Pink Flamingos

Feelin' Sad

Two nights later as I read in my bed under the soft glow of my bedside lamp, I heard a soft knock on the window. As I waited, the knock sounded again. Quietly, I crept out of my bed, precariously aware of every creak of the floor as I moved. I heard Mama Chelsea and Mama Heather sleeping peacefully from the next mood – the metal bedframe jingling ever so slightly whenever one of them rolled over, and Mama Heather’s soft snoring. Luckily, they were both deep sleepers.

As I made my way towards the window in the dim light, I started to wonder if there was some sort of murderer who went around knocking on trailer windows, killing innocent sixteen-year-old girls who happened to check to see who it was. The thought made me shudder.

I could see a vague silhouette, but in the darkness, I couldn’t see who it was. With my heart racing, I peeked cautiously through the lace curtains.

It wasn’t a murderer – or if it was, it was at least a murderer that I knew. Staring at me through the glass was Eddie, his face half obscured by the white lace. He stared at me, I stared right back and felt myself growing dizzy with worry.

The only smile on his face was a small, cautious, even sad one. The usual spark of amusement in his eyes was missing. I held up my finger at him to wait and drew the curtains shut again.

I tiptoed past my mothers’ room to the door, shutting it as quietly as I could and let the night air hit me. Eddie was leaning against the side of the trailer, underneath the window, looking away from me. I cleared my throat and tried to ignore the part of me that was self-conscious for standing in front of him in only my thin nightgown.

“Eddie?”

He didn’t reply.

“It’s midnight,” I said simply, feeling stupid. But there was nothing else I could think to say.

He stared at me blankly. “I know,” he said. Then he said quietly, barely audible, “I’m sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry for?”

“Waking you up?”

I wanted to know what he was thinking and feeling. That midnight revealed a side of Eddie I had never seen before. For the first time, it seemed as though he wasn’t teasing; he was being truthful. “I was already awake,” I told him, “I was reading.”

He stayed silent again, keeping his distance. Internally, I fumbled for my words. I wanted to rush to him and ask what was wrong, but I didn’t move a muscle. I stared at him, he stared at me – the night felt still, stiff and heavy.

“Why did you knock on my window at midnight?”

He shrugged. “Feelin’ sad, I guess.”

Slowly, he began to shuffle towards me. There was a hesitation about him that I had rarely seen before. I tried to push the memory of him grabbing my hands and intertwining our fingers as we dreamt about Vegas and instead tried to focus on the present. I couldn’t bring myself to close the distance between us. I had to wait for his movements. Standing on the stairs, I looked down on him with worry.

The moments spread out before us, the world seemed to slow down. When he reached me, he had sorrow in his eyes. “Are you okay?” I asked softly, knowing that the words were redundant.

He nodded a little and wrapped his arms around my waist, pressing his head against my chest. After a moment of hesitation, I brought one hand to the back of his head and the other on the back of his neck. He sighed and sank further into me, his arms tightening around me.

I was hyperaware of every movement. My legs were trembling and I hoped Eddie didn’t feel me slowly running my fingers through his tangled hair. I felt him shift slightly and nuzzle his head into my chest with a quiet sigh.

“Let me sit down,” I murmured, smiling a little in the hopes of lightening the mood.

He let go of me for a moment to let me walk slowly down the stairs, but he kept his hand on the small of my back to help me down. I sat down on the ground, my legs spread out in front of me. Eddie looked down at me with an unreadable expression before joining me on the fake grass that Mama Chelsea had laid out.

He laid down beside me and rested his head on my lap with a heavy sigh. The butterflies in my stomach only increased as I felt him nuzzle his head against my thighs.

“What’s wrong?” I asked gently, praying that I wasn’t being invasive.

There were heavy moments of silence before he said, “Do you know what you wanna do in the future?”

I shrugged, running my fingers through his hair. “I’m going to be a writer.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t think of a single other thing I want to do. And I’m going to move somewhere cool, like New York, or Paris, or Venice, or-“

“Or Las Vegas?” He replied dismally.

I smiled a little sadly. “Definitely Las Vegas.”

Eddie moved my hand so that it was pressed against his cheek. I felt every mark, every piece of stubble, and my nervousness only increased. His eyes fluttered shut. “Your hands are soft,” he commented. Carefully, I put my other hand on the other cheek and he smiled.

I whispered to him, “Of course I want to be a writer. People are temporary, art is forever.” It was true – everything was destined to end but if I could write something truly good, my words could live forever. What I wanted to say to him was, I want to be a writer because I am caught between the desire to live forever and the desire to die tomorrow.

My words washed over him without much effect, apart from a flicker in his eyes that I couldn’t quite figure out the meaning of. He paused before saying, “Why don’t you want to stay here, at home?”

“Why would you ever want to?” I said without missing a beat.

He pressed his hand against mine. “Because it’s home,” he responded, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

I didn’t know how to reply to that. Was it my home? The thought almost made me feel sick. I couldn’t go back to where I was born but I couldn’t stand the idea of identifying myself as an Essexville girl. There was no chance of me finding my place in the world at sixteen.

I tried not to think about it. So instead, I sat on the ground in front of my trailer and kept my hands on Eddie’s face, hoping that they weren’t shaking. He looked up at me with wide eyes.

“I have no idea what I’m gonna do in the future,” he said.

“You’ll figure it out,” I offered uselessly, quietly. I wanted to say so much more to him, something deeply inspiring and comforting, but my mouth wouldn’t move and my mind wouldn’t work. I wanted desperately to reassure him.

“Yeah,” he said, “guess I will.”

I didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment I was sitting up and watching over him as the stars watched over the trailer park, speaking softly with him about the uncertainty that came from simply being alive and the next I woke up in broad daylight, my head resting on his broad shoulder as his head was still on my lap, feeling groggy in the bright sunshine.

Eddie hasn’t woken up yet. In between rubbing my eyes and trying to wake up, I observed him carefully. He seemed childlike and younger than ever while he slept on me. I couldn’t help but smile to myself. He was sweeter than I had first thought.

There was something about him being so peaceful that made me want to take care of him. It seemed silly but our experiences of the night before left me feeling more than warm and fuzzy inside – I just wanted to make sure he was okay.

“The future will be wonderful for you,” I said softly, my thumb slowly caressing his cheek. Half of me thought I saw one of his eyes open slightly, the usual amused spark restored, but I didn’t feel any other movement; like seemingly everything else in my life, it must have been wishful thinking.

On the step just above me were two cups of orange juice and a note in familiar cursive writing, the dot above each ‘i’ replaced with a heart – “Hope you kids weren’t getting into any trouble. When a boy has his head on your lap, make sure he’s closer to your knees (but I’m glad to see you being neighborly!). Mama H!”