Burning In Memories
In a flash of anger I tore all the pages out of the notebook and knocked down everything on the desk. The ink spilled and the statuette of Cervantes broke into pieces.
Even if I got out of the studio, the past haunted me. On every wall of the house there was a photo, a souvenir, a diploma of my children. Their fatal absence nuked me inside because I would never see them again for being a drunk driver.
Then, lying on the couch by the window, I wept in front of the cold, undisturbed glow of the moon. Its glare was unusually intense and reached out to be an uncomfortable spectator of my suffering in that vast empty room. “Where is everybody?” I repeated to myself several times.
After I was nearly hopeless from crying, I was startled by the metallic ringtone of my cell phone.
With barely any strength, I stood up and took a few steps until I picked it up off the floor. I didn't even bother to find out who was calling and answered, still sniffling.
“Hi, Maurice, I'm going to stop by and pick up the kids,” said a female voice.
“There's no one here,” I replied cold.
“I know it's April 1st, you won't trick me this time,” she chuckled.
“Amy, I've told you a hundred times about this!” I shouted.
A barely audible sobbing began to be heard from the other side. I waited to see if he would deign to speak, but instead there was a long silence.
“Amy, it's you, isn't it?” I asked several times.
“Why aren't you answering?” Can't you carry on a conversation?” I asked still furious.
“It's Lauren, your mom. Amy's gone forever, son,” I heard that as a revelation before hanging up.
Yes, she was also gone with my children in the highway accident while I was driving drunk. I lost all three of them at once. I didn't realize she was gone; my mom didn't believe she would ever see her grandchildren again.
The nostalgia of the days in the park, the boat rides on the bay, the evenings of board games, all came like a big jab to the jaw that knocked me down and made, instead of spurting blood, other sensitive memories burst with intensity from my subconscious and I lost track of reality indefinitely.
It must have been all night, because when I came to my senses again the first rays of sunlight tickled my cheeks. I remained motionless for a while until I began to crawl towards the kitchen. But it wasn't out of hunger. I didn't want my American breakfast.
Instead, I devoted my energies to pulling all the bottles of rum off the shelf. One after another, I emptied them on the floor, on the walls. When there wasn't another drop of alcohol to spill, I started looking for matches like crazy. There must not have been many left, but one would be enough to visit the afterlife.
I saw the new dawn as a new opportunity to make everything that tormented me day after day disappear. Why burning every night in vain, if by doing it in an instant I could be reunited forever with them, whom I missed so much?
And at last I held it in my hands: litting a match with the box would lead me to a dreamed-of peace.
I had already visualized the rum well into which I would throw the little flame, when I suddenly heard the doorbell ring.
I was so indignant at such an interruption that I took off like a bullet for the front door, mentally intent on shouting at mom to leave me alone, that I was dumbfounded to see, instead, Margaret, the little girl from the house across the street.
“Good morning, Mr. Maurice,” she said, dusting herself off. My mom and I are having a spring dinner tomorrow and you're invited,” she finished, before handing me a little yellow flower and running back to her house amidst prancing and giggling.
I must confess that moment filled me with both melancholic memories and hope. I looked with disappointment behind me and thought I was about to leave behind real new beginnings for something impossible.
I wiped away my tears with the dirty sleeves of my shirt and had no response but to sit and wait for the moment of having dinner while occasionally drinking some water and munching on stale bread.
The day came. Being Sunday, everything was so quiet, except for Daisy's house, Margaret's mom. As she greeted me, I was able to confirm that the murmur heard from outside was fine jazz coming from a record player.
“Gosh, Maurice, we have to get you to the nearest clinic,” Daisy said as soon as she saw me.
“You can take me to the cemetery if you want, but let me have dinner with you first,” I replied as enthusiastically as I could.
In a small but neat dining table we ate turkey with potato salad. Daisy constantly asked me if I wanted more and Margaret's cheeks puffed out from laughing at me staining my clothes every time I chewed in a hurry.
Once I was full and almost unable to get up from my chair, I thanked them for such an invitation and took a piece of paper out of my pocket and read aloud.
“Life shouts at me that I am a bad man daily, but with you I found forgiveness. Not only to keep writing, but to knock some sense into those dads who still don't know how lucky they are with their families.”
I swear this was enough for them to run to hug me for a long time, until my bad smell shooed them away, and Daisy took me in her tandem to the clinic to start once and for all a new life (with them included).
