Happy People Live Here

by C. Sean McGee

9B

  The Mother sat with the phone in one hand ringing loudly and the small colored butterfly, sitting before her on the table, leaning against the keyboard. The sound of her mother’s phone going unanswered frayed in the echo of her own thoughts, willing the small cloth toy to sing. But as much as she caressed the toy with her painted affection, it just wouldn’t sing.

  “Hi, you’ve called….. Well, you know who you’ve called. And if you don’t” her mother’s voice said jokingly, but with very real intentions “I’m sure as heck not going to tell you my name. So if I love you, leave a message.”

  The Mother hanged up the phone and left the receiver on silent by the side of the computer. She picked the mute butterfly up and clasped its wings between her two middle fingers so that its body hanged neath her trembling palm. The round of its back and the one or two loose threads that grew like coarse hairs from a split seam, they scratched the lines in her palm as she slowly lifted her hand up and down, pretending that the butterfly was real.

  There was a note on the screen from The Father. He had made fresh coffee and there was a cleanish cup, under a mess of papers, somewhere in the office. She just had to rinse it out. He was going to have breakfast out, probably at a café close to the clinic, the one with the delicious cheese bread and the vitamin smoothies. He didn’t say that in the note. He didn’t have to. The Mother remembered. And she got a little jealous too when she thought of their cappuccinos.

  “I’ll be back around 3,” the note said. “Should do something – for her party.”

  He did that a lot, assigning tasks and things that must get done or had to be done or would be better if they were done – modals and conditions. He assigned them without any subject knowing too well that The Mother couldn’t leave any sentence unfinished. He didn’t write ‘you’ but that was exactly what he meant.

  And what did he mean by something?

  Put up streamers?

  Colored rainbows?

  Smiling suns?

  Fucking moonbeams?

  Son of a bitch was probably having a cappuccino now. He would; the prick. He never had them when they were together; said it was not his thing - just like that blonde slut waitress who gave him that look when she took his menu, thinking The Mother wouldn’t notice; probably telling him that she liked to be fucked in the ass. She wasn’t his thing either. She knew, though, he was just saying that to throw her off and he was having one now, now that he was alone, now that she wasn’t with him. And he was probably having cheese bread too.

  And what did she have?

  Cereal?

  Toast?

  “You - should do something,” she said, sounding out the ‘you’ in a snarling tone. “You should have to forget like I have to forget. Fucking cunt. You - should do something. You should fuck that bitch. You should fuck her in the ass. You’d like that. And you can get AIDS off that whore” she said, stretching out red balloons before filling each one so they were so big, they were just half a breath away from popping.

  The Mother sat at the computer with her coffee just an inch from her lips. She loved to let the aroma drift into her partly drawn lips and taste the bitter morning air, salivating her parched tongue. As the lines of steam dotted and streaked her spectacles, she smiled, imagining the fine cirrus clouds clotting an airplane window.

  And she felt a thousand miles from where she was, before she took her first sip, and before that heavy brew pulled her back from way up high and planted her back in the sediment of mourning.

  The phone rang.

  It was silent, but the yellow light was flashing and though The Mother was staring listlessly at pictures of herself -years ago, when she didn’t look like a bruised banana, in her knee high boots and torn fish nets – she could see the flickering light and it had the same color as the amber lights that flashed on the traffic lights opposite the slum which, after 10 pm, warned people to drive with caution, but to not stop.

  “Hi, hunny.”

  It was her mother.

  “Saw your number. Thought I’d catch you before you headed out. Must have missed you. Hope you’re ok hunny. It’ll be ok you know. I know it’s tough. Time heals all wounds. The darkest hour, you know? If you need anything, though, I’m here. I’m here for you. And if you want, I can look after Korine for a bit, just until you’re ready until things settle down a bit. Ooh, I meant to ask, what time is the party tonight?” said The Grandmother. “Spoke to your hubby, he said you were planning something for Korine; transitioning. It’s a good idea you know. I just can’t for the life of me, think of what to get her. Are unicorns still popular? I remember you had a unicorn when you were her age. You loved it. What did you call it?” asked The Grandmother, pausing in her own expelled thought.

  “Sissy,” said The Mother, staring at the younger version of herself, her skirt riding up as she flirted with the camera.

  She was smoking in the photo, just toying with the trail of smoke, rolling it round her pierced tongue. Oh, how she missed smoking. And her breasts too. She missed them. They were smaller, before the two children. But they looked just as sexy out of a bra as they did, spilling from her loosely cut top. And she missed that; feeling that way she must’ve felt, inside of that photograph.

  “It was Missy or something. You loved that little doll” said The Grandmother. “I’ll get her one of those then. But where will I find one? Do you know any places that sell unicorns? Would I be able to find one in a toy store if I asked? I probably would. God forbid I have to use the internet. Did I tell you I got an email from Aunty Mary? Your uncle has kidney stones apparently. In all sorts of bother. Can you buy unicorns on the internet now? What do I do? Do I just type unicorn into the search thingy? Wait; hold on, it’s doing it now. No, wait, no. Bollocks. It’s asking me for a password or something. Jesus” she said laughing to herself, “I can’t remember my password. Do you know what it is? I know it was something I wouldn’t forget and something nobody would guess… You know those hackers now, they’re using computers for all sorts of things like moving satellites and robbing banks digitally and they change your passwords so you can’t stop them. You don’t think…” she said in a conspiring pause. “I should call the police. Or the internet company. I will. I’ll do that now. Just in case. So I’ll see you at 6. Now if you need help putting….”

  The machine cut off.

  The Mother opened an old folder and flicked through hundreds of images of herself before she felt this way, before she looked this way, before everything, when she knew exactly who she was and in what direction she was heading. And in each image; the her that she was looking at had different hair in every photo.

  And in some photos it was short and tucked behind her ears and it was blue or red or orange or black or even green. And in other photos, her hair was long, tied in pigtails that hanged beside her breasts. And in only one did she wear a ponytail, pulled tight and hanging straight down the center of her back. And there wasn’t a photo where she didn’t have a cigarette in her hand.

  The phone rang again.

  “Hey dear, it’s me, Tracy. It’s been a bit. So how are you? Stupid question yeah? Couldn’t sleep all night. Thinking about you. Listen, I know you got the whole Korine thing today. I tried your cell but no answer. Don’t know if you’ve already gone to pick her up. I know this is tough” she said.

  “No, you don’t,” thought The Mother.

  “But listen, I know it sounds clichéd, but you’ll get through this. It’ll get better. It’ll be ok. And I’m here. I love you. Anything you need, any time. I’m here for you. I spoke to your mum. Mentioned something about a unicorn. She is well… Yeah like you said. Anyway, she mentioned there’s a party tonight, for Korine. 6pm. So, I guess I’ll see you there. I miss you. I miss hanging out. I miss our talks. I miss your laugh; I really do hope you’re ok. I’ll see you tonight, ok hun?”

  The Mother closed the folder and turned off the computer. She had no idea who that girl was anymore. She still felt like her, somewhere insi
de. It’s just that that feeling was smothered neath a mound of responsibility, in having to be someone for someone else; lots of someone elses. And though before she felt like she knew who she was, lost in a meaningless world, now it felt like she had let go of her own hand and she was lost within herself. And she could feel that girl, the ‘her’ that she was when everything nattered, the ‘her’ that she was when everything was right, she could feel that girl scratching away somewhere deep down inside of her. But she was so far that it barely felt like a tickle.

  The Mother picked up the phone and rang The Father’s cell, but it went straight to voice mail. He didn’t have a fancy message. He didn’t even speak. It was just a beep.

  He was probably having a cappuccino, or fucking that waitress in the ass.