A Child's Fear

I’m in a familiar barren field, enclosed by the surrounding foothills. The dry landscape is devoid of significant life but the scattered dusty, green sagebrush. Cold pellets of rain start to fall. Small flashes of lightning illuminate the land from behind angry thunderous clouds, revealing in the middle of the acreage, a single pear tree. It’s long, healthy branches stretch towards the sky bearing it’s perfect fruit. In front of the tree stands the figure of a woman, a white sheet pressed against her body, it’s corners flowing in the wind, snared on her limbs as if after being blown through the sky. The wind picks up and the rain falls heavier as a clap of thunder echoes, and the tree’s leaves and fruit get taken by the stormy wind. I look again at the woman, hovering just an inch from the earth, starting to approach me. Her dark brown hair billows behind the sheet, unbothered by the storm surrounding her. The once beautiful tree stands lifeless now in the middle of this storm. The woman’s arm slowly extends outwards, moving closer before stopping in front of me, to reveal in her hand a pear. The ripe pear suddenly turning black begins molding; it withers and wrinkles and disintegrates in her palm. I look up at her for understanding but her covered visage makes no movement. The dust of the once-fruit slips between her fingers. Her mouth abruptly hangs open behind the pressed sheet, until finally one word leaves her lips-

“Go.”

I wake up. My eyes flutter open. That ghostly whisper echoing into my consciousness. This dream again. Moonlight floods my childhood bedroom, the room I've known for the first 18 years of my life. The same paint chips, the same stained rug over creaky floorboards, and the same kid lying in the same twin bed. The place I would escape to so I was able to avoid my parents’ collisions, the place where I would kiss my first boy, the place where my older sister Mary and I would come and snack on homemade sweet empanadas after frolicing on the orchard. I’m looking up at my ceiling and I hear the muted sound of people talking and cutlery scraping dishes downstairs. The stupid party. Some wind and light rain is blowing outside the window. I had come to my room to find a moment of solace and quiet, to escape the “I’m sorry”s and the sad looks of half-pains in their eyes, not at all with the intention of falling asleep. I just can’t seem to find my footing around everyone. I’m disconnected. People are supposed to lean into friends and family when a loved one passes, but all I can feel is pain. I feel a hole, an “absence”, that my aunt cannot fill, as helpful and present as she’s been. Mary has been too preoccupied with any and everything, from planning a party to meeting with appraisers, to feel any emotion- like always- to show any comfort. Is there any grief at all even for her to bury?

Downstairs was more lively. My mom’s friends and what little of our family is scattered about the house, plates and drinks in hand. There’s many of them, which gives me a pleasant comfort in reminding me of the beauty of my mom’s being. People loved her. I hesitantly walk into the living room and find the table with my mother’s urn. There’s lilies on both ends- her favorites- a bowl of perfectly stacked pears, and a beautiful picture of my mother. Her warm and bright smile burns through me. There she was, the idea and embodiment of her, now physically in her new ceramic house forever. I can feel tears start to build in the corner of my eyes so I walk away. A low rumble of thunder mixes amongst the chatter. I hear above the noise, “Well Mary apparently had said that in the will, Celia didn’t want the house to go to either of them and that it should be sold. House, orchard, everything.” Our business freely being shared with everyone, our names, our mother’s name, swimming in the air amongst the guests. Who and why would Mary tell people these things? This is why I hated the idea of doing this. I come across my mother’s bestfriend, Angel, talking with two other women. She makes a small sideways smile and approaches me.

“John.” She reaches out and embraces me, rubbing my back. “Did you take a little nap?” She playfully asks.

“Yeah, just for a few minutes”

“Good. I know you and your sister are exhausted. You guys didn't have to do all of this y’know?”

“Yeah. Well,” I look across the populated room to see Mary with some dishware walking into the kitchen, “Mary wanted to do everything. As she does.” Angel nods in agreement.

“Well I’ll be here at the end to help clean up with your tia so you two don’t have to worry, okay?”

“Okay,” I nod, “thank you. I appreciate it, Angel”

“Of course, mijo. And I’m here for whatever you guys need. Anything.”

“Thank you.” We hug once more and I make my way to the kitchen.

Upon walking in, I see my aunt shuffling about, and my sister looking into a drawer with her back against me.

“No, I don’t think we have anymore. I’ll have to wash some.” Mary says, turns around seeing me standing across the room, “There you are.”

“Nice party, huh?”

“Really? C’mon. It’s a memorial, have some respect.” I scoff. She continues, “So where have you been?

“I took a nap”

“Why? We have guests in our home.” Mary said with a sassy and annoyed tone.

“I didn’t mean to, I just went to lie down for a minute and I guess I passed out.” I respond with equal annoyance at her inquisition. “And it’s not really ours anymore is it?” I say under my breath. Mary stops in the middle of what she’s doing. My tia also stops and looks at us both briefly, observing the sparing. They both continue on.

“Well can you actually help with something since you’ve finished with your beauty sleep?” She shakes her head and moves over to the sink and turns on the water, and starts washing. I don’t understand, how can she be so cold? Does she not feel the same pain? My tia walks over with some freshly washed serving spoons on top of a small stack of clean plates in one hand, and touches my shoulder with the other as she passes me by and out of the kitchen. Mary glances over at me, and sees me standing there. She turns her head around continuing to wash some dishes,

“What?” She says sharply.

“You wanna cut me some slack?-”

“Slack?” She says angrily.

“Yeah!” Responding angrily as well, “I don’t know if you knew, but um, our mother just fucking died-” Mary slams off the water and drops the bowl in her hand and into the sink. Her head quickly turns towards me,

“Oh really, John?? Like I haven't been taking care of every freaking little thing while you consistently are not helpful while there's so much to do because, yeah- our mother just died!”

“I’m sorry that I’m grieving the loss of our mother and that I don’t have the capacity to put on a bullshit party and chit chat, and do anything else for that matter! Do you even give a shit?! Do you even miss her?!” Some spectators started to appear outside the kitchen.

“I obviously care! Someone has to do something John, someone has to take care of all of her things, someone had to take care of her- you didn’t even come with me to pick up her urn!” I take a deep breath in, tears welling up blurring my vision. I see the same in Mary’s eyes, “I was alone!” she continues. “And where were you?! I just sat in the car with our mom’s ashes next to me!” She began to cry. Mary’s tears were a rarity, and seeing them now in combination with my anger and sadness, released my own down my cheek. My remorse quickly turned back into anger,

“So I guess I’m good for nothing and all the things I’ve done while I’ve been here don’t mean a damn thing to you then.” I walked out of the kitchen, passing the line of nosey people and into the living room away from Mary, but she followed.

“Because I made you!” She yelled. We stopped in the middle of the living room. “I couldn't do everything by myself and I needed you to get your crap together, you selfish brat!” I turn around,

“Excuse me?” I said, taken aback. Our tears had quickly dried.

“Mija, stop please.” My aunt softly interjected, finding her way to us.

“Me??” Mary exclaimed, “John has been too busy feeling,” throwing up air quotes, “when I know the only reason he’s upset is because he’s not getting the house!” There were small shocked gasps.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean??” I was baffled by the absurdity of my sister. She had taken it too far.

“Mom told me you were struggling-”

“Unbelievable, Mary” Shaking my head. We keep inching towards the table with our mother’s urn.

“So don’t act like you give a crap when you were the one that left 3,000 miles away. You hated this place, and you never visited.” She finished.

“I left because I wanted to make something for myself. What about you, Miss Perfect??” I began to lose it. “You’re the one that wanted the house because your marriage is falling apart-”

“Shut up! You take that back, John!” A flash of lightning lit the corner of our eyes from behind the curtains, and now realizing rain was hitting hard at the windows.

“Enough you guys” Angel interrupted.The storm building outside was vibrating the walls, but the guests were watching our hurricane inside.

“No! She is always so self righteous and thinks she’s better than me.” I look at Mary and unfortunately feel the tears surface again, “You never show you care, you never tell me how you feel! All you do is hide it, tuck it away, push it down! You’re a fucking robot!”

“Stop it!” She cries out.

“I love mom and miss her so much! I can’t cope, I don’t feel okay, I’m not okay, and I can’t compartmentalize like you!”

“What do you want from me?!”

“I want you to admit that you don’t really give a shit and you’re cold because you only wanted the house because New Mexico sucks-”

“What are you talking about?! I care! I love mom and I left and moved to New Mexico because she told me to!”

“You’re a liar!” .

“No! This house and this place was never good for any of us-”

“Stop it.” I whine.

“Our childhood, in this house, in this town, was awful. If we stayed here- we’d writher away, we’d die, John. Just like those stupid, fucking pear trees!” Her arm thrust towards the back of the house towards the orchard just beyond, “Just like mom!”

“Just say you hate her!”

Instantly, her palm met my face. And with a slap of her hand, a boom of thunder shook the house, and I stumbled backwards falling onto the table- breaking it in half. It’s contents dropped to the ground. Our mother’s urn came falling down. Mary screamed. I saw it fall in slow motion, and before my sister and I could reach in time, the urn smashed against the hardwood floor. Ceramic shards separated the jar, and the guests let out a cry, as we stared at my mother sprinkled across the living room floor.