Starlight On Kansas

Chapter 1

She's crying again.

I thought she was done crying.

And the screaming. The screaming is worse than the crying.

Six months. I've counted them, one day at a time, all without even a scrap of paper or pencil.

One-hundred-eighty-two days and thirteen hours and thirty-seven minutes.

I don't count seconds.

One-hundred-eighty-three days ago, my brother was alive. He told us he was going to Wright Patterson for work reasons. 

He never got there. 

His car was found, shredded and burnt on the side of a road. 

A road called 'dead man's curve.'

God likes puns. 

After the funeral, for a week my mother wouldn't move from the kitchen chair. I figured she was in shock. Soon she'd wake up and come to terms with reality, and we would grieve together, heal together, move on together. 

I was such a stupid little girl.

She did cry, a few days later. She wept, she shouted, she screamed long agonizing wails of pain. 

But she never moved from her bedroom. 

And she never bothered to ask me if I was doing alright. 

I bring her food now, but I don't try to talk to her anymore. I'm letting her figure herself out. Eventually, She'll get better, She has to. 

That's another thing. She isn't 'mother' anymore. Now she's She. Or Her. 

Depends on the sentence. 

The dog scratches at the rusted screen of the double door, shattering my trance. I lean against the peeling red and gold wallpaper of the foyer and flick my eyes to look at her. She's used to being inside the house with her owners, our neighbors, the Holts. They left for . . . I don't remember, which is as just as well, because I don't care. I only offered to take the dog just so they would quit asking questions--"Are you OKAY Loretta? Is your mom OKAY, Loretta? Do you need help CLEANING THE HOUSE, Loretta?"

And that's just Mrs. Holts.

I sigh and shut the heavy, wooden door, hoping that if Sugar can't see me, she'll stop whining.

The moves are unconscious now.

You feed the dog.

You come back in the house.

You read the bills again, add up the cost in your head and worry about how you'll get the money this time.

You find something to clean as a distraction from your problems, whether it needs it or not.

Maybe I don't want to this time. Maybe I want to eat more food than I've rationed for myself and lay down and listen to the radio. 

Mmm . . . no.

No more money thoughts for today. You'll just have a heart attack. 

Don't argue with me, Loretta. Just pick up the broom.

And there it is, the voice that's been in my head longer than I can remember. 

No it hasn't. That's a lie. You're a liar.

You're right. I know how long it's been. 

One-hundred-eighty-three days.

My pale, dry, cracked hands grasp the handle of the broom. I jerk it back and forth in rough motions around the grungy kitchen tile. The only dirt that remains on it is the stuff that's sunk into the cracks, far too deep for the straw bristles to dig out.