Just a Smudge

She pulls off her shoes and peels off her socks. The water is so calm today. No one is swimming this early in the morning. She isn’t planning on it either. Suddenly, she puts her shoes back on, forgetting the socks. Today is not the best day for this.

An hour later, she finds herself in a coffee shop making X’s and O’s in the cool condensation. Her letters reveal a tiny white dog staring through the window. He cocks his head and sticks out a floppy pink tongue. She tries to smile but feels like he’s mocking her. “Bitch,” she mouths to him.

A cup of steaming black tea distracts her from the window. She loves tea in the Fall and coffee in the Winter. “Anything else for you, Carrie? One remaining glazed donut.” The barista wiggles his eyebrows. He’s also the owner of Little Black Book and best friend of her younger brother, Arnold.

“Can’t do sugar, Mark. Looks tempting though.”

“You only live once. Bit of indulgence can’t hurt.” He pushes on, “I'll be right over there if you change your mind.” Carrie’s heart drops thinking back to earlier that morning. Changing her mind is definitely a habit today. Her feet ache from the coldness seeping in from the door. In a way, it's invigorating and keeps her alert.

She feels around her windbreaker for a pen and her well-worn notebook. Thankfully, she’s not one of those people who keep pens and coins in their socks. Her brother is one of those. Once, he tried running in gym class with a sock full of quarters and he had Washington’s face imprinted on his sole for weeks. Some lucky beach-goer will find her boring blue socks on the bluff’s edge.

Sipping the scorching tea, Carrie gently opens the soft black cover and flips to the middle page. It’s been a few days since she last checked in with her little therapist. The last entry is written in loopy scrawls on the 12th of November. A chocolate fingerprint smudges the middle – right over the word ‘curse.’ Not a black magic curse, but a hereditary hex. Her dad left behind two things and both are curses in her eyes. The first, $20, 000 inheritance money to split with her brother. Her mom was long gone and left behind a toothbrush, so the only blood left was his two children. The $20,000 is a lot to some people, but to her, it is ugly money. No one should apologize or heal a wound with dollar signs. It can’t act as the glue to make twenty-four years a beautiful mosaic.

Melting into one, the second curse is alcoholism. She avoids it as much as possible because she knows that once she has a sip, it’s too sweet to stop. By avoid as much as possible, she means avoid letting other people see her do it.

The past week is a blur, but this entry brings it all back. She was eating a bar of chocolate with angry fingers and trying to make sense of how she felt. Why was her dad walking along the highway at four in the morning? Why didn’t he call her or her brother for a ride? Maybe he knew that she would be drinking too. Maybe he knew her brother would be too high to answer the phone.

November 12th -

I wish secrets stayed locked inside so everyone’s world was innocent and free to me. I think drinking is a problem added to problems. I think I would drink too, out of weakness and out of closed doors I can’t open even with the right key because I'm too busy pounding on the glass until my fists ache. Each time he drinks, he swallows secrets and drives away with a deafening radio to keep the peace between his ears. I remember him as a free thinker and traveller. A man unbound to anything. When did the alcohol come in? I know now that it is has always been there. Long before I was born. The only difference is when the secret came out and you became ashamed. I sometimes wish it stayed hidden longer so I could live blissfully. I used to see you from your belt buckle, but now I see you eye to eye. But now I see you high and dry. But now I see you and want to cry.

Carrie got a phone call minutes later, five in the morning, just as she was about to pass out on the carpet with an empty glass. Her scrawls got loopier and messier to the point none of it's readable. She sips her black tea and decides to write a poem. Nothing will bring back her dad. Not money, not angry words spiralled around a smudge of chocolate, and certainly not socks and shoes in the sand. She looks out the 'O' in the window and sees the dog has disappeared. The barista is busy steaming up in the front of the cafe and her tea is growing cold.

Flipping, the page, she carefully and deliberately puts in a final poem:

"You taught me to pick the beans when they were long and thin.

I think of this and can't help the flashbacks

to the blood on the walls

blood on the fridge

blood on your chin

and red behind your ears and nails

red dribbling down your neck.

I try and think about the times we went to the park

and let our bellies smile on rollercoasters and waterslides -

let our bellies lift fast on downward spirals

of rides named after superheroes.

The spiral never turns up anymore.

Flashbacks are consuming me and I want more

winter camping, West Coast adventures,

and you showing us the tall woodlands

skylines and space needles and steep coasts

untouched by glacial scars.

Let's go back,

when we are both among the stars."

She looks up and calls out, "I think I'll have that donut."