It had been an ugly, horrible fight. Each word as hideous as it was unnecessary. Her uncle, belligerent, furious, had come to their holiday dinner with a clear agenda. The things Nicole had heard from outside the doorway, at the top of the staircase, had shattered what she had known of her already difficult reality.
The temperature of the table had escalated and boiled with contempt. Her Grandmother Mary sent her out of the room, as fast as she could, scrambling to shield Nicole from the venomous spouting. Everything had happened so fast that Nicole couldn't piece together what the offence could have ignited Anton. Mary's voice stood firm and tempered amidst the storm of shouts. She pushed against falsehoods, and asked for calm. Nicole clung to the rail as she heard him spit her mother's name lathered in poison, over and over.
Disbelief bonded her to the steps. Nicole's skin prickled, and popped. It had been years since anyone had brought up her mother's death. It was hard to tell if she should sit or stand. Time had slowed, thoughts had halted. Searing shock tingled, as her stomach plummeted. Old wounds reopened, their fiery pain familiar. And all from but a few words. A few truths.
She had been so young when they died. It wasn't Nicole's first memory. There were others that dripped in a glowing technicolour haze. She remembered laughter. She remembered the smell of her father's aftershave. She remembered his arms, and feelings of safety. She remembered laying between her parents and playing with her mother's jewellery as she cooed.
She remembered both her sorrow and excitement at being left with her grandmother for the weekend while her parents and brother went out of town for a soccer tournament. She remembered waking from the sound of the phone in the middle of the night. She could still hear Mary's yells of disbelief, and pleas with God. She remembered watching her grandmother's tears roll in golden beams from opposing headlights as they sped to that horrible hospital hours away. She remembered watching her brother bandaged in bed while her mother bawled beside him. In the quiet of sleepless nights she was still haunted by their harrowing screams when his heart monitor flatlined.
She remembered the world losing colour. She remembered how the birds stopped singing. She remembered the confusing quiet that plagued the warmth of their home. She remembered wearing a mysterious black dress and the sounds of her mother's broken sobs. She remembered the joy of moving into Grandma Mary's house, the smell of cookies in the afternoons and pancakes in the mornings. She remembered rubbing her mothers shoulder trying to coax her from her bed, and the way the light slipped through the blinds and onto the walls. She remembered playing alone.
She remembered the lack of visitors and friends after the funeral. How quick everyone had been to forget them. Everyone except the distressing men in suits. Their stern voices, their loud papers.
Her mother's death was Tragedy's third and final strike, mere months after her father and brother were taken. She remembered being numb. Nicole remembered the difference in the silence. The slowing of their mornings and baking as the weight settled. The festering sounds of Mary's stove and fridge. She remembered her grandmother's strong knuckles weaving through her hair, explaining how mother had died of a broken heart. That the disease had been tough and that now, her mother was free from pain. Mary told her she was happy above them, taking care of her father and brother in heaven. She said they were going to be ok, that the tides had changed.
And they did.
Like magick, warmth returned to the house. Nicole was loved, and cherished. They spent their afternoons and evenings together, playing checkers, snakes and ladders, and make believe. Mary was up early to walk Nicole to school, and always there waiting when the bell rang. They sang. They danced.
Years of love leached away the darkness and as assured, their lives normalized. They spoke of the past and celebrated their deceased loved one's birthdays with cake, and treats. Her family's tragic anniversaries became joyous occasions.
As Nicole grew and she asked questions about the instances of their life her Grandmother's honesty had its tricks. Its colourful truths. That Nicole's father and brother had been killed in a horrific automobile accident. And that her mother had died of a broken heart a few months afterwards. If she asked of her grandfather, the story was much the same. That he'd left years and years before she was born, and not to fill her head with worry of the past.
Through perseverance, Mary had cultivated a happy and healthy home. They lived in bliss, and calm. While on occasion some sleepovers and birthday parties brought some old, difficult feelings, the love in the household, and a little baking was quick to cure it. The two flourished together.
Given the circumstances, Nicole had grown to be a happy, well adjusted teenager. That is until her uncle drank too much and fast. He'd snapped when Mary had toasted to her late daughter. HeĀ called her a killer. He questioned in spite how anyone could hold the memory of someone that inflicted so much pain to others, caused so many deaths, so many problems, with anything other than disdain.
Without pausing to give a look Mary had shooed Nicole from the room. Yet despite her attempts to protect her granddaughter from the truth, from the staircase she'd heard it all. How her mother had been drinking, how she knew better than to be behind the wheel. How her stubborn personality had caused the death of not only her husband, not only her sweet boy, but an entire other family with her selfish mistake. How she'd escaped prison, abandoned her daughter, and burdened his mother by taking her own life.
How in doing so, with the funerals, the legal fees, the cost of raising a child had sapped away money that was rightfully his to inherit. That he could accept that, but not, not ever, the utterance of a good word to his sister's name.
The details gored Nicole's swirling stomach. Her mind stopped working. Her heart quieted. And with each little involuntary beat, she felt it crack, and shatter all over again.
Sorrowful feelings flooded from her chest to her fingertips, through her eyes, until she gasped for breath, and lifted herself up to her feet to keep from drowning. The dam had broken, her stalled mind raced. She thought of running for the car keys. Mary had given her a few lessons, Nicole had a learners permit, she could make it the arms of her friends. She could make it to the coast and never come back. She could outrun the truth. She could outrun the pain.
In the reflection of glass within the frame of a painting she saw her mother's features. A face she knew from photographs, not memories. Nicole had grown into the same cheek bones, the same chin. Their resemblance was as obvious as it was uncanny. Mirrored with her mother she gifted a moment of clarity. She abandoned her impulse to the road, and instead ran from the stairs to the safety of her bedroom.
Her whole life she'd worried that she'd suffer her mothers fate. That she too would die from a broken heart. Now faced with the gruesome details of a past that had dictacted her life she wondered if it had always been inevitable. Nicole had never second guessed her grandmother, never pieced together that a broken heart, and broken mind could lead to a self inflicted death.
She buried her head in her pillows and sobbed until every drop of oxygen had been sucked out of the humid air, and suffocated for as long as she could withstand it. Sobs followed as she surfaced from the depths of her duvet choking for air. Sorrow so loud she missed the sound of her door opening and closing. Her Grandmother's warm hand lain on her shoulder gave Nicole a jumping start.
Nicole's tears were as fierce as the howling questions at sweet Mary. Demanding why she never told her the truth. When the fury subsided, her grandmother could only shrug. She explained that she had, in her own way. That the truth was that the affliction of her mother's broken heart had broken her mind, and shattered her spirit. That broken hearts are contagious. Mary reached her arms around her granddaughter, and held her close. In whispers she asked for forgiveness. That she had done her best to save the only bit of light she had left.
Thanks for reading!
-Mr. Write