E-Mom: A Novel (Chapter 1)

"Mara, wake up."

The voice is low and raspy, one I recognize quick easily. I ignore it just as well, turning over in the uncomfortable leather car seat so he thinks I'm still asleep. He doesn't seem too happy about my response, actually leaning over to grasp my shoulder. He shakes me abruptly, saying with a sharper tone, "Mara, c'mon now."

I groan, trying my best to loosen his hold by moving my shoulder out from under his palm. No use. After another minute, I turn over and open my eyes slowly, finding my dad staring at me with an annoyed look fixed on his face. I sit up slightly, yawning a bit as I speak, "What?"

"We're about to pull up," he says as he looks back at the road, "I'll need your help taking in the big stuff."

Immediately, my brow furrows, and I look back at what's in the bed of our '88 ford ranger. We don't have a lot. Hell, Dad sold a lot of it before we left Memphis. He didn't want to pay for a moving truck, so it was better to leave all the big pieces behind. To most, I suppose that'd be a big deal, but it didn't really affect me too much. I mean, we'd only had that shit for about a year, why would I be attached to it?

The only things we really have kept are the necessities, like kitchen supplies, the mattresses and our sheets, clothes, and then a few personal treasures. Dad and I each have a big box. His is full of school albums, a few vinyls, his trophy for winning a college soccer tournament, his old jersey of said soccer team, and his favorite video games. Mine is full of picture albums, diaries, my song books, a few little things Grandma gave me before she passed, and a make-up kit I got for Christmas like three years ago, and still have yet to use. The other boxes were just miscellaneous stuff that I guess Dad wanted to keep.

I sigh, and look back at him. "So where are we again?" I ask.

"We are in Indiana," Dad replies as we turn a corner into a small neighborhood.

"Well, I knew that much," I reply, "I meant what town is this?"

"Seelyville," Dad answers.

My eyes widen. I recall hearing the name of this place before, but I can't place my finger on it. I look out the window, out at the dark streets lit dankly by the occasional street lamp. Houses pass by slowly, some stout, some lanky, while others catch the eye by having a strange, but appealing aura. The streets, while I know I've never tread down them, feel nostalgic, as if I'd seen them in a pass life. I sense a connection to this place, but the information is lost.

How do I know this place?

Slowly, the truck pulls over by a crumbling sidewalk, a lamp flickering to reveal a pathway breaking off from the straight line of concrete. My eye follows the path up to a two-story house, a bit beaten from first glance, but doable. In comparison to the house down in Jackson, this place is a mansion; no sinking foundation, no tilted ceiling, no radiator monster with a devil's laugh, none of that appears to be inhabiting this place. I can just feel it. Once the panging engine dies off, I open the door and set my feet on my new island, my eyes darting everywhere.

While dark, I can see that the house is surrounded by large trees, the canopy engaging the eye as it dances in the midnight breeze and causes the stars above to twinkle at a new meter. Clouds cover the moon, and as I watch the dull glow grow, Dad decides it's time I come back to Earth. "Mara, come help me with the mattresses," he calls with the click clank of him dropping the bed door.

I deflate slightly, but I obey, saying nothing as I walk over to grab my smaller mattress from under the tarp.

The next time I'm able to relax is once I've brought in the majority of my boxes. I sigh, pulling out my phone as I fall back on my mattress. Reading the lock screen, I see a date with the time; August 12, 2035, 1:03 a.m.

Good things school doesn't begin tomorrow, 'cause knowing my luck, I'll have to help Dad tomorrow. He left all the beer at the last house, so he's going to be a lovely person to be around by this time tomorrow night. I wouldn't be surprised if I find a beer laying around in less than two weeks. Dad said he's done for good, that Memphis was the last place he'd consume the poison. He said he's going to be clean from now on, that he's going to get a job and that this is going to be a new start for us.

I stopped believing that six moves ago.

Buzz Buzz

"Hmm?"

I look back at my phone, grinning as I see Hannah's name pop up on my screen. I open my messages to see a welcomed text, "Howdy, cowgirl :)"

I chuckle, typing back, "No longer a cowgirl, now a farm girl."

It's not long before I get a reply, "What? Where're you now? Kansas?"

"Nope lol, someplace in Indiana," I type.

A minute or two passes, then another text comes in, "Oh, so you're a child of the corn now?"

I laugh, "No, I'm not lol"

Hannah doesn't text back, instead she calls. I answer before the loud ringtone goes off, and I speak quietly into the mic, "Hello?"

"You're gonna join a corn cult, I call it now," Hannah laughs on the other end. Her voice is just as warm and bright as it was two years ago the last time I heard it in person. The Georgian red head was the first real friend I ever made; hell, she's honestly my only friend I've kept over the years.

I smile as I answer, "You're so funny."

"You know it," Hannah replies, "So Memphis already kicked y'all out?"

"Yup," I say.

"Damn, that's a record," Hannah comments, "How long was that? Four months?"

"Three; we moved there right after school ended in Charlotte."

"Wow. That's both impressive and kinda sad."

"You don't need to tell me that."

"Yeah, I know, I know," Hannah replies, before her tone excites, "Oh, Mar, guess what?"

"What?" I ask.

"A college boy asked for my number!"

My brow rises in surprises, "Oh really?"

"Yes! His name is Samuel and oh my gawd! He's sexy!"

I chuckle, "Now Hannah, don't be stupid."

"Stupid, moi? I think not!"

I smirk as I talk, "Alright, if you say so."

"Are you mocking me?"

"No, no, I'm not," I chuckle.

For a minute or so, Hannah doesn't say anything, putting me a bit on edge. She's the type of person that when she stops talking, there's a serious issue. Slowly, I build up the courage to speak again, my voice unintentionally lighter, ". . . Hannah?"

". . . He hasn't touched you, right?"

Her question strikes me right in the gut. I know exactly what she's trying to ask. She knows all too well about Dad, about our situation. She's the only person from all the moves that I opened up to, but luckily she doesn't question anything. She's like a personal therapist, or that one stuffed animal you talk to when you want to tell someone a secret, but have no one you trust.

Actually, that may just be me.

"No, he hasn't done anything. He never has," I reply, staring up at the new ceiling and tracing the cracks in the plaster, "He just gets really emotional and talks about really random things. Last time, he went on and on about llamas we saw at a petting zoo."

"You're joking."

I sigh, "Unfortunately, no."

I hear her groan on the other end of the line, before she almost shouts at me, "Oh my God, Mar, run away already!"

My brow furrows, "What?"

"You know what I'm saying!" Hannah says, "Just get your stuff, buy a bus ticket, and come back to Georgia! Mama would definitely let you stay with us."

A sinking feeling overcomes me. It actually is a very tempting idea; running away. I wouldn't have to deal with Dad's bull crap anymore, and who knows, maybe I could live a productive life. Maybe I'd spend more than one year in a town. Maybe I'd actually make friends that wouldn't forget about me.

I wonder what that would be like.

I take a deep breath, trying to halt my old friend guilt from returning to mind. I know that while running away would be the easy way out . . . well, exactly that, I'd just be running away from my problems. Not to mention that if I run away, Dad would be absolutely devastated. He'd flood his veins with whiskey and bourbon till there was no more blood in his body. . . . I can't do that to him. Not after everything we've been through.

"Mara, you there?"

Hannah's voice cuts through my stale thoughts. I honestly have no idea how to explain to her all I want to say. How can I explain how trapped I am? How can I explain that I can't leave Dad? How can I explain to that even if I could leave here . . .

Nothing would change.

"Nah, I already know what I'm gonna do," I say quietly, breaking my gaze from the ceiling as I turn over on my side, "Don't worry about me."

". . . You sure, Mar?" Hannah answers, her tone hesitant.

"Yeah, I'm sure," I reply, glad my voice doesn't reveal the grimace taking shape on my face, ". . . I think I'm gonna go to bed, Hannah. Text me later, ok?"

"Alright . . . if you say so," Hannah says, still sounding despite the meaning of her words, "Sleep good Honey."

"I will. Bye."

"Bye."

There's a short beep signaling the disconnect of the phone call. My arms falls to my side, my phone falling softly onto the mattress. I just stay still, lying here in my own misfortune. I didn't ask for this life, but it was the hand I was dealt. Why complain?

After a few minutes of introspection, I finally sit up, looking around the rather bare room. Five beaten boxes sit randomly around the room, the closest thing I have to furniture at the moment. The room, from what I can tell in the dim light of the half moon, is either a dull pink or a faded red, the paint chipped near the corners, pealing off like the leaves of a yellowed tree. There's only one piece of decoration in the entire room; an old lamp. No, I'm not talking about those lamps that you sit on beside tables, or the really tall ones you put in the corner of the room cause for some reason the over-head lights are "too bright", this thing is like ancient. It's from the 1910's at least, powered originally by oil from what I assume. It's petite, but refined, the hazed glass detailed with images of flowers and exotic plants. The fixture itself is probably brass, though it's hard to tell due to the green tint that has speckled and spread over the metal. It curves delicately into the plate that connects it to the wall, the edges molded and softened by skilled hands.

I imagine most wouldn't think much of the antique. Hell, most girls my age would probably whine that it didn't match their ideal room design, and would just discard it like worthless trash. I, on the other hand, find value in the useless item. Like myself, it sits unnoticed, unwanted by the society that once loved it. At a glance, it's nothing more than scrap metal, but to a trained eye . . . it's actually quite beautiful-

What the hell have I smoked?

Like seriously? I'm basically checking out a lamp. A lamp.

Dear Jesus Christ, I really have lost my mind.

Without a second thought, I pull out my greatest treasure; so precious, in fact, that I always keep it on me, in a pocket, or in my bra (Hey, sometimes my clothes don't have pockets, ok?). It's old, worn from years of love. It's a bit ripped up, but I've salvaged the item as best I can with what I have. When I found a five dollar bill when I was ten in a trashcan, I took the money straight to Staples and paid to make sure it'd be protected, but even that shield has started to give way, curling at the corners where it was once sealed. I grimace some, tracing the image before I whisper, "I think I'm losing my mind."

No response.

I chuckle, reaching for my blanket before I fall back, my eyes still staring into those that never blink. "Then again, I'm seventeen. I suppose it's a normal thing for teenagers to think they're insane, right?"

I adjust the blanket around me, not even attempting to remove my jacket or change out of my jeans. Moments like this, while strange to others, are special for me. I share them with my closest companion; the silence of her smile. Looking over her again, I do see what Dad has told me over and over during his drunken episodes.

"You look like you could be her twin."

We do look very similar, I have her dark slate hair that curls ever so slightly at the ends, the same slightly crooked smile, and the bit of freckles that dot her face like crazed connect-the-dots. The only major difference are our eyes; those are my Dad's. Like Dad, my eyes are a cool grey-blue tone, while hers are almost the color of honey; a strange but warm mixture of light brown and pale green. Honestly, I wish my eyes were like hers; blue eyes are so overplayed that it's starting to become pathetic. It's almost as bad as the main love interest playing guitar.

I grin at the thought, speaking, "Ma'am, I think I know what I want to do with my life. While rather sad so far, I believe I can find some happiness . . . even if that's paid with bonus tip money while bartending at some risque club in Vegas."

Yup, that's my plan. Once I've taken the basics of community college, I'm heading west to good old Sin City. Apparently girls like me make good livings out there. Since I really have nothing to lose, or really any chances of really making anything big out of myself by taking the academic route, I've decided I'll use what I was born with; my wit, and fortunately, the metabolism of an Olympic athlete. Added plus; D cups.

I'll be a bartender, then as I learn the ins and outs of the town, I'll work my way up to become one of the best showgirls the place has ever seen. They'll make movies about me. I can see it now, "DRIVEN: The True Story of Mara Kaiton."

Actually, I'd probably have a stage name by that point. "Hmm . . . maybe India Brown; The Beauty of Sin City," I say, posing myself in a suggestive manner across the bed. After a moment, I realize what I'm doing, and begin to laugh to myself, "Oh dear Jesus, I'm not gonna turn into a slut."

My eyes find hers again, and my expression falls, ". . . You wouldn't like if that happened to me, would you?"

She answers with the same mute warmth, not a single word falling from her youthful pink lips as she returns my gaze. I chuckle, cuddling into myself, "While I won't promise Dad anything, I'll keep that promise I made to you; I won't sell myself."

Even though I'm aware nothing changes, I feel as if her eyes brighten slightly against the rest of the matted image, as if made happy by my words. My thumb trails her thin cheeks, my eyelids falling some as I pull her into me. ". . . I'll be ok . . . Mom."

Before long, I'm pulled into a misty darkness, abandoning that smile for the comfort of a numb emptiness. I wish I could pull her warmth into the void that consumes me, but unfortunately, the residual joy of the image cannot follow me.

You can't ask that of the dead.