Paint Chips

by Susie Finkbeiner

  And the teacher, Miss Kendrick, did nothing to stop them. She believed peer teasing to be an important part of the educational process. A weeding out of the strong from the weak. We would eventually learn to submit to our betters. The other children would learn how to make their way ahead of everyone else in life.

  School had always been a torture for us. Our mother allowed us to stay home for the first week after Marlowe was taken. When we returned to school we didn’t know what to expect.

  “Cora Yarborough,” the teacher called the roll.

  “Present, ma’am,” I answered.

  “Marlowe Yarborough.” Silence. “Marlowe? Ain’t she here?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, you and Titus are here. Where is your sister?” she asked. Her voice spun through my head as she repeated herself. “Where’s your sister?”

  “She’s dead,” I answered. I had no control over my response. The words fell from my mouth. They were the words rehearsed several times. My father’s commanded answer for any inquiry.

  “Oh, dear.” Miss Kendrick put her hand over her mouth as tears let loose in her eyes.

  The rest of the class stared at us, eyes wide, mouths agape.

  “What ever happened?” Miss Kendrick asked, hand still on her mouth.

  “There was an accident. She’s gone to be with Jesus.” I looked at Titus. He nodded at me, his face solemn.

  “Oh, dear, oh, dear, dear. I am so sorry. How terrible.”

  Word spread across the community of Marlowe’s tragic death. Some said that she had been crushed under a tractor. Others said that she fell out of the truck’s flatbed while our family made a trip into town. Most, though, just shook their heads. Such a sad thing for a child to lose her life so early. And such a delightful little girl she had been. The only good thing to come from the Yarborough family.

  And not one soul asked a single question. People got sick. They had accidents. Children died. Death was a fact of life well accepted among the people on the mountain. Several of my classmates died over the years I attended school. Often the doctor was unable to reach the shacks positioned higher up on the ridges.

  No one gave a second thought to Marlowe’s whereabouts. And if they did see her at Ducky’s they certainly weren’t going to admit it. That would be confessing to the unmentionable sin of associating with the degenerates who spent time there.

  My father forced Titus and me to bury anything of hers that remained in the house. We dug a shallow hole by the garden. I filled the pit with a small rag doll, a few rusty hair clips, a sundress she outgrew the year before. Titus formed a small cross from twigs and stuck it in the ground by the loosely packed dirt.

  “Marlowe is alive,” I’d whisper as I fell asleep.

  Eventually we stopped going to school completely. Again, no one asked questions. It was common for children to stay home and help with the family or go to work in the mines. Part of me thought the teacher must have been relieved that we were gone. She could stop feeling badly about our “dead” sister and no longer had to witness our daily humiliation.

  Titus got himself a job as an assistant in the coal mines. At the end of each work day he would return home, eyes shining blue amid the black coal that covered his face. His earnings paid a few of our household bills.

  After a time, though, like all Yarborough men before him, Titus began to drink away most of his money.

  I took over my mother’s household duties. She refused to get up from Marlowe’s small, vacant cot. I cooked, cleaned, washed, scrubbed, worried. She slept all day. When she did wake it was only to sob about her lost girl.

  “He should have taken me. Not Marlowe,” she’d weep. “Oh, God, help me.”

  She would cry for a bit before falling back into her wasting sleep.

  I resented her nearly as much as I did my father. They had both failed us.

  Dot – 30

  My dad knew that I loved yellow. For one of my birthdays, he covered my room with different shades of the color. My bed, dresser, carpet, walls—all a cheerful yellow. A reminder of his love for me.

  I woke up in that room three days after I found out he was dead. After Chuck carried me home, my world collapsed and my brain shut off. I had slept the whole time. Nothing woke me up. I slept deeper than the noise, the chaos, and the worst days of my life to that point.

  I slept through my mom tearing all the family pictures off the walls. Leaving dents and holes in the paint.

  I slept through my dad’s family coming from Oregon. Through them taking over the house, cooking and cleaning and crying.

  I slept through all the reporters with their cameras and microphones and notebooks. Them trying to get a special interview with the war hero’s mourning family. They wanted to boost their ratings with our misery. But the only thing they found was a woman, broken and distraught. A woman who didn’t need them bothering her. Still they pushed and pushed to get an emotional reaction to put at the top of the six o’clock news.

  I slept through the memorial service. Through the revelation that the roadside bomb left nothing of my daddy to bury. Through the American flag handed off to my mom, the Marine saluting her as she wept. Through “Taps” played woefully on the trumpet, the heart-wrenching rifle salute.

  It wasn’t until those three days were spent and gone that I woke up.

  A stream of sunlight tried to break through the drawn blinds of my room. Nauseating warmth suffocated me. The comforter seemed so heavy as I pushed it off my body. Cool air washed over me, chilling me more because of the sweat on my arms and legs and face. Disoriented, my mind tried and failed to put together the pieces of the days I had missed.

  I gasped, shocked as the wave of memory overtook me.

  “Daddy’s dead,” I moved my mouth around the words. But without sound.

  My mouth felt like cotton. My stomach growled at its emptiness. My heart throbbed, bruised. The damage of loss and grief strangled me. My muscles ached and my head spun.

  Sitting up with a struggle, I tried to push myself up to standing. The weakness in my legs caused me to fold to the floor like a bunch of blocks. I didn’t have the will to try again. My cheek to the yellow carpet, I cried.

  All the sorrow attacked my gut. I heaved. Agonizing, empty retches. Like dust trapped in my throat.

  I made my hand into a fist and hit my knuckles into the carpet. It hurt. But the pain couldn’t match what I felt inside. I punched again and again. My fingers started to bleed.

  I was only nine years old.

  How could such a little kid know how to handle that kind of sadness? What’s the right way for a little girl to grieve her daddy?

  My door opened. Pete looked in. His eyes rimmed with red. Exhausted. Worn down. Burdened. It seemed that the whole time I’d slept, he’d stayed awake.

  He tried to smile. But the joy was gone from his face.

  He looked at my hand and rushed in, knelt down next to me. He held my battered fist and forced my head on his shoulder.

  “Dot, we’re going to be okay,” he said. “We are.”

  Despite my weakness, I tried to push him away. I wanted to punish someone for the pain. He was just the one closest to me at that moment. My hands shoved against his thin, bony chest. My strength gone, I couldn’t budge him.

  “We’ll be okay,” he repeated, holding me tighter.

  “No we aren’t, Pete! We aren’t okay,” I whispered, my voice rough, my throat raw.

  “We are, Dot.” He pulled his head away to look into my eyes.

  He had the kindest eyes I’d ever seen. Like our mom’s. Deep green, soft and compassionate. He had the kind of eyelashes that women would die for. That day they were moist and stuck together.

  “I promise. We are.” He blinked, his lids heavy.

  “But he’s dead.” The words came more as a whimper than anything.

  “I know. And now he’s doing pretty great. He’s with Jesus. So we don’t have to worry anymore like when he was in Iraq. We just k
now he’s having a good time in heaven.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “He’s way better off than we are.”

  “But I want him back.” I tried to scream. It only came out as a pathetic cry. “It isn’t fair!”

  “I know.” Pete sniffled. “You’re right.”

  “Why’d he ever have to go to that stupid war?” I cried. “I hate war. All it does is ruin everything.”

  Pete used his careless boy hands to smooth my sleep tousled and snarled hair.

  “Being mad isn’t going to help, Dot,” he said. “And right now we have to pray that God can make us be okay. We’re going to have to learn how to live without Dad now.”

  “I can’t live without him.”

  I wiped my face on my shirt, the same one I wore three days before. No one changed my clothes or washed my face. No one even put a bandage on my torn-up knees. The bloody tights still on my legs. My mom would never have let me go like that.

  Then, I realized something else was missing. No noise of baking pans clanging or the washing machine swishing or the vacuum. No telephone conversations or off-key singing from the kitchen. I didn’t hear the sounds of my mom.

  “Where’s mom?” I asked.

  Pete let go of me. He sat back against the wall and rubbed his eyes.

  “Well, she’s in bed right now,” Pete answered.

  “Is it night?”

  He shook his head.

  “What time is it?”

  “I think it’s four or something.”

  “Is she taking a nap?”

  “I don’t know. She locked the door. She won’t let me in.”

  “How long has she been in there?”

  “All day. Dad’s funeral was this morning. She went straight in there as soon as we got home.”

  “I slept through the funeral?” I cried. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “We tried. You just wouldn’t budge. Mrs. West stayed with you while we were gone.” He patted my shoulder. “You want me to tell you about the service?”

  I nodded.

  He told me about all the people who came, the memories they had of our dad and the funny stories they shared. His eyes lit up. He seemed awake. As if just talking about the day energized him.

  Eventually he ran out of words for the service. So he told me about the days I slept. I just sat and listened to him. Somehow I knew he needed to talk about all of it.

  When he finished, his eyes became tired again.

  “Pete, I’m really hungry,” I said.

  “I bet. There’s a ton of food in the kitchen. People keep bringing stuff over.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. There’s lasagna, pizza, sandwiches . . . .”

  “Is there bologna?” I interrupted.

  “Yup. A whole tray of meat and cheese.”

  I tried to stand. The strength just wasn’t in me.

  Pete leaned over me and lifted. He tried to steady me on my feet. I reached out for his hand. Then I saw that his knuckles were scabbed over. I hadn’t even thought about all that he suffered. Chuck had been right. My brother needed me.

  “Pete,” I said, holding his arm to keep from falling. “I’m going to be okay. I swear. No matter what happens to us. I’ll always be okay.”

  “That’s good, Dot.” He hugged me quickly and without the usual awkwardness of sibling embraces.

  I looked at my brother. At only eleven years old, somehow he acted much older. He took on the weight of holding our family together. And he seemed to be doing a pretty good job in that moment. But it couldn’t rest on him forever.

  He carried that load until he couldn’t any more. Then, without him as the foundation, it fell, shattering us to pieces.

  We spent that afternoon and evening eating the food from family, friends and neighbors. We watched reruns of game shows until we couldn’t keep our eyes open. We kept the TV on as we slept, curled up on the couch and recliner. We did this for days. Our mom didn’t come out of her room that whole time. After a while it seemed like she was gone, too. Just Pete and me and the TV. Everything else seemed like a memory.

  Cora – 31

  “I’ve been thinking about Steven a lot the past few days,” I told Lisa, cracking eggs into a mixing bowl. “More than usual.”

  It was Wednesday morning. The rest of the residents scribbled away in art therapy. Dr. Emmert had given me a reprieve so that I could spend my time with Lisa. I appreciated the break greatly. Lisa had even brought ingredients to make cookies. The day had taken on an enjoyable shape.

  “I think that’s a really great thing, Cora. Right?” she said, sneaking a chocolate chip. “What kind of things have you been remembering?”

  “Oh, just some of the little things about him. I’m almost embarrassed by the insignificance of what I’ve been remembering.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, one of the things I thought of was how he liked me to add cinnamon to the coffee grounds before I brewed it.” I reached for the chocolate. “Leave some for the cookies, please.”

  “Right. Sorry.” She handed me the bag. “You know, I think that sometimes the little memories are the most refreshing.”

  “Oh, and every night after brushing his teeth he would tap his toothbrush three times on the edge of the sink. It drove me nuts. I was sure it was unsanitary. I scrubbed that sink every day to make sure it wouldn’t make his toothbrush germy.”

  Lisa chuckled.

  I let the mixer whirl through the cookie dough.

  “And he loved me.” My voice barely above a whisper, hardly audible. “I do remember that. He loved me so deeply. I really believe he wouldn’t have thought less of me for all that happened when I was young. And I know he would have forgiven me for keeping it from him.”

  I turned off the mixer, leaving the room quiet.

  “So, have you forgiven yourself?” Lisa asked after the silent pause.

  “Nearly.” I kept my eyes on the spoon as I dropped lumps of cookie dough on the baking sheet. I raised my head and turned my eyes up to gaze through the window. “Look at that.”

  Lightning flashed bright against the darkened sky. The tree branches swayed, the leaves flapping wildly.

  “It’s going to be a doozy of a storm,” Lisa said.

  “And his favorite Bible story,” I said. “I keep thinking about it.”

  “Let me guess.” She squinted in thought. “The storm on the sea.”

  “That’s right. How did you know?”

  “Oh, just a lucky guess.” She smiled. “I figured this storm made you think of it.”

  “As I remember it from Sunday school, Jesus slept in the boat through a deadly storm that His fishermen disciples couldn’t seem to handle. I don’t know how He could have slept through that.”

  “What else do you remember from the story?”

  “Well, His friends were crying out to Him. Didn’t they ask Him why He didn’t care? Why He wouldn’t do anything to help them?” I slid the cookie sheet into the oven.

  “They did. They were terrified. And do you remember what happened next?”

  “No. For some reason I can’t recall that part.”

  “Jesus woke up.”

  “He did?” I closed the oven.

  “Yes.”

  “And did He help them?” I stood upright, put my hands on my hips.

  “He did help them—–and so much more.” She leaned against the kitchen counter. “See, I think that the disciples wanted Jesus to get His hands on an oar or pull a sail. Or, well, honestly, I don’t know anything about boats. But the point is that they wanted Him to do something. But then, instead, He stood up and said three little words. He said, ‘Peace, be still.’ And with just those three little words the storm stopped. The water calmed down.”

  “So, Jesus didn’t stay asleep?”

  “No. Oh, heavens, no. He woke up and saved them.”

  I looked at Lisa. She grinned at me, seeming so sure of Jesus. So confident in His goodness.

&nb
sp; “Why would He have done that?” I asked. “He didn’t have to save them.”

  “He did it because He loved them.”

  I closed my eyes, letting the thought sink in. He saved me because He loved me. The smile on my face took me by surprise.

  “Oh. Well, that changes everything, doesn’t it?” A small glimmer of faith sparked in my soul.

  I started telling Lisa more about my life. And realized that through the telling, Jesus calmed my storm little by little.

  ~*~

  After Marlowe had been gone a year, life took on a new rhythm. Her absence became our new way of life. We’d accepted it. How devastating that humans could carry on with existence after something so traumatic. It must be the one way we could survive the horrid things of life.

  My mother started to show small signs of improvement. She got herself up from the cot she’d slept on for nearly a full year. Most mornings she choked down a little breakfast. Some days she found small bursts of strength to help with a few of the easier chores. And every once in a while she could force her lips to form a slight smile.

  “Cora,” she called from her cot one morning.

  “Yes, Mother?” I answered from my father’s bedroom. I moved my mop over the last of a puddle of dried urine on the floor. He’d messed himself after he passed out the night before. His stinking clothes were piled in the corner. I would need to clean it all up before he returned. Whenever that might be. I carried the bucket into the living room.

  “What day is it, Cora?” She sat on the edge of her cot.

  She pulled her hair back into a thin, greasy bun. Her slip hung loosely from her shoulders. Bones jutted out under her pale, thin skin. She looked up at me, her eyes too big, sunk in deep in her face.

  “Well, honey,” she said. “What day is it?”

  “It’s Tuesday.” I noticed a loose chunk of paint in the corner. I pushed it down against the wall, hoping it would blend in with the rest of the paint. It broke off and fell to the floor.

  “Good. Just as I suspected. Cora, we are going to church this morning.” She stood slowly and painfully. “Oh, I need to get up more often. All this inactivity is causing the most horrible ache in my joints. Please do not allow me to stay dormant like that again.”