and put my hands out and my left wrist makes a crunching and snapping noise and oh my god it hurts so much! I scream and run out of the bathroom holding my hand and crying where is my mom, where is my mom?
I wipe the tears with my good hand that is holding my hurt hand as I rush into the hall where they are still talking. There is a commotion and several people stand up, including Grady. I see my mom stand up behind him and I run to her.
I am sobbing. I hold up my hand.
“What happened, mouse? What happened?”
I can’t speak because I am crying too hard. My nose is also running.
“Shhh, shhh, shhh,” she says, leaning over and holding me, “it’s okay; you hurt your hand? It’s okay little mouse.” She runs her hand through my hair and asks, “Hannah, will you call an ambulance, please? Lets get out of the hall so they can finish the meeting.”
Grady follows us into the kitchen, and asks, “Did you fall, Abigail?”
I nod.
“Fall? What did you fall off of?” My mother asks.
“She was sitting on top of the bathroom stall when I was in there.”
“What were you doing that for?”
I don’t feel like talking so I don’t say anything.
“The ambulance is coming.” Hannah says, clicking her phone shut, “Oh, poor Abigail.”
“I was a little worried about you being up there.” Grady says.
“Why didn’t you tell her to get down?” My mother turns on him. She looks scary.
He stammers, “I don’t know.”
“Sorry,” she softens quickly, “It’s not your fault.”
My mom is so tough.
I stop crying. The four of us stand in the kitchen, waiting.
“I, ah, Abigail and I were talking, and she told me that she had to come tonight because you couldn’t get a babysitter? And because her friends parents were busy?” Grady isn’t very good at talking to other grown up people, I don’t think.
“Yes. That is correct.”
“Well, I wanted to offer my services as a babysitter. For free. My name’s Grady Griffen. I’m a college student. I’m ah, living with my step-great aunt and taking a semester off to write a novel.”
“Oh yeah? And who is your step-great aunt?”
“Helen Blanche.”
The meeting finishes, and people begin wandering into the kitchen and eating cookies and chatting. I hear a siren noise. I’m so tired, I just want to go to sleep; I feel warm and fuzzy. My wrist hurts so much, though.
“Oh I know the Blanches. Well, if you’re a Blanche, you must be okay.” My mother turns to Hannah, “What should we do to get you home? I guess I’ll drop you off and then go to the hospital.”
“You don’t have to do that, I can get a ride with someone else. What about you, helpful stranger?” Hannah gives Grady a look, which makes me furious. It pleases me that he seems scared of her.
We go to meet the ambulance men, who wrap a splint around my wrist and strap me down onto a board. As they are carrying me out I see Grady and Hannah getting into a red convertible. I am so jealous it hurts. This is the worst day I have ever had.
Mom let me stay home from school today, because of my wrist. I wake up at eight, and then I leeaan way far out of bed, without getting out, so that I can pick Animal Farm off the floor. My Dad gave it to me as a birthday present last week before he left; he wrote a message for me inside the cover. It says:
Dear Abigail,
This is a really good story. When I was ten, this was my favorite story. Pay close attention to it. The reason it is so good is because everyone can understand it. Think about what that means. When you finish reading it, you should look it up on Wikipedia for an historical explanation. Maybe you will be our first female president, providing that there’s still a country in thirty years.
I love you,
Dad
It’s hard to read with this cast on my wrist. I hold the book up with my right hand, but it gets tired. I sit up and hold it in my lap. It is a strange book, but it is not boring.
There is a scratching noise… ah! A squirrel on my windowsill! It stares at me and makes a chimpering noise, then jumps away. I wonder if it doesn’t like me? Maybe it was here to tell me a message.
The sun shines golden through the open windows opposite my bed; the wind blows my yellow curtains inward. The floor creaks as I get out of bed and walk across the room and look outside to see if I can see where he went. Maybe I am supposed to follow him.
I put on jeans and a t-shirt and socks and go downstairs to find my mother. She hears me coming down the stairs and yells,
“Hey Abigail! I’m in the library!”
I move very quietly, on tip toe, to the threshold and wait.
“Is that you, little mouse? Are you out there?” She asks.
“Boo!” I jump around the corner and yell.
“Oh, so scary! I think I might faint!” She leans back on the faded red-velvet chaise by the tall window, and covers her face with her book. I walk past my grandfather’s dark desk and over the thick shiny green rug to her. She doesn’t move.
“Mom?” I walk up to her. “Mom?” I stand next to her and yell, “Hey Madeline Annabel Forester are you there?”
She grabs me and tickles me and I laugh and I scream very loudly.
“Ouch, Abigail! You hurt my ears.”
“Sorry Mom. Mom, what are you reading?”
“Just a trashy novel.”
“Why is it trashy?”
“It’s not very good. Trashy means that the story isn’t very original, and that it’s poorly written.”
“Why are you reading it then?”
“Because it’s easy, and because it’s funny. It gives me pleasure.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s a love story. Couldn’t you tell from the cover?” She holds it up and I see a bare-chested and strong looking man holding a woman, her gauzy white dress slipping off her shoulder. “It’s about a barbarian prince who’s secretly in love with his serving wench.”
“What could be bad about a love story? Mom, a squirrel came to my windowsill this morning. He looked at me, and then he ran away, but I think he wanted me to follow him. Do you think he’s a prince squirrel?”
She smiles, “Maybe he does, like the toad prince. Would you want to kiss a squirrel?”
I’m embarrassed, “Um… he was cute… for a squirrel. Maybe if I give him a kiss he will turn into a cute boy?”
“It’s a possibility worth exploring if you can get close enough.” She lays the book down and picks me up, “Ugh! You are too big for me to carry anymore!” She puts me down, “let’s go make you some breakfast.”
I follow her down the long, wide hall covered floor to ceiling with paintings into the kitchen. She pulls a stool out from under counter for me, and then walks around to the other side.
“What’ll it be, miss?” she asks in a scratchy voice.
“Why are you talking like that?”
“I’m pretending to be a waitress at a truck stop.”
“It’s weird.”
“Okay.” Her tone lightens, and she lilts, “What would you like; dear, dear, sweet, precious child-o-mine?”
“I would like scrambled eggs and toast and orange juice, please.”
“You got it little lady.”
I watch her as she lifts the cover from the cooking surface of the strange enameled red stove that’s always on, lifts a cast iron pan from a drawer and drops it loudly into place. From another drawer, she pulls out a loaf of bread, and puts two pieces in the toaster. She whisks an egg and drops a little piece of butter into the pan; it sizzles as she swishes it around and then she pours in the egg and stirs it. The toast pops and she butters it for me, then puts marmalade on it – which I am proud to say is the only kind of jam I like. I think it’s a very grown up jam, not like the grape jelly everyone eats at school. My mom says she wont buy grape jelly.
“Voila!” She dumps the eggs on my plate and hands me a fork. “Oh no! How is my lefty-mouse going to eat with her paw all damaged?”
“Mom, look – it’s not going to be a problem. I can use my other hand.”
I eat. She walks around the counter with a glass of orange juice and sits beside me.
“You’re pretty good at switching your hands,” she says, “you’re ambidextrous, like me. That means you can use both hands equally well. Did you know that I can write with both hands? It’s pretty unusual. Most people can’t do it.”
I’m not sure what to make of this. “That’s interesting.”
“Isn’t it? It must be genetic… I wonder.”
“I don’t know.” I finish my breakfast. “I think that I’m going to go exploring.”
“Sure. Dishes in the sink first.”
In the mudroom I decide to put my old sneakers on instead of my new ones, because I’m worried about mud. I walk out the front of the house and circle around the side, passing the windows of the kitchen, the dining room and the library where I can see my mother. I spy on her through the window; she is reading and chewing on her knuckle, occasionally she stops to drink tea from the kind of rough clay mug that I dislike.
I slip away without her knowing that I was there.
The grass is bright green and damp; I walk through the apple orchard and my shoes soak through. The blossoms are so beautiful – I can see the spots of yellow stamens above pink petals, backgrounded by green leaves and the silvery gray bark of the trees. The last time we were here – in the winter, before grampa died – there was snow, against which the trees looked violent.
At the edge of the field the grass changes. It’s unmowed and so it’s taller, though not as tall as it gets later in the spring; there are also different types, some are round and hollow and stiff, and some are flat and bendy. Their seeds are different as well. My legs get even wetter because the grass is higher.
I walk out and up my favorite small hill in the center of the field, which takes a couple minutes to climb. At the top are two long benches and a table that my grandfather made. I stand on the table and look back at the long driveway that leads up a slight hill to a cul-de-sac in front of the house, the tiny guest cottage and barn. Behind the barn and not visible from the driveway are a tennis court and the pool, still covered from the winter. Further away is the forest.
I turn away from the house and look out at the valley, shading my eyes against the bright late-morning sun with my splinted hand. I remember when we had a picnic up here, last summer, with my grampa and my mom and dad and my dad’s younger brother and his brother’s wife and my two baby twin boy cousins. And now my grampa is dead and my dad is sick and my mom is sad and my uncle and his family live in California. And my wrist is broken and it hurts! Why is life so sad?
My dad always tells me that at least I’m alive; at least there isn’t a holocaust or purges happening. He knows a lot about the holocaust and purges. He told me once that at the end of World War Two, the Germans were running out of bullets so they would go up onto a bridge and tie two people together then shoot one of them and push both off the bridge; the shot person would drown the other person.
I try to think of something else besides being tied to a person who is shot and then pushed off a bridge.
Oh! Where is my squirrel? I forgot that I wanted look for him. Squirrels don’t spend time in fields, I don’t think.
I jump carefully off the table and walk down the hill in the direction of the house and the woods behind it. I pass back through the apple orchard and around the house. Past the pool and the tennis court there is a ravine at the bottom of which is a stream the same width as the length of a car. Arching over the gully is a wooden footbridge, with a railing on one side. I sit in the middle and hang my legs off. There isn’t a lot of water but there is a gurgling noise.
I try to copy the sound,
“gclu-gclu-gclu,”
but it’s not right.
I follow the path from the bridge to the edge of the woods, and then inside. I can’t see very far, because on both sides of the path are tall, thick pricker bushes. I don’t see any squirrels, only birds. It’s very quiet. I keep walking.
I see something flashing silver! I step off the path and go to it. It’s a deflated mylar balloon, lying in a bed of dark orange and brown leaves. I step close to it, and my foot sinks to my ankle in mud. I bend over to try to reach the balloon with my good hand without stepping deeper, but I can’t grab it or it’s plastic string. The mud slurps when I pull my foot out.
I go to look for a stick. The first one I find is layered in cream-colored mushrooms, and when I try to pick it up it falls apart; the second is as thick as my arm and twice as tall as I am. It’s heavy, but I carry it awkwardly over to the mud pit and hook the balloon with it.
The balloon makes a crackling sound as I hold it; it’s got wet mud on it, which transfers to my hands and splint as I spread it open. In faded pink lettering it says “Happy 16th Birthday!”
How long has this cool thing been here?
I can’t wait until I’m 16. I’ll be in high school and get to learn how to drive. Maybe I’ll have a boyfriend? I wonder if we will still live here, or if we will move back to New York. I like it here better; I like exploring, and in New York I can’t walk around on my own yet because it’s too dangerous.
I carry my balloon and drag the stick out of the woods. It makes a clocking sound across the boards of the bridge, and down to the house a scratching noise on the gravel driveway. Mom must be able to hear it, because she waves from a couch on the screen porch that is facing away from me.
I drag the stick off the driveway and onto the lawn towards her.
“Did you find your squirrel prince?” Mom asks without getting up.
“No. There weren’t any squirrels. Look, though.”
She sits up and looks at me over the back of the couch.
“Huh! What’s that you’ve got… a big stick! And a dirty deflated balloon. What treasures! Hmm… is it lunchtime? Why don’t you leave them outside and come in for awhile.”
I come to the screen door; she looks at me and says “Shoes off.”
After lunch I plan to write a novel. Mom likes this; she sets up her thin silver laptop on my grandfather’s desk for me.
“Good luck.” She shuts the door behind her.
I sit in his black stretchy-mesh wheeled chair and think.
I wiggle around a bit.
I don’t know what to write! So I write that. But that’s not a story! I decide to start with how a normal day starts… with an alarm clock! But I don’t use an alarm clock – my mom wakes me up every morning. And waking up isn’t very interesting. What happens after I wake up? I could write about what I did today. I think about it though, and all that happened was that I read, saw a squirrel, ate breakfast, took a walk and found a balloon and a big stick, then came home and ate lunch.
My day seems stupid now, and it makes me angry. I am so boring! I get up from the chair and walk back and forth on my grandfather’s green rug. I wish something exciting would happen to me. Like… I could get kidnapped and held for ransom in a cave. That would be exciting.
I regard my grandfather’s books that surround the room, floor to ceiling. How the heck do people write all these? I take a really big, old one off the shelf and read:
The wealth of societies in which the capitalist mode of production prevails appears as an ‘immense collection of commodities’; the individual commodity appears as its elementary form.
I don’t understand what that means at all! It’s like it was written in another language. I put the book back and look for another. I find a new looking one with a white dust jacket. It has a picture of a cartoon man on the front, swallowing a pill. I bet my Dad would like this one.
I read:
Not until my ears popped and the plane was coming down over the winking lights of Bogotá – or really it looked like any other city at night – did I raise my eyes from the page I’d been puzzling at and begin to think of the girl, or woman, the friend or acquaintance, Natasha, whom I was flying so far to visit. That’s how it was with me then: I couldn’t think of the future until I arrived there.
A trashy love story! I clap it shut and put it back.
All these books are no good. I’ll write a poem.
I write:
I’m little,
I’m small but
I have stories to tell you.
How will you find me?
I can’t yell so you can hear.
Yet.
I bring the poem to my mother, who says she likes it a lot. I’m not sure that I believe her, but “as proof of her conviction” she gives me a couple cookies. I eat them in the kitchen.
She leans over from the other side and puts her elbows the counter, “Do you want to listen to the Beatles?” She asks.
“Of course!” I love the Beatles.
She turns on the CD player that hangs from under a cabinet; she skips forwards a bunch of songs, listens to the first second of one, and then skips forward once more to our favorite.
We sing together,
“Ooooooh I need your love babe, guess you know it’s true. Hope you need my love babe, just like I need you. Hold me, love me, hold me, love me. Ain’t got nothing but love babe, eight days a week.”
We dance around the kitchen together, holding hands. My mother sings, “Love you every day girl, always on my mind. One thing I can say girl, love you all the time. Hold me, love me, hold me, love me. Ain’t got nothing but love babe, eight days a week.”
“God, the Beatles were so cute.” She says.
The next song comes on, and we keep dancing.
