The Forgotten Ones

It’s one of those days when I wouldn't mind being in love. To hold hands and walk down the street smiling with a nice boy that I met someplace mundane. Like at the market or the post office. I don't dwell on that fact for much longer. I never tend to dwell on that desire. That’s because I know that I have something more important to do. I have to find my mother, the woman with frozen smile. The one whose only wish was that I remember her. That I kept her close in my thoughts, that task alone is a lot to do. I am sure what breaks whatever block on my memories of her is love. That is the only thing more powerful than anything else in the world. It can even stop those who think that they cannot be stopped. And I will stop them, I will, but how?

I push my hair frustratingly out of my face and think of the upstairs apartment that is now in shambles. It would appear that they moved in a rush, but I know better. I try to imagine the world my mother lived in, where falling in love was common and safe. Every two second someone wasn’t erased or forgotten. A world of violence but at least there was no false peace. I am sure people laughed and smiled genuinely. Not like here, here everything is tainted by an eerie silence. A silence caused by lost voices and the nagging the feeling that something is missing. Laughs that stop midway without reason. Smiles that light up the face but never really reach the eyes. I guess that is why my father never really recovered; maybe that is why I would find him staring out of the window an empty look in his eyes. I think those are the moments when he remembers my mother or at least feels her absences tug on his chest. The echoes of lost love touching him without him knowing, or remembering, the reason why.

I look at the glass all over the floor and I sigh, I better clean this up before he gets here. So I get the broom and sweep up the glass from the foyer floor. I know that all the neighbors would have no idea how the window broke. Each would rationalize it and make up their own tales about what happened. In fact, they won’t even recall me ever having upstairs neighbors. I wonder why, I need to know what keeps us all from remembering them. As I sweep, I hum a tune my mother used to sing to me when I was a little girl. I suddenly feel the burden of my need to find her heavy on my chest. As I am throwing the last of the glass away my dad walks in. His brown hair a chronic mess, bags under his eyes, his tie askew and blazer probably abandoned at work. I wonder why he has taken to sleeping here these past few days. He sets his briefcase down and smiles at me.

“It’s a beautiful day outside.” He waves at a neighbor before closing the door. “What happened to the window?” A brief look of terror crosses his face before it fades leaving no trace behind. “Was it the Rogers’ kid? He is always throwing his baseball this way.”

I sigh and nod at him; I know there is no point in trying to explain the truth.

“Well no need to let it get you down pumpkin. I have more than enough money to get it fixed.” He ruffles my hair and walks toward the kitchen. I hear him open the fridge, knowing that he is looking for something to eat. “I really miss your mother’s cooking.”

My heart stops and I feel mouth go dry as I place the broom back in the cupboard.

“What was that dad?” I say, trying to sound casual.

I keep my face hidden away from him so he can’t see my reaction to his words if he comes this way.

“I said, I miss my mother’s cooking.” My heart drops and I shifts my weight between my feet. “Do you want me to order a pizza honey?”

“Sure dad, I would like that.” I bury my emotions and close the cupboard door.

I walk into the kitchen and watch as he pulls the pizza menu out of the top draw of the kitchen island.

“It’s about time you got out of there, I was getting worried.” My dad chuckles and shakes his head while picking up the house phone to call the pizza place. “You are still a strange kid.”

He turns away from me and I walk to my room. I close and lock the door, running to my window and drawing the curtains shut. I click on the light and look around. When I feel like I am secure, I pull out my mother’s picture. Once again my fingers trace over her face. I flip the picture over to look at the note again, that's when it catches my eye. I stare at the date on the bottom of the note, it’s been three years. Three whole years since she has been taken. What if she isn't even alive anymore? How would I know? No one even knows her, only I remember that she exists. So how in the world am I supposed to find someone who, technically, isn’t real?