Sabra scraped the stringy bits from the charcoal-colored pan and flung them into the black trash can. The plastic against metal made a soft scratching noise which she recognized as a typical morning sound. Morning sounds tended to fold her face into bitter grimaces, especially after spending a night with a bottle of black vodka. Her thoughts gathered together like the pooling of plant cells around one question. Are they going to die? Her skin crawled at the answer; she did not know. The only thing she was sure of was the look of their gray complexion. It was a living nightmare, the fact that she could not stop it. Sidney and Louie were drowning in some kind of plague, a plague which many others had already perished from. And she, crumbling in the terror of an ending world, stood poised in a disheveled kitchen. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and relaxed the lines on her forehead.
“How are your eggs?” she asked from the sink, setting the pan as softly as she could into the bed of dirty dishes; the clink of glass against metal emitted another un-welcomed morning sound. Sabra buried her contemplation and fears beneath the murky water in the sink.
Sophie let out a sigh of angst from the table. She slapped the fork against the plate, only to add to the cacophony of daybreak. She mumbled something that Sabra could not hear and continued to slump over the dinette, picking at her breakfast.
“What’s wrong, Pickleweed?” Sabra wiped her hands on a towel and made her way to a seat at the dinette.
Sophie groaned, “Why do you always call me that?”
“Because,” the explanation began. “Pickleweeds are divine little tricksters. They bloom with beautiful pink flowers…” Sabra made a grand gesture, then paused and offered a slow grin. “But if you eat ‘em, they’re sour – like pickles.”
"Why would you eat a weed?" Sophie scrunched her face, determined not to smile.
"Why not?" Sabra shrugged. "Some are quite delicious."
An electric noiselessness flooded through the room like a tsunami. The comment, as playful as it was intended to be, seemed to kill the conversation. Sophie grew indifferent to the topic; the grumpy image of a young girl sat in silence, barely touching her food. Sabra watched, showering the redhead with somber glances. It was a new and icy feeling, to look upon the freckled face of an angel and to know what it really was. But still she saw the rosy cheeks of a child. No matter how many times she replayed the memory of the night in Brighton, Sophie would always wear the mask of a girl. And as Sabra stared at her god daughter, she felt her own lips part a few times to speak, but nothing was said. Not until...
"Is my mommy dead?" Sophie spat up the words more quickly than Sabra could process them.
Sabra slid backwards into the chair. Her lungs filled up with air.
"Is she?" Sophie insisted, letting her fork fall to the table.
A frazzled "I don't know" was all Sabra managed to muster.
Another flood of silence hit them both with a god-like punch. Sophie writhed in pain from the answer she was given. Sabra carefully calculated the child's frustration, a frustration which she understood too well. She recognized, with every ounce of certainty, that children always know when they were being lied to.
"But I do know one thing," Sabra broke the quietness, leaning again into the table. "Death is most certainly not an ending."
To that Sophie rolled her eyes in a way that portrayed someone twice her own age. "Everyone says that," she hissed.
"Because it is true."
"How do you know?" The small voice was bitter.
"I've seen it," Sabra replied in a wisp-like fashion as she reached forward to tuck a tuft of fiery hair behind Sophie's ear.
"How?" Sophie's tone was sharp as she whipped her head to the right to look Sabra in the eyes. "How do I get to see it?"
"You just have to know what to look for," Sabra stated flatly, pulling her hand away. "You have to be willing to dream a little while you're still awake."
"Dreams aren't real," Sophie interjected.
Sabra lifted her head higher. "How do you know you're not dreaming right now?"
"Because this is real."
A smirk slid across Sabra's face like a screen door opening. She leaned forward, her palm nearing Sophie's mane of red hair. "Well, is magic real?"
"Only when you do it," Sophie snorted as the line of static pulled her frizzy hair toward Sabra's hand.
A smile, a fantastic smile, lit up Sophie's face like a lantern and infected Sabra. For a brief moment, Sabra lost herself to that snaggle-toothed grin. Hypnotized by the iridescence of happy teeth, all bad things began to evaporate like debris dancing into a black hole. That was until...
"If Louie dies, too, can I stay with you forever?" Sophie asked perfectly as a child, without computation of tact. Her smile remained stubbornly planted upon her face.
Sabra's smile faded and she lowered her hand. Her eyes naturally turned away from the happy teeth. A knot built inside her throat. "We shouldn't talk about that," she announced firmly, choosing to stand and carry herself far away from the conversation. With her back to the girl, she gripped the marble counter top to keep herself from falling over. "You shouldn't talk like that," she rephrased.
"Okie-dokie, Moon-Pie," Sophie trumpeted with an unshakeable ease.
"What?" Sabra stopped. The word barely bubbled from between her lips. Her body turned around without permission. It led her to face Sophie once more, to face a memory she had buried just as deep as her past.
"Moon-Pie," Sophie repeated the name with a proud look as if it were her own careful invention. "One for saying goodnight," she chanted, "and one for taking a bite!" With that, Sophie stabbed the golden eggs with her fork and popped them between her teeth.
Sabra stared through the image of the young girl and to the wall ahead. "Who taught that to you?" She delivered the question like a ghost, frozen by a phrase she had not heard in nearly fifteen years.
Sophie shrugged and chewed her breakfast.
"Who taught it to you?" Sabra asked again in a mildly higher volume.
"You did," Sophie declared, dropping the fork and tilting her head to the right.
The light hit those youthful green eyes in a particular way. It made Sabra's head pound, sent shivers down her spine. How strange it was that such a small person could so casually draw up someone's memories from the abyss of yesterdays. Sabra watched Sophie carefully, certain that there were still so many secrets to learn about the divine little trickster. She did not look away until something burst into the room. At the bedroom door stood Sidney, wearing the look of impending death. Sabra took a moment to adjust, to look him over, to notice the unnerving specks of red blood around his nose and mouth. She rushed to him, anticipating his fall. He was heavy and soaked with perspiration. It took all of her strength to catch him, to make him stand again.
"You're okay," she assured both him and herself. "I've got you."
"I just want to be normal again," he breathed, barely audible, running his fingers under his nostril to catch a scarlet drop.
"No one is normal," Sabra replied.
The statement was flooded with irony; it was bitter and honest, describing the world she had come to belong to. And as she supported Sidney, to guide him back to the bed, she looked over her shoulder to see Sophie once more. The glance was an act of desperation, of expectation, to catch a glimpse of Sophie as she truly was.
But still she saw the rosy cheeks of a child.
“How are your eggs?” she asked from the sink, setting the pan as softly as she could into the bed of dirty dishes; the clink of glass against metal emitted another un-welcomed morning sound. Sabra buried her contemplation and fears beneath the murky water in the sink.
Sophie let out a sigh of angst from the table. She slapped the fork against the plate, only to add to the cacophony of daybreak. She mumbled something that Sabra could not hear and continued to slump over the dinette, picking at her breakfast.
“What’s wrong, Pickleweed?” Sabra wiped her hands on a towel and made her way to a seat at the dinette.
Sophie groaned, “Why do you always call me that?”
“Because,” the explanation began. “Pickleweeds are divine little tricksters. They bloom with beautiful pink flowers…” Sabra made a grand gesture, then paused and offered a slow grin. “But if you eat ‘em, they’re sour – like pickles.”
"Why would you eat a weed?" Sophie scrunched her face, determined not to smile.
"Why not?" Sabra shrugged. "Some are quite delicious."
An electric noiselessness flooded through the room like a tsunami. The comment, as playful as it was intended to be, seemed to kill the conversation. Sophie grew indifferent to the topic; the grumpy image of a young girl sat in silence, barely touching her food. Sabra watched, showering the redhead with somber glances. It was a new and icy feeling, to look upon the freckled face of an angel and to know what it really was. But still she saw the rosy cheeks of a child. No matter how many times she replayed the memory of the night in Brighton, Sophie would always wear the mask of a girl. And as Sabra stared at her god daughter, she felt her own lips part a few times to speak, but nothing was said. Not until...
"Is my mommy dead?" Sophie spat up the words more quickly than Sabra could process them.
Sabra slid backwards into the chair. Her lungs filled up with air.
"Is she?" Sophie insisted, letting her fork fall to the table.
A frazzled "I don't know" was all Sabra managed to muster.
Another flood of silence hit them both with a god-like punch. Sophie writhed in pain from the answer she was given. Sabra carefully calculated the child's frustration, a frustration which she understood too well. She recognized, with every ounce of certainty, that children always know when they were being lied to.
"But I do know one thing," Sabra broke the quietness, leaning again into the table. "Death is most certainly not an ending."
To that Sophie rolled her eyes in a way that portrayed someone twice her own age. "Everyone says that," she hissed.
"Because it is true."
"How do you know?" The small voice was bitter.
"I've seen it," Sabra replied in a wisp-like fashion as she reached forward to tuck a tuft of fiery hair behind Sophie's ear.
"How?" Sophie's tone was sharp as she whipped her head to the right to look Sabra in the eyes. "How do I get to see it?"
"You just have to know what to look for," Sabra stated flatly, pulling her hand away. "You have to be willing to dream a little while you're still awake."
"Dreams aren't real," Sophie interjected.
Sabra lifted her head higher. "How do you know you're not dreaming right now?"
"Because this is real."
A smirk slid across Sabra's face like a screen door opening. She leaned forward, her palm nearing Sophie's mane of red hair. "Well, is magic real?"
"Only when you do it," Sophie snorted as the line of static pulled her frizzy hair toward Sabra's hand.
A smile, a fantastic smile, lit up Sophie's face like a lantern and infected Sabra. For a brief moment, Sabra lost herself to that snaggle-toothed grin. Hypnotized by the iridescence of happy teeth, all bad things began to evaporate like debris dancing into a black hole. That was until...
"If Louie dies, too, can I stay with you forever?" Sophie asked perfectly as a child, without computation of tact. Her smile remained stubbornly planted upon her face.
Sabra's smile faded and she lowered her hand. Her eyes naturally turned away from the happy teeth. A knot built inside her throat. "We shouldn't talk about that," she announced firmly, choosing to stand and carry herself far away from the conversation. With her back to the girl, she gripped the marble counter top to keep herself from falling over. "You shouldn't talk like that," she rephrased.
"Okie-dokie, Moon-Pie," Sophie trumpeted with an unshakeable ease.
"What?" Sabra stopped. The word barely bubbled from between her lips. Her body turned around without permission. It led her to face Sophie once more, to face a memory she had buried just as deep as her past.
"Moon-Pie," Sophie repeated the name with a proud look as if it were her own careful invention. "One for saying goodnight," she chanted, "and one for taking a bite!" With that, Sophie stabbed the golden eggs with her fork and popped them between her teeth.
Sabra stared through the image of the young girl and to the wall ahead. "Who taught that to you?" She delivered the question like a ghost, frozen by a phrase she had not heard in nearly fifteen years.
Sophie shrugged and chewed her breakfast.
"Who taught it to you?" Sabra asked again in a mildly higher volume.
"You did," Sophie declared, dropping the fork and tilting her head to the right.
The light hit those youthful green eyes in a particular way. It made Sabra's head pound, sent shivers down her spine. How strange it was that such a small person could so casually draw up someone's memories from the abyss of yesterdays. Sabra watched Sophie carefully, certain that there were still so many secrets to learn about the divine little trickster. She did not look away until something burst into the room. At the bedroom door stood Sidney, wearing the look of impending death. Sabra took a moment to adjust, to look him over, to notice the unnerving specks of red blood around his nose and mouth. She rushed to him, anticipating his fall. He was heavy and soaked with perspiration. It took all of her strength to catch him, to make him stand again.
"You're okay," she assured both him and herself. "I've got you."
"I just want to be normal again," he breathed, barely audible, running his fingers under his nostril to catch a scarlet drop.
"No one is normal," Sabra replied.
The statement was flooded with irony; it was bitter and honest, describing the world she had come to belong to. And as she supported Sidney, to guide him back to the bed, she looked over her shoulder to see Sophie once more. The glance was an act of desperation, of expectation, to catch a glimpse of Sophie as she truly was.
But still she saw the rosy cheeks of a child.
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