We pulled into the gravel lot off of a narrow street. My grandparent’s Dodge Caravan made dust erupt from the ground and disseminate throughout the humid air. As soon as we pulled in their driveway, Uncle Bob and Aunt Sue stepped out on their tiny porch to greet us. My brother and I stomped out of the car with sullen faces - we would have much rather been horseback riding near the cabins we were staying in. Nonetheless, we put on our smiles and went to hug the relatives who we’d only met when we were “itty bitty”. Ofcourse, the usual exchange of “oh my how you’ve grown” and “you’re such a beautiful girl, isn’t she just a darling?” occurred as they welcomed us in their home.
Uncle Bob was a strange man, with sparse grey and black wiry hair and old wrinkled skin. I soon remembered that he was the uncle without a pinky finger on his left hand. As a child, I would always ask him how he lost it. He would never comment on anything other than that it was an accident. Aunt Sue was a short, frail woman whose hands shook constantly. They invited us inside and we all walked through a dirty screen door. Inside their tiny house, I immediately noticed it smelled like old people. There’s no other words to describe the stench than musty, and well, like old people. If you’ve ever been in an old folk’s home, you would know exactly what I’m talking about. Right inside the door was their living room, with two couches and three chairs. I sat on a couch with Uncle Bob, my grandparents sat together on another, and my brother sat on a chair. Aunt Sue didn’t seem to know where to sit, so Uncle Bob helped her into one of their chairs. “Oh boy, I’ve been waiting for you all morning. Been playin’ piano since 9 in the mornin’,” Aunt Sue said. She spoke in an accent that wasn’t quite southern, but midwestern, something that was very noticeable to me after living in the West for so long. “That’s wonderful Sue, I’d love to hear you play at some point today,” said my grandpa, who is a music teacher and had played piano his whole life. “I was playing at my church yesterday and….” I had already tuned them out. I was looking around at the gross patterned wallpaper peeling off the walls. It had rows and rows of teddy bears with bows. The quilted and crocheted blankets draped over most of the chairs and couches had frills attached to the end. You could tell they were hand-made. There were pictures of Sue and Bob’s children and grandchildren everywhere I looked, though I didn’t know who any of them were. After what seemed like hours of looking around, a small black figure crawled out of the couch and onto my jeans. I was mortified, but too nice to say anything or react in any way. So, I squashed the little bug and flicked it onto their offensive shag carpet. I wondered what other bugs were probably crawling beneath me while I sat on their ancient couch. I began to shift my weight in anxiety. I hate bugs. Besides, what kind of people have bed bugs in their couch. Lost in my wonderings and worries about the bug, I was snapped back to attention when they started asking me questions. “How is your school going, dear? What grade will you be next year?” said Uncle Bob. “ Oh, I’ll be a junior next year. I’m excited for it!” I lied. “Oh that’s just wonderful sweetheart. Do you play any music? I tell you, I sure do love to play piano. I was playing for hours before you all showed up.” “Oh yes, I wish I could play the piano but I stopped in 6th grade.” “Oh that’s too bad sweetie!” Then she shifted her attention elsewhere and resumed talking to the other adults. I was confused. Why did she mention that she played piano in the morning twice? Anyways, I continued to look around at their house. They started to talk about how every morning, Bob would make Sue waffles. Their life seemed so mundane to me, but at least they loved each other. Eventually, I let my thoughts wander off as I gazed at the patterned couch beneath me. After what seemed like forever for my brother and me, the old people started to stir and say they should leave soon. We were so ready to leave, so we complained about being hungry. Before we left, Uncle Bob slipped my grandpa a note. The event was subtle, but I noticed it unlike everybody else. Aunt Sue said, “come here and give me a hug goodbye sweetie,” as she embraced me. “It was nice to see you,” I said shyly. “You have grown so much since I’ve seen you. You’re such a beautiful girl!” “Thank you.” “I tell ya, I was so excited to see you today. I played piano for hours while I waited.” “I heard about that. I’m sure you play well.” They held the door open for us and I helped my grandpa out of the door. He broke his hip a couple months earlier, so I was helping him get his walker and step down their few stairs. Then, I had to help him into the backseat of the car by lifting his feet up into the car. I climbed into the front passenger seat next to my grandma. We decided that we’d head home to my grandparents’ house. It was probably about a 2 hour drive, but we were used to long drives at that point in our travels. After I asked him about Sue’s repetition and loony behavior, my grandpa told me to read the letter. I wondered why, because I thought it was just about money or something boring. I accepted and he handed the white slip of paper to me. Inside was very messy handwriting, almost as if someone intoxicated had written it. I could make out most words though, and I read about how this author found their life useless. They wrote about how they thought they should commit suicide soon because their parents died. At the end was signed Sue in cursive. Sue’s parents died years ago, but she must have written that during one of her episodes. I had never pondered the struggles of people affected by dementia. How trivial their lives must feel to wake up and care for a person who doesn’t remember who they are. And how it must drive people crazy when they look at a person they loved and can’t remember who they are. To live your life with bugs in the couch and a disease in your brain.
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Emmie trudged through the tall corn stalks, and finally came to a stop. Her exhaustion brought her to her knees. She rolled onto her back and looked past the rows of sharp, thin leaves and into the blue skies. She was beginning to accept her predicament of being trapped in the field. For a bit, she tried assign shapes to the white, fluffy clouds that were above her. She imagined herself as a bird, and how wonderful it would be to fly out of the field and through the soft puffs. The slices on her arms and legs caused by the thin, sharp leaves brought her back to reality as her salty sweat trickled in them. Emmie deeply regretted entering the cornfield; if only she wasn’t so curious. If only she had stayed with Mother like she had been told to. But no, Emmie always wanted more than Mother and their tiny, isolated farm that they never left. She laid on the ground serenely for a while, until she heard a loud swishing sound in the distance. Maybe this was her chance to get out of the awful maze she got herself in. She rose slowly and continued towards the intermittent sound.
Suddenly, she arrived at a clearing in the corn to an old highway. A sleek, new looking car approached in the distance down the cracked black asphalt road. It was silver and shining in the blazing Illinois sun. She had never seen a car other than Mother’s old rusted Volkswagen Jetta. To her surprise, the car slowed for her as it drew nearer. She stared at the car as it came to a stop, and a mysterious figure stepped out. Emmie backed up in terror as she could not remember the last time she had seen another person. The human came into view, and Emmie saw that it was a woman who looked similar to Mother. “Are you okay? Are you alone out here?” she said. Emmie stared at the woman and backed backwards slowly, but she knew she couldn’t go back into the cornfield where she would get lost again. This woman was her only chance to get back to Mother. Hopefully she would be nice enough to help. However, Emmie didn’t know if she could trust her yet. Shakily, Emmie whispered, “ Mother said not to talk to strangers.” “It’s okay sweetie, I won’t hurt you. My name is Alice. You know where your mother is? Oh honey, you’re all banged up. And how in the world did you get out here?! You must be so scared.” Emmie said nothing, but simply pointed to the way she came, through the dense cornfield. After they talked for a while, Alice trying to figure out how a child - only about 11 years old - could get out here all by themselves, Emmie decided to let Alice drive her to the police station. Alice turned out to be very nice, and gave Emmie bandages for her cuts and what food she had remaining from her lunch. The only thing that bothered Emmie was how Alice kept saying her face looked so familiar. Once they arrived at the police station, Emmie climbed out of the backseat of Alice’s sleek car and stepped her dirty shoes on the hot, smelly asphalt. When they entered the building, many officers turned their heads to look at the odd sight - a child with dirt and cuts strewn over her body and a clean woman old enough to be her mom. The suspicion brewed among the cops. Alice told Emmie to go sit in the waiting area while she went to the front desk. Emmie saw them conversing and looked around in wonder while she waited. There were bright screens on the walls that showed pictures and words displayed. Then a show about birds came on the screen. Emmie sat and watched mesmerized by the glorious flap of their wings when they flew. When her attention was brought back to the front desk, both ladies wore upset expressions. Emmie considered slipping out of the station door, trying to fly away like a bird, but she knew she needed help from them to get back to Mother. Alice came back over with two police officers and they gently brought Emmie into the questioning room. “Okay sweetie, you’re not in trouble,” one policeman said, “we just want to ask you a few questions.” Emmie didn’t respond, only stared out at the man’s black hair sticking up from his head. She was reluctant to tell them anything because they had not been as nice to her as Alice had, but she provided them with the details they wanted to know about her mother. As she was questioned over the next several hours, the story slowly unfolded. The policemen and women figured out that Emmie had wandered into the cornfield partly out of curiosity and partly to get away from someone she called Mother. She was upset because Mother had kept her inside for several days of the beautiful summer weather because Emmie asked too many times about what was in the cornfield. There were many more questions about Mother, which Emmie did not understand. Sure, Mother was odd and sometimes mean to her, but Emmie loved her. She had saved Emmie from the family that she had when she was a baby. Mother told her that this family didn’t appreciate her, and left her playing alone in the park. Emmie thought her old family was awful and she owed everything to Mother after her sacrifice of taking in Emmie. Mother told her that most humans were evil and Mother saved her from them. After a while, a social worker came to get Emmie out of the station and take her to a temporary home before they found Mother. On her way out, Emmie looked up and, surprisingly, there was a picture of her on a bulletin board next to the exit doors. She looked much younger in the picture, around 4 years old, but she knew it was her. Under her picture, the poster said “EMMIE HENDERSON. Last seen at Trolley Park 12-03-2012. Wearing a red sweater and jeans.” Her eyes moved up the board, past many other children’s faces and descriptions, and read the white letters, “MISSING PERSONS.” Her glance shifted out the door, where she saw a flock of birds flying away from the station. Unbeknownst to her, she was finally free. |
AuthorMy name is Nadia Barnard and I'm a junior at South Eugene High School. I made this website to display my work from Creative Writing class. Archives
November 2019
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