She couldn’t hear what they were yelling at each other about. Just that they were yelling. It had woken her up from that blissful lost feeling one gets right between waking and dreaming. Her muscles tensed. She had hoped this time it would be different. She had hoped that they had worked it out and that they’d never fight again.
She didn’t know if it was better or worse that she couldn’t make them out. That thought didn’t even cross her mind. She struggled to hear anything other than the distorted, elevated voices from the lower floor of the house.
Her heart was racing. And moments dragged on like eternity. She stared at the ceiling in the darkness of her room, and gripped her hands tightly around her doll, Madeline, who was beside her on the bed. She had dropped her to the side while she was dozing off. She could feel her own breathing.
It was quiet now. It was in that moment of quiet she first noticed the burning of tears in her eyes. But she made no sound. Other than her breathing.
She heard a whisper. “You awake?”
Her older sister, Denise, had cracked the adjoining door between their rooms. It was so quiet compared to the dissolution of the yelling, and the noise of her own breathing, that Alicia hadn’t heard Denise approach. Through hazy vision in the darkness, Alicia couldn’t make out much of her sister’s outline, just a blurred shape in the slightly parted door.
“Do you think they’re making up?” Alicia asked through shuddering breath. Her sister stayed silent for a few moments, but approached the bed and sat down on it. She may have been listening as intently as Alicia, scared of another round of yelling.
Finally, the whispered voice said, “I hope so.”
“Maybe they just saw something that scared them. Maybe they weren’t fighting.”
The girls knew the sound of the fighting by now. They knew what was going on. But as Denise reclined onto the bed next to her sister, she simply replied, “Maybe.” Perhaps to try and comfort the year-younger girl, perhaps in hopes of believing it herself.
They laid there in silence, near each other, keeping each other from breaking into a panic, and Alicia had forced her tears back. She began to hope it was really over. It was a fluke.
God, she thought, she prayed, Please let them not be fighting, or if they are, let them make up. Be making up. I won’t be bad ever ever ever again. If I have to give anything up I will, even Madeline. Please let everything be okay. She squeezed her doll again, and shifted to press her shoulder to her sister’s, feeling comfort by Denise being there. She was so quiet. Was she praying, too?
They heard a door slam and Alicia felt Denise jerk. Did she jolt herself? Her tears started up again. But she wouldn’t sob. She wouldn’t make a sound. Was it the front door? It had to be the front door. Daddy had stormed off again. Mom would be crying. Alicia wouldn’t cry. She had to be strong. Her breath caught hot and sticky and acidy in her throat. Denise hugged her, and she broke down. Fingers clenched around Madeline’s plastic arm, she choked on a sob before throwing the doll onto the floor.
The next morning, Alicia woke up alone in her room. She didn’t remember falling asleep. Her eyes stung from crying. Light from the window fell in over her bed and onto the floor. One of Madeline’s feet in its blue stocking was caught in the shaft’s trail.
When did Denise leave? Did Daddy come back? Daddy never came back the same night. She knew that. She was hopeful.
She opened the door from her room into Denise’s, and saw her sister’s shape buried under the cover of her linens. Alicia carefully walked in her pajamas to her parent’s room, and peered into the ajar door. Her mother was wrapped up in the sheets, alone. Her heart sank, and she rushed back into her room. A ball of sadness caught in her throat, and she choked it back.
This isn’t fair, this isn’t fair, this isn’t fair—her mind raced as she ran toward her bed…only to find the still-abandoned Madeline sprawled on the rug, arm pointing up at an angle, navy jumpsuit disheveled from her fall.
Iphelia’s guest contributions are examples of short fiction, poetry, and other expressive work that demonstrate empathy, creativity, and self-awareness. They are selected by award-winning author Erick Kenneth French and edited by Linsey Stevens.
Sandra J. Davis, author of “Those Sounds Again” is a geek, a fiction writer, and a knowledge seeker. She is a student of Erick’s at One Awareness Counseling and is proud to be a guest contributor to Iphelia.
This month, “Those Sounds Again” was published in lieu of an Editor’s Bookshelf review.
Alicia swept down, picked up her once-favorite doll, and shook as she held it. This is all your fault. She seethed. It didn’t make sense. She knew it didn’t make sense. But she had promised God that if things were okay, she’d give up anything. Things weren’t okay. Where is Daddy? Only bad kids’ parents fight! I’ve not done anything!
She swept forward in long, determined steps, threw open her closet, and stepped in. Swinging Madeline by the shoulder, the 8-year-old looked about the tidy storage space. She found her pink suitcase and pulled it down, dropping her doll to get a better grip as she rushed to tug the zipper open.
Stuffing a blanket in halfway, she fell to her knees to get better angles to pack it tight. She grabbed Madeline by the hair, shoved the doll in, before hiding her amidst the other half of the cloth. She tugged the zipper, struggling with it as it caught on the over-layered waves of cotton, but pulled through the catching. A yellow tongue stuck from between white zipper-teeth, but she couldn’t bring herself to retry.
She wasn’t crying again, but that feeling of a ball in her throat wouldn’t go away. She felt sick. Look! She’s gone. I’ll never touch her again. Please, please, please let Daddy come back. Let Mom and Daddy be happy and stay together.
Please.
She stood up and slowly left the closet, closing the door behind her. With a few stumbling steps she made her way to the bed, and then climbed onto it. Her disheveled comforter felt coarse and harsh. She didn’t move it. She wanted Madeline. But she had made a promise. Maybe God would listen. If that’s what it would take, she’d never get Madeline out of that suitcase.
