Flash Fiction

Flash Fiction

Lou Ann Bruce

I woke up suddenly in my bedroom. The late afternoon sunlight beamed through my window, but that wasn't the cause of my sudden awakening. I had been dreaming about the family. Emily had called earlier in the day with bad news. Mom's cancer was winning the fight, and Todd, diseased himself and still dependent on Mom for so much, had tried to kill himself last night. Emily had gone over to Mom's to pack some gowns for the hospital and to take Mom some personal toiletries to make her last moments more comfortable.

"I opened the bathroom door and gagged," Emily cried. "Todd lay in the tub, his blood smeared everywhere and pooling about him from the razor cuts to his wrists. I tell you Suzy, I'm hollow."

"What happened? Is Todd all right?"

"He's physically stable. First I threw the razors out into the hall in anger, and then I grabbed a towel off the rack. I don't know if it was dirty or clean; I just grabbed it and ripped strip after strip off, binding his wrists firmly to try to stop the bleeding. I cried the whole time. I was probably nearly hysterical when I called the ambulance a second later. I can't think too clearly about it even now. The worst part is that Mom keeps asking for John and Todd, and of course I can't tell her. I know I have to, but I just haven't worked up the strength."

Emily's concerns weren't the only family problems. Chris, John's and my only child, was in trouble at school. The principal had also phoned that morning to notify me that Chris had gotten into another fight.

I'd had to go pick him up immediately, and while there, the principal informed me that even though Chris was only defending himself against a known school bully, both boys would be suspended for three days and neither would be allowed to make up missed work. "What?!" I shouted in anger. "You know my son is having enough problems without adding this to his plate." I reminded the principal about Chris's academic struggles and the issues facing us at home.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Lavin. I sympathize," she said, "but there's nothing I can do."

I collected my son and left in silence. At home, I finished doctoring his beaten face, then sat next to him on the couch and read to him until he fell asleep. His head rolled back on my arm as I scooped him off the couch, but he didn't wake up. When I placed him in his bed, he rolled away from me and curled into a fetal position. By this time, I was so tired myself that I went to my own room for a short nap.

Somehow all these problems had troubled my dreams and were near the surface when I broke through to wakefulness. They rushed through my mind in a matter of seconds before the low angle of the sun further disturbed me.

"Oh no!" I snatched the clock off our night stand. John would be home for supper any minute, and I had nothing prepared. If I ever needed his strength and understanding, I needed it now. I shot off the bed like a bullet and started rushing around, fussing the way people do at such times, thinking in my head about what sort of food I could throw together at such short notice and how I could make it special and relaxing so as to break all the bad news gently.

I ran down the hallway wondering what I could say to John, how I could tell him, what would be the right moment to talk, what I should say first. I'd ask about his day, that's what. I promised myself that I'd listen to him patiently and attentively and do my best to make the meal pleasant. He'd notice Chris's face right away, of course, I couldn't help that, but I'd put him off with a reassuring smile and the promise that an explanation could wait until after we'd relaxed and eaten a bit. Even though I was pressed for time to have everything ready, the longing to greet John with a kiss and be reassured by his presence burned inside me.

It's funny, really, all these thoughts streaking through my head faster than one of those European super trains. Isn't the human brain a funny thing? I was only at that moment turning the corner at the end of the hall and passing through the living room on my way to the kitchen when my eye fell on the carefully folded flag enclosed in a triangular frame above the couch. My mind exploded with awareness: John wasn't coming home.

I sank to my knees beneath the heavy weight of the new old grief. Those blessed moments of forgetfulness brought the year-old sorrow close again, and it was as if the commander and his companion officer had just told me of the sniper's bullet that robbed John of his life. Oh! I remembered, and my neck grew too weak for its function. All my energy and determination whooshed away, deflating my spirit and softening my bones.

A small warm hand touched my shoulder then, and I looked up into the battered face of my son who would never know the reassurance or guidance of his father again. The thought came to me as rudely as the memory of John's death, and looking in Chris's eyes and into the years to come, I knew for certain that the weight of grief never changes. We just keep getting stronger until one day, we are able to bear the loss with grace.

"Mother, can I go out to play?" he asked in his small voice. I looked silently outside at the afternoon sunshine. "It's still early yet, Mother," he said.

"Yes, it's early," I agreed. Then I sent my son out to play.