By Mimi Drop
The automatic garage door screeched to a stop. A car idled inside. David pounded on the closed door. “Mom,” he tried to yell, “please,” but no sound left his mouth. He tried again, and a strangled moan pulled him to consciousness as his heart attempted to thump out of his chest. He opened his eyes. Swallowed. In the bedroom’s moonless black, the clock glowed, 3:17. Dream paralyzed.
The curve of Elaine’s hip was barely visible. Dark hair ruffled the pillow. The scent of mother’s milk, vaguely sweet, lingered on her maternity nightgown. If he could move he’d touch her face, wake her out of a dead sleep. He knew what she’d say, “My God, do you know what time it is?” The imagined rasp of her exhausted voice worked a counter curse. He sat up.
He had a breakfast meeting at 8:00. Showering and dressing took a half hour; the train ate forty-five minutes. Three and a half hours left to live through, to fixate. “Remove your mind from the experience,” Dr. Freedman suggested. He grabbed Elaine’s oversized cardigan and avoided the creaky floorboard as he stepped into the nursery.
A tiny sigh, lips puckering in and out. A breast dream. Adjusted to the dim light, he could make out the matchstick fingers curled into fists. “Mommy’s little fighter,” Elaine would say.
They’d argued last year when the test stick turned pink. “You’ll see the world through different eyes,” she’d said. But he was still looking through the same eyes, the ones that saw only the police lights spinning. He wanted to hide away in Elaine’s arms, always busy holding this someone else.
“Remove your mind from the experience.” Okay, all right, he’d go over his PowerPoint and make sure it was “visionary.” A creative, that’s what they called him, as if the adjective had birthed a noun. In college, he’d aspired to be a novelist. “Use your experiences,” the professor said. He typed up notes about his mother’s suicide, his erased childhood. It felt like betrayal. But for him, there was no other story, only the garage, the bodies, the shut-up house.
Okay, go downstairs; brew coffee; face the day. He flinched as tiny fingers of freezing air blew through the window. It had been windy that night, too. He’d slept over at Jimmy’s. The police couldn’t find him, not until he walked home in the morning, saw the cars, the flashing lights. “Whoa kid, you can’t go in there.”
A year ago, he had himself under control. The baby was a risk he didn’t want to take, shouldn’t have taken.
After choosing the most neutral coffee pod, Morning Blend, he snapped it in. He’d gotten used to coffee because of Elaine, the earthy scent of her in the morning, no longer associating it with the lingering smell of Styrofoam cups littering the desks of the police station where he’d been told about his father, his sisters, his mother. They gave him a Twix bar and he didn’t cry. He didn’t believe them.
He left his coffee on the counter. In the shower, David scrubbed from bottom to top: toes, legs, chest, neck, underarms, hair. The shampoo smelled like lemons and he lathered up twice. He dressed. The black sweater looked all right with the suit pants, narrow at the ankle like a pair of jeans.
His mother turned the key in the ignition, closed the garage door. Did she know about the air shaft? Did she mean to kill them all? Did she forget he wasn’t home, want him to survive? Well, he hadn’t, not really.
Back in the kitchen, he paced. Elaine would be up soon, making her coffee, toasting an English muffin. “Are you okay?” she’d ask.
“Where’s the baby? Is she alive?” he’d answer.
“Do you know how dumb that sounds? She’s sleeping. And call her by her name, Olivia.” That’s what she’d say. She was losing patience. He had to try harder.
Okay, all right, time to check his email. A text popped up, a picture of the baby she’d sent him the day before. Olivia, Olivia, Olivia.
“You’re going to be okay,” she’d say.
He ran up the stairs and found her in the baby’s room, cooing. “Up and dressed already?” She lifted the squirming bundle. “I’m going to hop in the shower.” She stretched out her arms to hand him his daughter.
With the baby against his chest, he examined her tiny lips breathing softly. Two people to love were far too many. He’d told her so.
Wow. Heart wrenching, and beautifully written!
Thank you!
…to be continued! I enjoyed the mixing of emotions, many which were likely difficult to admit.
A beautiful moment. A story well told.
Incisively drawn, finally articulated…a view into life illuminating the bends and turns of inner equilibrium. Mimi Drop sees to the heart of things with sure telling clarity.
So beautifully told. Real and heartwrenching!
Thank you!
Superb writing. Portrait of the past haunting the now…really good stuff.
Thank you!
So beautifully and devastatingly written, Mimi! I think my favorite line is “He wanted to hide away in Elaine’s arms, always busy holding this someone else.” The hurt and perpetual ache of trauma is so real. Wonderful writing!
Beautiful and chilling. I worry for the baby!
Heart wrenching indeed.
An emotionally drenched match that ignites again and again despite the depths it’s been buried. An indelibly crafted story, Mimi Drop.
A stunning story, amazing in the simplicity of the telling. A whole family tragedy in a few paragraphs. Heartbreaking.
Devastating, disturbing, masterfully crafted. Stunning work!
Incredibly poignant and tightly crafted. Bravo to you!
I love this story. The flashes of his mind back and forth, between the young trauma and the new birth. He’s got a long path ahead, but it’s there for him to find.
Flannery O’Connor-ish. David kills the baby, and the mother. I love happy endings! Awaiting the sequel. Really, really nicely done, Mimi!
It unfolds so powerfully and reads almost like poetry. And if you’ve ever had trauma that was so personal or deep others just don’t want to hear it – Mimi Drop gives you a pure dose of what it feels like to be utterly alone with your pain.
Loved the hints that unfolded throughout the short story. Heartbreaking throughout.
CHILLING
Thank you all for your lovely comments! You’ve made my week.
A not-so-slow burn that had my heart pounding with dread almost from the first sentence. Tight, taught and powerful, I’ll be thinking about this one for a while.
Beautifully done. An artful lesson in compact yet emotionally rich storytelling. So much said in each tightly written paragraph, it needs to be read twice to fully appreciate.
An absolutely beautifully written gut punch. Haunting and real. Bravo!
Well crafted emotional story of the past woven seamlessly and skilfully into the present. When you can make your readers empathise with the character’s pain you know you’ve cracked it. And cracked it with me you certainly did. Encore.
Powerfully, heartbreaking. Wow.
Loved this, Mimi!
Impressive! Great job, Mimi!
Gets you in straight away. And a really strong conclusion.
Achingly brutal. Elegantly crafted. I feel for all of them.
Thank you so much, Harry!
Perfectly eerie in just the right way. IMO, all short fiction should suggest the duality of experience/human nature. You do it wonderfully here.
Perfectly eerie in just the right way. IMO, all short fiction should suggest the duality of experience/human nature. You do it wonderfully here.