FicWad

Monday, March 23



Pitter patters of rain splattered against the glass pane. Peeking through the curtains, a smile curled my lip as my eyes met the cloud’s gradual tears. Rain. My closest friend besides Ray and my mother--the closest confidant I could ever hope for in my seven years alive.

Ever since I had learned how to read--my mother had taught me prematurely--I couldn’t stop. When I told my mother about my newest passion, she entrusted me with one of her best secrets: reading could only be properly done in the rain. There was something about its soft whispers that brought about the proper calm required to read to full enjoyment. For this reason I saved only my most anticipated books for rainy days.

Running to my closet and flinging open the door, I flung open a cardboard box labeled “Rain” in swirling script that I had been begging my mother to teach me to write. “In due time,” she replied always, in that scholarly tone of hers.

At the top of the box lay my most recent obsession: The Wizard of Oz. It had been torture to wait the next rainy day, especially since we had been having somewhat of a drought recently. But of course, I would never read ahead--disappointing mother would be an even greater offense.

Once I had carefully placed the rain box back in my closet, I quickly curled up in my window seat underneath the quilt my aunt had knitted and followed Dorothy along her path down the yellow brick road. The rain grew steadily heavier, pounding against my window now.

Suddenly, three quick pounds sounded that weren’t the rain. Caught off guard, I shrieked something high and shrill. Annoyed by the disruption--and a little confused, for I thought I was home alone--I demanded huffily, “What?”

“Honey, can you open the door please?” It was my father, I realized a moment later. He was supposed to be working late tonight. Since he had some important job at the bank, he often didn’t even make it home for dinner. So why was he home before even rush hour had begun?

I swung the door open silently, instantly knowing something was wrong as I took in my father’s rumpled appearance. His eyes were puffy and red, his shirt was wrinkled, and his tie was precariously close to falling from around his neck. Instead of a fresh face and neat hair, his eyes sagged and the gel vanished from his graying blonde locks.

“Daddy? What’s wrong?” I hardly took notice that my fingers uncurled around my book and the tale thumped to the ground. What I did notice were the hushed voices drifting up from downstairs. “Who’s here?”

Instead of answering, he silently took my hand and lead me down the creaking stairs and towards the living room. As we passed the front window, I saw two more cars than there should have been on the driveway and flashing blue and red lights. My uneasiness grew to form a tight knot in my stomach.

Inside the living room were four police officers; one sat on Mama’s favorite armchair as the other three picked up our belongings--smiling pictures of Daddy, me, and Mommy, books, notebooks, knickknacks--and took notes on small yellow notepads. I froze, mind spinning.

“Daddy?” My voice rose in hysteria, eyes filling with yet-to-be-spilled tears. “What’s going on? Is Mommy back yet? Why are you home? Why are the police here? Why are they touching our stuff? What are they writing?” I let my mind release all of its flooding questions rapidly, eyes darting around worriedly.

The officer that had been sitting stood up, an expression that mixed kindness and sorrow on his wrinkled face, “Honey, I know you must be confused. Why don’t you sit down and tell me a few things, then I tell you what’s going on.” His tone rang a distant bell. Condescending. C-O-N-D-E-S-C-E-N-D-I-N-G, thirteen letter word across. Mommy taught me that word while I watched her complete the daily crossword puzzle earlier.

A little irked, I complied. Crossed my legs. Uncrossed them. Crossed my arms instead.

“What do you want to know?” I meant to sound curious, but I instead sounded hostile. I went to apologize, but stopped myself. These men in blue uniforms had done nothing but cause confusion and uneasiness; why should I apologize?

“Why don’t we start with the basics; what’s your name, sweetie?”

I looked over at my father, who had sat beside me. He looked at the officer with a flash of annoyance; he had obviously already answered this question for them earlier.

My inner sass kicked in. “What’s your name?” I caught my father smirk in my peripheral vision before the somberness enveloped him once more. What was going on? Where was Mom? She could get him out of this sour mood easily.

Chuckling, the officer replied, “Officer George Reynolds at your service, miss.”

Relieved to at least have gotten one of my questions answered, I said politely, “My name is Veronica, but you can call me Nica. Or V. Whichever,” As long as it wasn't Ronnie, I thought to myself, only mommy can call me that. “I’m seven,” I told him proudly. “I’ll be eight in May.”

“And what you done today?” I noticed that he too had a notebook to take unknown notes on. I frowned as he scribbled something down.

“Well, today was a school day, so I got up, dressed, ate breakfast, brushed my teeth, did the crossword with Mama, and went to school. Then I came home and Mommy helped me with math. She said she wanted to go on a walk for a little bit, but that she’d be back in an hour or so. I guess she figured it wouldn’t rain. I’m sure she’ll be back any minute now. Right Daddy?” He had begun to shake his head very sadly back and forth.

“Do you want me to tell her?” Officer Reynolds looked concerned as my father stood up. Without a second glance, her walked out and slammed to front door behind him so hard that the house shook.

I wore black for a month after that. “Disappeared,” they told me. Left with only a call from a disposable phone. “Annie was mine. Now she’s no one else’s.”

Only now do I realize that this person would not stop with only ripping my mother from me. They wanted to take everything from me.

If only I could have figured that out sooner, and not be standing here now wishing I could turn back the clock.