Beginnings

1.

He woke up with a bump on his head. Oozing and throbbing a little, it was smack dab in the middle of his forehead,and he wondered how  it could have gotten there without him noticing. Had he been sleepwalking? Had someone crept into his bedroom and whacked him on the head while he was sleeping? Had he been hit so hard the memory portion of his brain had been wiped out and he would never be able to remember anything ever again?

He jumped out of bed and ran to look in the mirror above the bathroom sink. There it was, bluish and crusty, a gruesome third-eye. He bent over and splashed some cold water on his face. The thin film of dust that had been clinging to the bump washed off and now it glowed electric blue and magenta. He splashed water in his hair and tugged at it and tried to brush it down so it would cover the bump, but he only made his hair flat and didn't cover anything up at all.

He glanced at his watch. Half-an-hour until he had to be a word. At least he remembered he had to go to work. His memory was still slightly intact. He wondered if he would remember how to drive his car. Was that more of a muscle-memory force of habit kind of thing or would he sit there and not know what to do? What if he couldn't remember the way? He closed his eyes and sagged against the bathroom sink and tried to remember anything from the night before.

A woman in an electric blue dress. Waves pounding against the beach. A crescent moon. Falling into bed and pulling the quilt tight around his chin, yanking the string on the lamp. Nothing that meant anything. Maybe he had a concussion. Maybe he had Alzheimer's. Twenty minutes until work. He brushed his teeth, pulled on some jeans and a t-shirt, grabbed his fleece and found his car keys sitting on the kitchen table. Not where he usually left them.

Catching his reflection in the mirror by the door he shuddered, then turned and went back to the bathroom to find bandages. It took four to cover it, but once he couldn't see the bump anymore he calmed a little. He hurried back to the door, grabbed his keys again, and put on a ball cap to help hide his forehead. As he opened is front door he froze as he caught of whiff of jasmine. 

2.

My mother broke every dish in the house that day. I think it was his smile that always got her. His gap-toothed smile that promised her the world and more, the leathery cheeks and thin lips that told her he would work hard and take care of her. His smile that could be ruthless and cruel, but never when he smiled at her. When she woke up that morning, the sheets still warm where he had lain minutes earlier, she looked out the window to find her truck gone and her dog with it, and though it was the truck she needed it was the loss of the dog that stung more. And my father, of course.

I cowered in my bedroom, head under the blanket, a flashlight determinedly pointed at my book, desperate to avid her wrath as she screamed curses and broke every piece of her mother's china, one by one, every mexican glass cup, every platter and bowl, then moved on to throwing pots and pans and scattering silverware. She stood in bare feet and nightgown, hair wild, and wailed as her feet started to ooze blood where splinters of glass had betrayed them.

I shivered. Alice was in wonderland chasing a white rabbit and I wanted to be there with her, and tears streaked down my face and I closed my eyes tight and wished he would return and pick her up off the floor and sweet the glass away and bandage her feet and cradle her in his arms and make everything alright. He didn't come.

The morning wore on and I stayed locked in wonderland listening to her whimper in the kitchen until she quieted and the sun peaked and I mustered myself and shoved away the covers, pulled on a pair of boots and crept into the kitchen to find my mother in a heap near the sink, sleeping in a pile of glass and crusted blood.

I crunched to the back porch found a broom and swept around her, careful not to make too much noise and disturb her. I picked up the silverware and pots and put them back in the cupboards and drawers. After I was done cleaning up I tiptoed closer and, kneeling down, I climbed into her lap and curled up, shivering. She stirred and wiped her eyes, then, seeing me for the first time all morning, she brushed her fingers across my cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Pumpkin," she said.

"I know, Mom."

"Are you okay?"

"Uh-huh. I swept."

"Thanks, Pumpkin."

"Is Daddy gone?"  A quiet tear slithered down her cheek.

"He's gone, Love, and the truck and Poncho with him."

"So now I'm the man of the house?"

"Oh Honey," she exclaimed, "Don't you worry. We'll get this figured out."

"I'll take care of you, Mom." She shivered. I tucked my head closer under her chin and trembled.