Everything After

A Short Story of Lilleth, who was forged in tragedy

It all started when I was six and my mom died in a car crash. Dad wasn’t home, so I learned about it from the babysitter. I blinked back tears from my long eyelashes. One minute, Mom was there drizzling syrup over my pancakes, and the next, she was crumpled in a hunk of metal wrapped around a tree in the rain. She swerved to miss a deer and its spotted fawn. The rain was sheeting down and her car slid. It rolled on its side, spinning ‘round and ‘round until it fatally connected with an ancient maple. She came to rest in a heap of slick black Autumn leaves. I’ve seen the accident report and pictures from the insurance company mail that came to my father.

Since then, I’ve been looking for escape from my life. My favorite place to visit is the hospital newborn ward where I can look at babies all day long through the public viewing window. Sometimes, the nurses try to ask me how I can spend so much time there. They try to ask where my parents are. I mostly shrug them off by saying I’m homeschooled and my mom works janitorial in the building next door. I like to lie and say that about my mom. It makes her feel close, even though I know she is gone forever. It’s none of their business where I go to school.

I just finally turned double digits last week. I have stopped counting in weeks and months about losing my mom. Now, I count in years. It has been four of those very long years. I feel old, but I’m just a kid. I only cry at night when I’m alone in my room. There, I can let it all bubble up inside me until it leaks out my eyes and nose. I have always been able to control how I let my feelings out. I like to keep them to myself. My father isn’t here much, but when he is here, he doesn’t keep anything to himself.

“You know your mother deserved what she got, don’t you?”

I sneered at him over my breakfast cereal. “If you mean she deserved escaping you, then yes,” I said.

The slap comes fast and hard. His long, slender fingers whack me on the cheek. The stinging heat rises instantly on the outside, matching the fire I harbor on the inside. I will wear the pink residue on my face for at least an hour.

“I used to wish you would come home,” I said. “Now, I wish you would go away forever.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” he slurred as he popped the top on another Coors Light.

I know better than to take the bait when he talks like that, but anger squeezes my lungs like a bellows, and I feel like I will choke if I don’t spit an answer at him. If he’s just starting to get drunk, the reaction won’t be so bad, and he won’t even remember it tomorrow because he won’t stop drinking until he passes out.

“I’ll be gone tonight. I’ve got a game,” he says.

“Good. I’ll go to grandma’s,” I retort.

His game isn’t anything great like soccer or tennis. He means a poker game. Those games are the recipients of most of our food and rent money. I want my mom. I have thought this thought so many times that I have worn a rut in my mind. I can trace it backward and forward, rolling over each word in succession. I. Want. My. Mom. Mom. My. Want. I. I grab my purple hoodie and my pink Huffy bike and pedal like the wind. The pedals breathe out the thought with each rotation. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. I. Want. My. Mom. If only I could ride backward in time. The raccoon tail tied to my handlebars waves up and down in time to my bouncing brown curls as I race along the street.

Maybe that is why I like to visit the babies so much. When I’m there, I can imagine I’m back in time. Or I can imagine I’m one of those babies, going to families who love each other and treat each other nice and have a mom and a dad. Those babies all look so new and sweet, like nothing bad could happen to them. Usually, they are swaddled tight like little pink and blue burritos, but sometimes they get free and then I can watch them flail their tiny toes and kick against the air. I wonder what thoughts they can possibly have. I wonder why I can’t remember being that young. I love to ponder life’s mysteries.

Since it is only mid-morning and grandma won’t even know I’m coming, I have until dark to wander around and do whatever I want. If there is a blessing in my life, it is that my father is neglectful enough to leave me alone most of the time. I wish I could live with grandma, but he won’t let me. I know it isn’t because he wants me, but because I saw mail that says he gets money every month just for having me living with him. The mail calls it a death benefit as if there was some prize to be won for dying. I guess my father did win. He doesn’t have to listen to my mom “nagging” him, he doesn’t have to pay much attention to me, and he gets free money every month for gambling.

My escape comes in three ways – books, the library, and the baby floor at the hospital. I have my favorite book, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn¸ stuffed in my woven green backpack with a Jell-O Snack Pack, some water, chips, and a PB&J sandwich. Does everybody know that PB&J means peanut butter and jelly? Another of life’s mysteries. I park my bike and lock it up to the bike rack next to a beat-up kick scooter.

“How you doin’ today?” a woman asks me.

“Same as usual,” I say.

“You got a bit of a flush on one cheek,” she says. “You alright?”

“I’m okay. It happens. I’m going to hang out here and read and watch the babies today,” I tell her.

“Why don’t you sit with me fer a while first?” she asks.

“I’ve got time,” I say as I park myself on the bench next to her.

Roberta is a sweet old lady who always sits here in the bright of the morning sun feeding birds. She has become one of my only confidants. She calls me her little Robin. Why is it easier to tell a stranger the deepest things about me? I want to curl up on her lap and rest my hot cheek on her floral dress. I want her loving arms to curl around me and pull me close. I resist the urge to sit on her lap, but I lean on her shoulder a bit instead.

“I wonder why life gives us such monumental grief,” I say to her.

“Did you know you are an old soul, little Robin?” she replies. “You don’t talk or think like a chil’. Your soul flies like these birds, up and away.”

“My mom used to tell me I was an old soul,” I say. “She said she could see it in my big, brown eyes on the first day I was born.”

“Bet she did,” says Roberta.

I tell her that I turned 10 last week and grandma took me out for ice cream.

“I got a double scoop in a sugar cone. Mint chip in the bottom, rainbow sherbet on top. I know it is a weird combination, but lots of things about me are weird, so I guess it fits.”

I pause for a moment, then begin speaking again.

“Roberta…”

I start, but trail off, unsure if I really want to tell her what I’m thinking. She throws more seed to the birds and waits, knowing I am deep in consideration. I pull out my lunch bag so I can eat while we talk. I dangle my skinny legs and scuff my Keds back and forth on the grass.

“Last week, on my birthday, dad didn’t come to ice cream. He didn’t come home at all that night. He’s gone a lot, but he usually at least comes home to sleep.”

“Well, chil’, he’s probably just gettin’ more into his wild oat sowin’,” she said.

“Maybe, but something weird happened the next day. He wasn’t home in the morning, so I was there alone. I ate my cereal and got ready to go to school. When I opened the garage door to take my bike out, I found one of my stuffed teddy bears on fire on the driveway. It was completely in flames. I didn’t see anybody around.”

I expect her to react in some way. I’m afraid she might call the police. I usually don’t tell her everything because I don’t want to be taken away from my father and my home, even if he is a loser. I know some kids who’ve had to go to foster care because their parents don’t do what they should. She doesn’t seem perturbed, however.

“What did you do?” she asks.

“I stomped it out. I put my burnt teddy bear on the back porch. Then I rode to school. What do you think it means?”

“I don’t rightly know,” she says. “Did you tell anyone?”

“No, I don’t want to tell. I’ve been watching closely to see if there is anyone suspicious hanging around. I haven’t seen anyone, but there is a strange dark car that sometimes parks down the street,” I tell her. “That’s been happening for months.”

“You promise Roberta you won’t stay home alone no more.”

I tell her that I will make sure. I will stay with Grandma or have the sitter come over from now on. I don’t want to be home alone any more than she wants me to be.

“See ya next time,” I say as I get up to walk into the hospital building.

“You take care, chil’ and keep a close eye out,” she says.

Those babies never disappoint. I suck on peppermint candies and sip from my water bottle while I read my book near the baby-viewing window. I got the idea for peppermint candies with water from my favorite character, Francie Nolan. I found the book on mom’s dusty bookshelf and keep it under my pillow. I’ve read it four times already. Francie lived in Brooklyn in the early 1900s. She wanted to read every book in the library, alphabetically by author. A worthy goal, for sure. She liked to sit on her fire escape and read while savoring precious slivers of peppermint candy. Hers cost a penny each, but she had to endure hard luck for her pennies by letting Cheap Charlie pinch her cheeks and maybe more. Mine are ten for a nickel and I don’t have to go to Cheap Charlie’s, so I am rich compared to her. The nurses leave me alone today because it’s Saturday.

After whiling away the hours in a cozy chair in the baby ward, my stomach tells me to get to Grandma’s for dinner. Roberta has long since gone home. The sun hangs low on the horizon, turning the sky into melancholy pink cotton candy. Mosquitoes buzz my ears as I get on my bike. The raccoon tail is ready to fly. Grandma’s house is a ten-minute ride from the hospital. I am huffing with exertion by the time I pull up to her porch. Her house is a sanctuary for me. I always feel safe and loved here. I’m always well-fed here.

“Hi, grandma. What’s for dinner?” I ask.

“Hi, punkin’. I didn’t know you were coming. You staying the night?”

“Yeah, dad’s got one of his games tonight.”

“Well, I’m happy to have you. We’re having chicken and dumplings.”

“Mmmmm, I love chicken and dumplings! What’s for dessert?”

“I’ve got some chocolate meringue pie fresh out of the oven,” she says.

We eat at the table together while Grandpa takes his meal on a TV tray in his bedroom. My grandparents sleep in separate rooms. Do all old people sleep in separate rooms? I wonder this as I dip my cold spoon into the velvety smooth chocolate cream pie. The meringue top is light and tangy against the sweet chocolate. After dinner, I help grandma with the dishes and we spend the evening sewing doll clothes. She always keeps a scrap basket for me to use in making my own projects. I spend a couple of hours deep in concentration. The evening sounds outside taper off and my eyes get heavy.

“Brush your teeth, sleepy head,” Grandma says.

“Alright, I guess,” I say.

PJ’s on, teeth brushed, goodnight said, I slide into the warmth of flannel sheets under a thick down comforter. Grandma stuffed the down herself. I doze off and see my mother beckoning me into dreamland. She often visits my dreams. In this dream, she is hovering over me and reaching out to touch my hands. She is trying to tell me something, but I can’t hear any words. Her face glows. She is shimmery like something seen through a waterfall. I am suddenly jarred awake.

“Are you related to Richard Downs?” I hear a voice asking in the other room. I don’t recognize the voice.

“He’s my son-in-law,” I hear Grandma say.

“Ma’am, I am sorry to have to inform you that Mr. Downs has been killed,” the voice says.

Grandma lets out all of the air from her lungs in a hiss. She snatches more in, quickly, in a loud gasp. I sneak to the doorway to peek out of the bedroom. Carpet muffles any sound as my bare feet wiggle on tiptoe. The police officer looks somber. He looms large in the entryway. His crisp blue uniform says business, but his eyes say compassion. He glances up and sees me watching him. Grandma beckons for me to come to her.

“This is Richard’s daughter, Lilleth,” she tells the officer.

“I’m sorry about your daddy,” he says.

I nod, not knowing what to say. I’m not sure what just happened, but I slowly begin to understand that my father is dead. He is gone now, like my mother. I’m an orphan like Anne of Green Gables.

“I have a guardianship document signed by her father in case of any such event,” says Grandma. “He knew his lifestyle might catch up with him sometime. I’ll keep Lilleth here with me. We’ll get through this.”

“We’ll let you know if we need any statement from you. The coroner will call with information about how to collect his body. I’m real sorry, ma’am.”

The officer apologizes again and gets back in his police cruiser and drives away. I feel light and heavy at the same time. I have a strange detached feeling inside, almost like floating above myself and seeing this all happen from far away.

Did Mom visit my dream to try to tell me this and protect me? Is that what she was trying to say? I wish I could get back into that dream where she was so beautiful and so there.

I wonder if I will feel guilt forever about the last conversation I had with my father. At the same time, I wonder if I should feel guilty about being relieved that he won’t be back. From the ruins of my past, I now stand firmly on the foundation of a brighter future.

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