Chapter 6 The Old Oak Tree
783 Words
Before, Mommy always dressed me.
But she was sick. So I had to dig through the closet myself and pull out the little dress she'd given me for my birthday last year.
I struggled with it for a long time and ended up crying in frustration.
The dress had all these little ties. My small arms and legs couldn't get them right...
When I was tired from crying, I lay down next to Mommy with the broken pendant in my hand.
The pendant was cold. Mommy was cold. I was so cold.
I breathed into my hands to warm them, then reached over and hugged Mommy.
She finally felt a little warmer.
But not long after, she was cold again.
I thought my brain might be freezing, because Mommy looked a little different now.
Her skin had gone kind of bluish. Her lips, usually pink, had turned bluish-purple.
I climbed onto the step stool, took out Mommy's makeup — the NARS and Bobbi Brown stuff — and copied what I'd seen her do, putting makeup on her face.
Mommy was always afraid of getting ugly. Afraid Daddy wouldn't like her anymore.
Well, she hadn't even gotten old yet, and Daddy already didn't seem to like her.
"That's okay. Emma will always love Mommy."
I dabbed makeup on Mommy's face, little by little. When her color looked better, I finally relaxed.
I curled up next to her and fell into a sweet sleep.
I had a dream.
In the dream, Mommy's face was rosy again. Daddy stood beside her, looking at her, soft.
But then — I don't know what happened — Daddy was always busy. He wouldn't come see us for days, sometimes weeks at a time.
Mommy's phone would go off with texts out of nowhere.
Pictures of Daddy and Genevieve, together, holding each other.
Mommy clutched the phone, tears spilling over her lashes.
I heard her whisper, "Why would you rather go back to her than listen to me explain..."
Mommy was sad, so I was sad too.
Once when Daddy came by, I asked him quietly what "going back to an old flame" meant.
Why did his going back to that woman named Genevieve make Mommy so sad?
Daddy didn't explain. He just dragged me over to Mommy, his face dark, and snapped, "Vivienne, what have you been filling her head with? Are you that desperate?"
Then he dragged Mommy into the bedroom and slammed the door.
I heard Mommy cry out in pain behind the door. I heard the four-poster bed creaking.
I wanted to run in and save Mommy, but the door was shut tight. I pushed and pushed, couldn't get it open.
I woke up.
The pillow was wet. I didn't know if it was Mommy crying, or me.
I looked at the cold, empty room, my head spinning, dizzy and heavy.
Mommy was still sleeping on the bed. My nose stung, sharp. "Mommy, what does Emma have to do for you to wake up?"
The only answer was the wind moaning through the curtains.
Like a woman sobbing.
I couldn't get out. I couldn't get a doctor for Mommy.
I just fed her every pill left in the first-aid kit.
I looked at the empty bottles, lost.
No more medicine.
Sick people can't run out of medicine.
Before, when Daddy got sick and stopped his meds, he got worse and ended up in the hospital.
Mommy sat by his bed then, crying every day.
But I couldn't cry now. Mommy needed me to take care of her.
I looked out at the old oak tree, thinking about the branch I'd almost touched last time.
I went back to the second-floor veranda, trying to use the tree to climb out of the estate and find a doctor for Mommy.
I switched to a taller step stool and climbed up, wobbling.
The thin branch was right there. I reached up and grabbed it, thinking I could swing across like a little monkey.
Just as I was working up the courage to go, a familiar shape came into my sight.
Daddy!
I lit up, wanting to wave at him.
But then my smile froze.
Daddy and Genevieve were walking together, with a little boy who looked about my age.
The little boy reached up to be carried, and Daddy happily scooped him up, swinging him onto his shoulders.
That image cut into my eyes like a knife.
Daddy glanced toward the estate. His look was cold, no warmth at all.
I don't know why, but I panicked, afraid he'd see me.
My foot slipped.
I grabbed for the veranda railing on instinct, but I was already falling forward —
- Writer
