A Carousel Gone Mad

by Gingy in vincible.

August 19th, 2011

 

A Carousel Gone Mad

A.N.: It might be pretty long but I didn't want to split it into two parts. This is the one short story I produced in my five days at writing camp, which was super fun by the way. Enjoy!

            DAY 41:

Running through the shards of rain, the only thing on my mind is getting to the café on Second Avenue.

            Feet throb. Heart beats.

I think of my mother’s gaunt face—it’s imprinted to the back of my eyelids—and her eyes. Her blue eyes, flickering like a flame about to go out. “I just—I just need something…to eat,” she’d said, her voice barely audible over the raging storm. My heart drops to my battered shoes as I imagine her dead body on the ground.

            There it is.

            The café. I can smell the coffee and I run. My feet pound on the sidewalk as fast as my heart pounding in my chest.

            The building takes me in, its warm air filling my lungs. Only two people are in it, figures in the yellow light. “Aunt Jamie!” I croak. It was meant to be a yell.

            Aunt Jamie rises behind the counter. Her face is weary like my clothes, her blue eyes matching my mother’s and mine. “Rowan?” she says. The lines on her face become hard rock. “I told you never to ask for my help. Never.” She turns, brown hair waving goodbye at me.

            “Auntie, it’s not like that.” I want to take a step but my knees wobble, threatening to give in.

            “I told you and your mother never to set foot in my café again,” her back says to me. The venom in her voice punches me in the face.

            “Mom lost her home,” I force out. The tension in the air is like a rubber band that we pull with each word. “Please, Auntie. She’s starving to death.”

            Slowly, she turns around. The rage leaves her eyes with a sigh. “What do you want?”

            “Food.”

            “Food,” Aunt Jamie repeats with a nod. Her hands shakily grab rolls and they tumble into a plastic bag. My stomach growls eagerly. She walks to me, her steps loud on the linoleum. “I can’t take you in, Rowan. Not after what your mother did to me.”

            “I know.” My hungry hands tighten around the bag given to me. I turn and want to say the words, but they are trapped in my mouth. They feel like cotton and I spit them out: “Thank you.”

            And I take off down the street. The rain is gone, puddles scattered around the ground. I can’t see two inches in front of me but my flying feet lead the way. The way to my mother, who sits against the wall, slowly starving to death.

            Tonight, we eat like royalty.

 

            DAY 10:

“Mom, I’m home,” I call. The apartment door closes behind me. “Mom?” The apartment is empty, devoid of the couch and the paintings and the chunky television.

            Like a rat in a basement, my mother skitters in to the foyer from the bare kitchen. “Rowan,” she says. That’s it. Just my name. “Rowan.”

            “Mom, what’s wrong?” Her eyes are wild like the sea, her hair uncharacteristically frizzy.

            My mother looks so small from here, her back hunched. “We have to get out of here,” she whispers. Grabbing my fingers with a trembling hand, she leads me out the door and into the cold streets of San Francisco. “It’s only for a little while,” she adds. I believe her.

 

            DAY 42:

“How much longer are we going to stay like this?” I ask. My mother is a silhouette against the sunset.

            “Like what?” Mom’s voice is soft, carried to me by the breeze.

            “Homeless,” I say. The words fall to the ground and for a while, we just stare at it. I want to step on it.

            “Homeless?” Mom echoes. “I thought home is where the heart is.”

            I don’t know what to say.

            Mom turns around and walks to our home on the street.

 

            DAY 1:

My mom really likes Catharine.

            So do I.

            Catharine and I sit at the kitchen table and pretend to do homework for summer classes until Mom leaves for her shift at Uncle Oscar and Aunt Jamie’s café. Then, we come to life. “I like your apartment,” says Catharine.

            “Oh yeah,” I say. “We tried hard to get the Ratty Apartment look.”

            “No, I mean—I’ve known you for ten years and not a thing about it has changed.”

            I shrug. “We’re just too poor.”

            She looks at me with her brown eyes and I wonder when she’ll let me kiss her.

 

            DAY 2:

I sit on the blue couch, trying to find a decent show. Eventually I give up and end up watching an Animal Planet documentary about orphaned bear cubs when the phone rings. “Hello?”

            “Hey, Rowan.” It’s mom, her voice hushed. “I’m going to spend the night at Aunt Jamie’s house, alright? You can get dinner at McDonald’s. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            I’m about to hang up when I hear something. A mumble, hardly noticeable. Mom forgot to hang up. I hear it again—the mumble. It’s louder now. Finally, a yell—

            “I don’t want to do this!”

            Uncle Oscar’s voice.

            I hear the dial tone and watch the show, only I’m not really watching. I just hear Uncle Oscar, his voice loud in my head. What doesn’t he want to do?

 

            DAY 43:

The soup kitchen smells terrible.

            No, it isn’t the soup kitchen; it’s the people. I don’t blame them—I haven’t showered in a month. My stomach growls, begging me for food. Soon, I think. Where is the front of the line? We move slowly. Some people have limps and others have beards. I have my mother, who I take softly by the hand. We are all hungry. My mother groans.

            “Just a little longer, Mom,” I say without belief.

            The man behind us grins, a mouth full of missing teeth. “Yer one of the lucky’ins.” His voice is rough like his gray beard. His brown eyes are so warm, like hot chocolate. “Got yer momma. I’m all alone.”

            I look at him and I think how, if my life was still normal, I’d pass him by without glance. “Oh,” I say. It’s all that I can do.

            “M’ dog died, too. Golden retriever. Love o’ m’life.”

            I can’t look at him. It breaks my heart to listen to him; I can hear it cracking as the line advances. “I’m so sorry.” And the world keeps turning.

            Finally, I’m handed a bowl. “Too young,” the woman clucks. “Too young for this boy to live like this.” Too bad. The bowl is filled with soup and my eyes lift to the one who pours it.

            Do my eyes deceive me?

            “Rowan,” the girl breathes.

            My heart.

            It’s gone crazy.

            “Catharine.”

            She blinks. “You never called me back.”

            “Now you know why.” It pains me to turn away when I want so much to stay. On the way out from the kitchen, I see the man behind us wink.

 

            DAY 3:

My mom doesn’t read the newspaper. Neither do I. Maybe if I had a father, he’d sit on the couch and read about the economy or car crashes. But since he took off when I was born, the newspaper takes up space in the recycling bin.

            “Hey, Rowan,” Catharine calls from the kitchen. “There’s a bunch of newspapers on the table where we’re supposed to not do algebra.”

            “What?” I walk to the kitchen and she’s right. The S.F. Chronicles swallows the table. I lean in.

            “Some things are circled,” she says.

            I squint. “Job openings.”

            “Did your mom—”

            “Get fired?” I shoo away the idea. “Yeah, like Aunt Jamie would fire her only sister.”

            Catharine shrugs. “Whatever. We can work on the floor, anyways. Since we’re not really working.”

            “Yeah,” I say. My brows are knitted. “Yeah.”

 

            DAY 4:

Aunt Jamie’s café is small and crowded. Music plays in the background, but I never hear it over the people. It’s mom’s shift and I don’t see her anywhere. I don’t see Aunt Jamie, either, so I head up the stairs to her apartment. The door is open already. “Aunt Jamie?” I venture.

            “Who’s there?” she screams.

            “It’s me, Rowan. Your nephew.” One step forward.

            “Jocelyn’s son?” I see her now. Her brown hair is a jumbled mess, her pajamas hanging on her like curtains.

            “Where’s Uncle Oscar?”

            “Gone,” Aunt Jamie hisses. “Your mother killed him.”

            It is a slap to my face, and it stings. “What are you on about?”

            “He’s gone!” Her voice is a shriek. “She killed him!”

            “Did you fire her?” Another step.

            “She killed my husband.” She looks at me, really looks at me. “You have your mother’s eyes.”

            “Auntie, what—”

            The room spins and spins. “Get out. Never set foot in my café again. You or your mother. Get out now and never come back.”

            “Why—”

            “Now.”

            The words usher me out with sharp fingernails. I would cry, but the world still spins and spins and I can’t make sense of it.

 

            DAY 44:

I’ve wanted to ask her. The question is on my tongue, wanting to be spoken. But whenever I see my mom, I see her eyes—sad, week. I can’t bring myself to ask her.

            We sit outside Westfield Mall. The people pass us by and we’re ignored. We are part of the background, some dismal sidewalk decorations. I know they have money. If you’re on Market Street, you’re bound to have money.

            “Mom,” I say. Here goes. “Did you—did you really kill Uncle Oscar?”

            Immediately, Mom becomes a ghost. Her eyes dim. “I did not.” Her voice is steady but I know she wants to yell.

            “Is he dead?”

            After a long one-sided staring contest, Mom nods. “I don’t know what happened. He was throwing up and delirious and I tried to give him medicine and he swallowed a handful of it.” The words exit her twitching mouth. “And then he just stopped moving.”

            “And then Aunt Jamie fired you.”

            “And Aunt Jamie fired me.”

            Our hearts are so tired.

 

            DAY 11:

“Mom, what’s happening?” I say it countless times but it seems she doesn’t hear.

            “Uncle Oscar,” she says. “No job—no home…” My hand takes hers. “I’m so sorry, Rowan. So, so sorry.”

            “Where are we going to stay?”

            She blinks. Her eyes are weary.

            “Here? Here on the streets?”

            Mom blinks again, a solitude tear slipping out from underneath her eyelid. “So, so sorry.”

 

            DAYS 12-40:

A month on the streets will do you no good.

            A month of homeless shelters and soup kitchens and digging through trash. A month of my stomach growling. A month of restless sleep.

            My mom’s apologies don’t work. She stops saying sorry at some point. A small part of me won’t forgive her, anyways. Instead of “so, so sorry,” Mom begins to say, “so, so hungry.” My stomach growls in agreement.

            At best, I’m miserable.

            At all times, I’m starving.

 

            DAY 6:

“You can’t do track this year,” Mom says.

            I nod.

 

            DAY 7:

“Money is tight,” Mom says. “You’ll have to quit basketball.”

            I sigh.

           

            DAY 8:

“Can you do your work at the library? Or use candles instead of the lights?”

            Catharine and I both sigh.

 

            DAY 9:

“Our water got shut off. And the electricity.”

            I look down and see darkness.

 

            DAY 47:

The hospital is white and smells like rubber. I wrinkle my nose. The stairs seem endless on the way to the third floor. I don’t know if I want to reach the top, but there’s no turning back. The door closes behind me.

            On the third door to my right, I see her. I don’t know if she’s asleep or dead.

 

            DAY 48:

“I feel sick,” Mom says.

 

            DAY 46:

“No,” Mom says. “No, you can’t make me.”

            “I am,” I say.

            “I don’t want to do this.”

            Neither did Uncle Oscar. I don’t dare say it. I keep walking. One foot, another foot. I hear Mom whimper.

            The café springs to life and my mother’s hand shakes in mine. “I can’t.”

            “You can.” I want to tell her that I’m tired, too. “You are.” Each step on the linoleum is loud in my ears. I feel pairs of eyes like lasers. A soldier. I’m a soldier. March up the stairs.

            “Rowan, please…”

            “You got me into this mess. I’m getting us out.” It’s a direct command. The voices fade as the apartment door gets larger and larger.

            I knock.

            High-heeled steps get louder.

            Door open.

            “Go away,” says the woman with the brown hair. Door slam. I place my foot in the door to keep it open.

            “Let me in.” A soldier doesn’t give up on the first try.

            We wait and wait until we turn to stone. Door open. “Two minutes,” says the woman. The soldier walks into the battlefield. “What do you want?”

            I look and look and look at my mother.

            “I’m sorry,” says the woman with yellow hair. “I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean to do it.”

            I see snakes erupt from Auntie Jamie’s head. “You still did!”

            “She was only trying to help,” I say. The soldier is ignored, glossed over.

            “He was delirious. Throwing up everywhere.” Please, Mom’s eyes whisper. “I had to help.”

            “Great help you are.” Auntie shoots daggers at my mother. “Get out. Your two minutes are up.”

            We are soldiers. We do not budge.

            “Get out!” screams Auntie. “Out!”

            “Auntie—”

            “He was my husband, too!” My mom. Eyes shining.

            The world spins. “Mom, what—”

            “He was Rowan’s father.” Mom stares.

            The soldier’s bones turn to liquid while the air turns to sand. “Uncle Oscar was…” Spinning and spinning. Just like a carousel, a carousel gone mad.

            Auntie turns. “You said you would forget about that.”

            “How could I forget my husband? The father of my only child?”

            The soldier cannot breath in this constantly spinning world. “You never told me,” I whisper to the wooden floor.

            “How could you,” says Auntie, “kill your ex-husband?”

            Mom steps, knees shaking. “I didn’t kill him.” The pallid woman collapses to the ground, looking very dead.

 

            DAY 48:

The doctor is a tall man. He blends in with the hospital, covered in white. He is cleanly shaven. Crisp cut. He tells Auntie and I that her stomach is rejecting food. He says she’s too far gone and that she’s been charged of assisted suicide. He tells us her chances of survival, but my ears reject it. The doctor leaves.

Her eyes open, blue like the bay. The only bit of color in this bleak hospital room.

            “Mom,” I whisper, taking her hand. “You’re awake.” The woman with brown hair stands at the door.

            “Rowan, Rowan,” mutters my mother. “I love Rowan.”

            “I love you too, Mom.”

            The one at the door blinks. “I’m sorry.”

            Mom turns. “I love Jamie, too.” The blue eyes close. “Lots of love, lots and lots of love.”

            “Mom!” I yell.

            Her hand turns cold in my hand. The lifeline stops moving.

            DAY 49-99:

I hate Aunt Jamie’s house. It isn’t ratty enough at all.

            DAY 100:

Catharine walks me to school after my first shower in a month. The streets look so different now. At some point, they were my home. Catharine knows I don’t want to talk, so she doesn’t, either. We just walk. Two best friends.

            “I missed you.”

            I look at the girl, at her brown eyes. They melt me. “I missed you too.” She makes my world turn.

 

Mrs. Lim stands behind the desk. All the people in the class make me feel like I’m in the crowded café. Catharine sits next to me, anchors me down. The teacher clears her throat. “We’ll start out tenth grade English with a writing assignment. Write about something that happened during the summer. You have until the end of the period.”

            Catharine looks at me, eyebrows up. I nod. I pull the memories

            I pull the memories out of my head. Some are clear and others are murky. My mind remembers them in the wrong order but they are most definitely remembered.

            The pencil in my hand slowly begins to move across the page: “Running through the shards of rain, the only thing on my mind is getting to the café on Second Avenue…”

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