Young Writers Society

Chapter One: Present Day; Two thousand seventeen

When the flood hit in ’97, the power was out for an entire week. I don’t know where you come from or what decade you grew up in, but in most houses in America growing up in the nineties, it was hard to entertain yourself without a television, computer, or some other kind of expensive gaming system. You can imagine our predicament in the miniscule of a town we inhabited; a town that had also never seen much rain before, much less rain that completely shut down the town’s own luminosity. I remember once, back in ’93, the power went out for only a few hours due to a car swerving off the road and hitting a power line, and the town went into a state of panic. It was one of my first memories. I was only six at the time as I watched my stupefied mother pacing in all of the rooms, rummaging through drawers in a desperate search of a flashlight. She cried out in triumph when she found one; only minutes later did she discover there were no batteries in it, and was then thrown into yet another frantic search. “We are not equipped for this, Cecilia,” she said to me, unable to hide her dismay. The next time around four years later, we weren’t willing, but at least better adjusted. The last few days were filled with flashlights and candles. The three of us went down the street that second day we lacked electricity to get board games from the Edison’s. They never failed to have an endless supply of games due to their five young children; the oldest being twelve and the youngest two. Paul, being fourteen, and I, ten, didn’t play or own many games. We were how we had been raised so far: partially quiet, serious, and even discreet. Usually, Paul stuck to his astronomy and I was just as easily satisfied with my books and learning. But, on this particular week of the month of April, he abandoned his telescope and I put down my books and we instead spent the days playing such games as monopoly, uno, yahtzee, poker, gin, rummy, speed, clue, and any other possible game you could think of. Yes, we should have been insanely bored out of our minds, as accustomed to modern day living as we were, but we weren’t. It was, out of the sixteen years of living in my mother’s house, the best week of my life.

I’m not saying my early childhood was insufferably horrible. My father left my mother, Paul, and I when I was only five, but my mother made even that bearable. I never missed him because I never got the chance to know him. I never knew any of my grandparents: they all died before my birth. I was never physically abused, nor did I have an awful schooling experience. My mother made our house a home when she wasn’t having one of her spells. We had an endless amount of picnics, park and beach visits, and game playing when Paul and I were little, especially when my father still lived with us. The good times I didn’t remember, Paul would then be the narrator of my childhood life. Even after those family trips stopped, I wasn’t a terribly unhappy child in all of my naivety and innocence before my age hit double digits. Both Paul and I were forced to grow up a little more hastily than any child should, but we had each other through especially tough times. Paul was the only one who could understand me, simply because he and I grew up together. We lived the exact same family existence, came from the same mother. In the end, he remained the closest person I had in life.

I am thirty years of age now, and, looking back, the one week we went without light stands out in my mind vividly. In a way, it was the beginning of the ending, and yet a beginning in itself. Even though the lives of my family and I went downhill from that point on, how I felt at that time gives me hope for today, the courage to keep going, and most importantly, aids me in my never ending search to understand.

Coming back to the house I once lived in after fourteen years was undoubtedly hard. I hadn’t wanted to come, but I was being forced to face the unwanted demons from my past. My husband and daughter had accompanied me, despite my protests. I knew I couldn’t face my old house alone, but I also knew that facing it was one of the things I had to do on my own. But, my husband insisted and here the three of us were, pulling into the driveway of my old home, unwelcomed by either dead or dying shrubs, bushes, and flowers. The white siding was ugly and extremely filthy with dir and vines crawling up its sides and poles that held up the front porch. The house was two stories and had an iron fence that surrounded the one acre property. The car stopped right in front of the walkway that led straight to the front door. I heard our daughter in the back of the truck, quietly playing with two dolls. I looked in the backseat and smiled at her. Realizing we had come to a stop, she looked up, noticed me smiling, and smiled back. It was the inspiration I needed to congregate the strength to get through the experience I was about to go through, given to me by a simple smile from a little girl. As her attention turned back to her dolls, I turned to my husband, who seemed to be fighting his own battle in his head. I observed him for a minute as he stared firmly at the steering wheel.

“Wait in the car, Drew,” I said, surprised to hear my voice firm instead of cracking. “Just for a few minutes.”

Andrew still wouldn’t look at me as his eyes seemed to grow narrower. “Cecilia,” he sighed out my name, his hands still gripping the steering wheel.

“Drew.” My voice both challenged and pleaded itself without me having to beg, and he finally studied my face attentively before he slowly nodded. I watched his knuckles begin to turn white, and I felt powerless to his own feelings of helplessness. He reached his hand across the seat and found my own, giving it a tight squeeze. I smiled weakly at him, grateful, and slipped out of the Dodge Ram, shutting the door behind me. Through the open window, I said to comfort him, “I just need a few minutes alone.” His eyes held understanding and yet frustration.

“Mom?” my daughter called from the back, sensing the tension floating around openly in the air.

“I’ll be right back, honey,” I exclaimed over my shoulder, walking away quickly before I changed my mind, ran back to the car, and commanded my husband to drive us home. All I thought about as I walked up the footpath was the comfort of being buried under heaps of covers in my bed at home.

I didn’t go straight to the front door but instead went to the fence at the side of the house that led to the backyard. Besides the overgrown, dying weeds and grass and the rust on the patio chairs, the backyard looked just like it used to. There was a small deck adjoining the house, consisting of four patio chairs, a table, and an old, tarnished grill. I walked up the few stairs and went to the first patio chair to sit down. I gazed out to the fairly large backyard before I sat, and recalled that Paul and I had spent most of our time out here. My legs were going weak below me, my knees already preparing to buckle beneath my weight. I should have called out for my family. Should have run back to the car and immediately asked for help. But I didn’t. Instead, I sat down in the chair and as it creaked beneath my weight I placed my palms on the glass table in front of me and squeezed my eyes shut. A train of memories plummeted toward me and I felt as though I couldn’t bear it as the old, familiar, hot tears stung the back of my eyelids. I had known that this would happen but I hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. Summoning all of my strength to try and tear myself away, I pushed myself into a standing position. Memory flashed and I was reminded of all the times I had done the exact same thing as a small child growing into an adult. I felt my surroundings changing as I thought back to that week and looked up into the sky. Eyes opening and glancing upward, I could almost see the bright, warm sky blacken with gray clouds and rain. My eyes closed again and I felt someone shaking me. I was being taken back far into my past, where only I could go. Right before the tears began and my family fell apart.

Chapter Two: April; Nineteen ninety-seven

“Cecilia.”

Paul’s voice sounded distant and on the verge of annoyance. I felt a hand shaking my right shoulder. Still half asleep and dreaming, I groaned and rolled over, ignoring every single awake thing (or one particular person at least) around me. I felt yet another shake, this time harder and more persistent than the last. Reluctantly, I opened one eye, peered around, and then opened the other. It was entirely dark in the room and I blinked repeatedly so my eyes would adjust to the obscurity. And then, to my ultimate dismay because that would mean I wasn’t still asleep and dreaming, there was that voice once again.

“Cecilia, get up.”

I sighed with the normal agitation any typical, common person would have if someone had awoken them in the middle of a deep slumber and was, might I add, still shaking them. I propped up on my elbows. “Jesus, Paul, I’m awake. Stop shaking me. My eyes are wide open, can’t you see?”

“I can’t see a damn thing. The power’s out.”

I lay back down, covering my head with the covers. “Then go get a nightlight if you’re scared and go back to sleep,” I said from beneath the material. Then, the sheet was pulled off of my head and Paul said, “Get up.” I heard him rise from where he must have been kneeling by my bed. There were footsteps on the wood floor and then my brother’s stifled voice as he cursed about, I’m almost positive of, hitting the sturdy oak dresser in my room. I sat up, unable to hide my smile. Then, remembering my irritation, I said, “Okay, so what? The power’s out and you had to wake me up to tell me the good news?”

“Mom wanted me to,” Paul’s rough voice replied. He had hit puberty earlier than most young boys and his voice fit the profile of a thirty year old man. “I’ve been trying to wake you up for a good five minutes.”

“What can I say?” I said, smirking to the darkness. “I’m a deep sleeper.”

“Anyway, you know she hates the dark. She wants us to sit up with her.”

“Fine,” I said, kicking the covers off my legs. I wore pajama pants and a tank-top and I was still freezing. I found a small jacket after fumbling around in the darkness for a while and slipped it on. “What time is it?”

“About three.”

“Great. That’s just great.” I wrapped my arms around myself, unable to get warm as my teeth chattered on in my mouth. “Why is it so cold in here?”

“Technically, it’s just cold outside. Mom’s got all the windows open. She thinks it makes it lighter. Come on, let’s go.”

Paul ran into me while we were trying to find the door, and laughter erupted from our mouths as we nursed our heads where we had bumped into each other. I grabbed his hand once I found it to avoid any future run-ins, and we stumbled blindly down the hallway to our mother’s room, giggling quietly and gripping each other’s hand all the way there. Eventually, we found the door to our mother’s room and opened it, both of our hands groping for the door knob.

We saw her by the window, half turned toward the glass pane, half turned in our direction. She was standing, one hand raised to her neck and the other arm across her stomach, in a white silk nightgown that hugged her small figure. Moonlight that poured in from the window surrounded her fragile body softly, like a shell protecting a vulnerable turtle. Her gown flowed slightly behind her from the fierce wind blowing in. She looked feeble but at the same time stronger than ever. She heard the door close and turned toward us. Once the light permitted her to see our figures standing by the doorway, she smiled widely and opened her arms.

That is how I will always remember my mother; her perfect smile, her arms reaching out for us. She was beautiful then; sad but somehow still vivacious, distant but loving and motherly. She was, as she had always seemed to be, every single thing at once.

We went to hug her and she held us close as she continued staring out the window. “Lightning struck that pole there,” she said softly and I looked out the window to see power lines scattered about and a telephone pole lying on the ground. I touched my mother’s arm but had to jerk my hand back. She was as cold as ice.

“Mom, how long have you been standing here? You’re freezing.” I stated, wondering how she kept from shivering. “Let’s get you under some blankets.” I tried to lead her toward her bed, but she shrugged out of my gasp, her eyes locked on something outside. I followed her gaze to the sky where dark clouds were moving hastily to cover the light of the moon. Darkness veiled our faces and the only light we had was a streetlamp yards away on the front yard. I looked up at my mother in time to see the light slowly creep off her face.

“The storm is coming,” she said in almost a whisper.

Could people predict the future? Could my mother? I have wondered this for a lifetime, but mostly it started with what my mother said that night. All I got from pondering were more questions. Did she know how things would turn out then? How our family would crash to the bottom of the darkest depths and burn? Had she known that the darkness of that week would eventually, inevitably, envelop my entire family completely? She had saw something in the sky that night, to this day I will still swear to it. When I first realized my family would never be the same, I thought back to that one moment. My mother wasn’t just talking about the rain that would overpower our lives that week. She saw more darkness in the sky than just the clouds. She knew. In the past projection that was playing in my mind, I saw her nod to herself; her smile fading slowly, like it always did.

“Yes,” she said, and the sadness in her voice that I only realized too late overwhelms me now.

It haunts me.

“Come on, Mom.” I nodded to Paul and we each took one of her arms. We finally tore her away from the window and proceeded to tuck her in under the comforters. Paul found a flashlight and went to shut the rest of the windows in the house. I sat at the foot of my mother’s queen sized bed, watching her eyelids already drooping slowly down and then, as if she was fighting sleep, I watched her eyes widen again. “Cecilia,” I heard her mumble, and I leaned closer to her. “What is it, Mom? Can I get you something? A glass of water, maybe?”

“It’s just so dark in here, hon. Could you turn on a light?”

Then, I could never understand why my mother sometimes acted as though she had no idea what was happening. One moment she would be fine, and the next, she didn’t know what was going on. Martha Edison, the mother of the five children down the street and a good friend of my mother’s, told Paul and I once to go along with whatever my mother said. Otherwise, she would get greatly upset. I never did understand a lot of things about my mother, never got a chance to.

“Sure, Mom,” I said soothingly. “Just close your eyes and go to sleep and I’ll turn all the lights on for you.”

Her eyes closed as she nodded repeatedly. I watched the nods grow shorter and her head turn to the side. About that time, Paul walked in, holding the flashlight in front of his feet to guide him. I turned around and watched him as he walked across the room, closed the window, and slid the lock securely in place.

“Is she asleep?” he whispered to me as he sat on the other side of the bed, turning off the flashlight n his hands.

“Yes. Might as well get comfortable.”

We both lay down on either side of our mother. We knew that if she woke in the dark alone, she would panic. “Good night, Paul,” I whispered. “Night, Lia,” Paul replied, and I felt comforted by the fact that he was there. My eyes were wide open as I faced the wall, which had shadows of the trees outside silhouetted on the lilac colored wall. I saw the tree’s shadows shiver, could even tell the strength of every branch, every limb. When one of those sturdy branches snapped, the other ones would break as well. Without the strongest support, the other limbs were weak. I remember thinking that a family, much like one of those same trees outside, could only survive healthily and better if all of the members were intact. With that thought in my mind, I finally drifted off to sleep.