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Catch and Breathe
Catch and Breathe
There is always carnation. The tainted, too-sweet aftermath of his mother. He wrinkles his nose and buries his face in his sleeve. He hates her for leaving. Hates her every day. More and more. He can’t escape the aroma she left in her wake. There is always carnation. Always and never.
He ignores the conversation going on around him. He doesn’t know these people. The woman who insists he call her “mom” is not his mother, the man certainly not his father. He’d rather be where he was before. At least there he knew what to expect.
Carnations, mostly. Salutations, rarely.
Salutations, always. Carnations, never.
(He never knew what to expect.)
Such deep thoughts for a child of his age. Too deep. While he’s having too-deep thoughts, his unmet peers are having too-deep pools. Incidents with doggy-paddling. He’s never seen a pool, never tried to doggy-paddle. Sometimes water would pool in his eyes, but never enough for any method of swimming. Never enough to fall past his lashes.
He doesn’t know these people. They don’t know him. They think they do, but they only know of him. They know of his father, of his mother, but that’s not him. He’s born from them, yes, molded by them, yes. But he is not them.
He gnaws on his bottom lip and tells himself he’ll never be them.
No more carnations. No more salutations.
He doesn’t want to be molded by his parents. Mostly he doesn’t want to be molded by his mother. His father at least showed love. Painful, unfair love, but love nonetheless. He views his father through a camera lens, just like his father viewed him. Distant but with admiration. But his mother. His mother left. He hates her for leaving. Hates her every day. More and more.
“Miles?” His not-mother says, nudging forward a plate of food. Something encouraging leaves her mouth but he ignores it. He doesn’t want to eat, doesn’t want to listen to her. Doesn’t want his not-mother’s encouragement. Doesn’t want his not-mother’s anything. If she smells like carnations he doesn’t want to know. If she mumbles loving words he doesn’t want to hear. If she blows her brains out he doesn’t want to care.
About nothing does he want to care.
He wants to go to sleep, or maybe be put to sleep, or maybe be rocked to sleep, or maybe not.
He doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t care to know what he wants.
“…at least something to drink. Milk? Juice? Water? Come on, Miles, please. You have to have something.”
He has to have something. Has to want something. But he doesn’t want to.
His not-mother. “Dol, what should we do?”
“I don’t— I don’t know.” Certainly not his father. His father always knew. In a crisis, he knew. Behind the camera lens, he knew. At the breakfast table, he knew. His father always knew. “I didn’t think— I didn’t expect— this isn’t— ”
He disregards their conversation again because it doesn’t make sense. Because when the tears happen, when the emotions happen, he doesn’t want them. He has his own emotions. He has his own emotions to deal with. He’s dealing with them.
(He’s not dealing with them at all.)
His not-parents later give him a bedroom of his own. He’s never had a bedroom before. A bed, yes, but not a room with a bed. A basement with a bed. A basement isn’t a room at all. As far as he’s concerned, a room is a room because it says “room.” Bedroom. Bathroom. Living room. Basement? Kitchen? No. Not rooms.
They’re entirely different. Basement is his father. Salty. Kitchen is his mother. Sickly. He gnaws on his bottom lip. He’ll stay out.
His not-mother leaves, as does his not-father (though that’s hardly important), but the carnations don’t. He worries the carnations will always be there to haunt him. Stain his nose, leave imprint on his eyes. Imprint. He wishes he could have seen her go so he didn’t have to imagine. Nothing could be worse than what he imagined.
The bedroom light is switched off but the door is left open a crack. The solid stream of hallway light penetrates the room, splitting it into halves.
He wonders what his half means.
Why is he on the left side when he could be on the right? And if someone were looking in, would they not see him on the right side, instead of on the left? Or would they see him at all? The room is very dark. He doesn’t think the stream of light illuminates him enough for someone to see that he is in fact within the dark. So maybe he doesn’t exist at all. Maybe he’s a figment of his own imagination. Which means he exists somewhere…
He wonders if his half means anything at all.
His stomach pangs. It’s been too long since he’s eaten anything, yet he’ll still resist. He doesn’t like swallowing substance. It’s gross and it makes him feel sick. Sicker than the way carnations make him feel. But he can’t avoid the carnations so there’s no sense in trying. Swallowing substances, like salutations, can be avoided. He doesn’t need them. He’s used to hunger, used to thirst.
He lies back and falls asleep with very little trouble. It’s been a few days since he’s slept.
Sunlight from the window rotates around his room the next day and hits his face at about eleven thirty. At first he forgets where he is. At first he thinks the sunlight is not sunlight at all, but the light above the staircase. The staircase that leads down to his basement bed. Back home. At first he sits up quickly and presses himself against the wall. Habit. He hides behind his sleep-ruffled hair.
After a moment where he doesn’t hear any footsteps coming down the stairs, he looks around, sees his new bedroom, and falls back down onto his pillow and weeps.
There isn’t enough water to swim in, but there’s definitely enough to fall past his lashes.
The tears dry up quickly and his gut throbs. Crying is gross and painful and meaningless. Crying is weak. He sniffs and stands, wiping his face with his sleeves. He’s about to leave the room when he sees a pile of fresh clothing. He promptly puts it on. The old stuff is starting to smell too much like tears and stupid emotions. The new clothes fit him better. They don’t hang uselessly from his body and get in the way.
He doesn’t go towards the dining room where he can hear his not-parents having a conversation. He goes the opposite way down the hall and slips through an ajar door at the end. It looks like their bedroom. He almost leaves upon realizing this, but curiosity takes hold of him. If he gets in trouble, he gets in trouble. There’s not much more to it than that. He’s really not worried. Really.
The room itself isn’t too unusual. The walls are a pale yellow and the floor is a thick, grey carpet. The wooden dresser is set with a mirror and some lame photos of his not-parents when they were younger and probably actually in love. There’s a blown-up, framed photograph on the wall of them kissing at their wedding. All lace and flowers and crisp in black and white. An illusion. His real parents had one too. Lace and flowers. In the kitchen.
It’s the bed that captures him. At first glance it seems to be fine. The sheets and blankets are neatly tucked in, and the pillows are lined up and nice. When he steps closer, though, he sees that only one of the pillows is fluffy. The other has two indents that squish it. Also the blankets on that side are not as even, not as neat. He half smiles. Only one of his not-parents sleeps in this bed. The other probably goes to the couch.
(But there are two indents squishing the pillow.)
They don’t hold each other at night. No.
Families don’t last. If his mother and father taught him anything, that would be it. Families do not last. All that lasts is the memory— the tainted, too-sweet scent of mothers, and the bitter, salty flavor of fathers. Oh, and the footage. They can’t remove it from everywhere, they said.
“Miles?”
He startles and falls to his knees. Habit. The thud is muffled by the thick, grey carpet.
“Miles, what are you doing in here?” His not-mother. He bares his teeth, but she probably can’t see. “I didn’t mean to scare you. How long have you been awake?” After each phrase she pauses as though she expects a response. He won’t give her one. “You ready for breakfast? I can make you some delicious pancakes. And bacon. Have you ever had bacon? Everyone loves bacon!” Besides, he’s not supposed to talk.
Because of this he smothers a brewing growl.
“Come on. I’ll help you up.” She steps forward and leans down to touch him, but he leaps backwards. Habit. “Oh!” His not-mother says.
His back cracks against the bed’s sideboard, but he’s not hurt. He doesn’t really have the time or patience to be hurt. He straightens himself out a few good feet away from her. He doesn’t need her help. He doesn’t want her help. He doesn’t want her hands on his body. He’s completely over having people’s hands on his body. Especially the hands of people who say they want to help him.
Nobody really wants to help him. He’s just there and a kid and everyone thinks they need to help a kid who’s there.
He resists the urge to reach back and massage the pain away. He doesn’t have the time or patience for that. Nope.
“Sorry, sweetie,” his not-mother doesn’t take the hint. She steps forward. He steps back. “Are you alright?”
He lets out a long breath and bravely strides around her. He marches as melodramatically as possible to the dining room and flops into a chair. He doesn’t get in trouble here, apparently. He broke into his not-parents’ room and nothing happened. He doesn’t get in trouble here. So he can act however he wants to act. Defiant included.
His not-father is in the seat opposite of him. He looks over his newspaper and flashes Miles a grin. “How’d you sleep, bud?”
Miles rolls his eyes at this stupid salutation and slinks down in his chair. He ignores the pain that peels down his spine. No time, no patience.
(Not that he has even the slightest of things to be doing.)
“He’s extra jumpy today,” his not-mother joins the dining room party. And what an exciting party it is.
Swallowing another exasperated sigh, he looks away. He is not “jumpy.”
His not-father says something or another to his not-mother and then she wanders off to the kitchen to make late breakfast. He doesn’t care what time it is. He doesn’t want to eat. The thought alone makes him want to puke. He worries about how he’ll feel once the house fills with breakfast-y smells.
“So, Miles.” His not-father. “What do you think of your room? I hope you like blue.”
He prefers red and scowls.
“You know…” (More than he wants to.) “You should be nicer to your mom.”
What’s meant to be a snarl sounds more like a whine. Too much carnation filling his nose, he blames.
“Don’t be that way. She’s done a lot for you, and she’s not as strong as she looks. I know that’s hard to believe, but…” He goes on but Miles trails off to a little field of thought.
It’s not hard to believe. He believes it just fine. No one is as strong as they look. His father wasn’t. His father gave into temptation the moment he was faced with the mere concept of loss. His old neighbors? When they entered his home, they’d sometimes say “hello.” But when they entered his basement? They became weaker than most — or maybe not. They’d sometimes faint. They almost always cried. So weak.
And his mother, well. He always thought she was strong. She looked the part, definitely. They shared dark, strong hair. They shared a strong jawline. But no one is as strong as they look. No matter how firm her jaw was or how tight her fists were, nothing shows more weakness than leaving. He hates her for leaving. Even if he isn’t as strong as he looks, with his hair once shared, he swears he’ll never leave. He doesn’t want to be molded by his mother. His father at least showed love. Painful, unfair love that left salt on his tongue, but love nonetheless. His mother left. He hates her for leaving. Hates her every day. More and more.
It makes him weak. Her leaving makes him weak. It makes him cry. It makes him crumble. It makes him feel alone. And he hates that.
For a split moment, he worries about his not-mother.
It’s a very split moment.
“…know you understand me, Miles. Stop pretending like you don’t. I can see it in your eyes. Why don’t you talk to us? Why are you ignoring us? It’s kind of hurtful, you know?”
He disregards his not-father’s monologue when the tears happen, when the emotions happen. He doesn’t understand why this man is so emotional. He doesn’t want his not-father’s emotions. He has his own emotions. He has his own emotions to deal with. He’s dealing with them.
If his not-mother is also not as strong as she looks, with her straight lips and carved-out cheekbones, how long will she last? What if she’s already leaving? He can’t smell any breakfast-y smells. He gnaws on his bottom lip, glances toward the kitchen. Kitchen is his mother. Sickly. He’ll stay out.
If he hadn’t stayed out before…
He could have stopped it.
Could he have stopped it?
He could have stopped her. She didn’t have to leave.
That kitchen is his mother. But this is a different kitchen. There’s nothing to be afraid of here. At least not yet. He doesn’t get in trouble here. So he can’t get in trouble there. So he can act however he wants to act. And right now, he wants to act.
He throws back his chair, making his not-father jump, and runs to the kitchen. It’s clean. Cleaner than his mother’s kitchen. Less sickly. More… white. Whiter than his mother’s kitchen. He’d only been in there once but once had been enough. Enough to give him a place to imagine. He wishes he could have seen her go so he didn’t have to imagine. Nothing could be worse than what he imagined. Nothing could be worse than how beautiful he imagined it to be. Carnations in her wake. He’ll catch them as they blow through the air.
His not-mother turns from the stove, surprised. A raw strip of bacon dangles from between her fingers. “Miles?”
Cooking. She’s not leaving. She’s cooking. She’s stronger than leaving. She has family. She has a husband who loves her. Who holds her at night. Their family has lasted. Families make individuals stronger. Some families last.
So why didn’t his?
Well. The difference is him. Right? He’s the sole divider. He was in his family for maybe two years before they began to collapse. Or at least that’s what they said when they went through the footage (his family was collapsed for as long as he could remember). He’s only been in this family for two days. There’s still time. It won’t take long. Families don’t last. Right?
Is it not beautiful? He’s not even a part of this family. He won’t allow himself to be. He doesn’t want to be.
(Right?)
He doesn’t need more carnations gathered onto the pile. There are plenty already and they’re plenty aromatic.
“Miles? What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t want to be molded by his parents. Mostly he doesn’t want to be molded by his mother. She left. Nothing could be worse than that. Nothing could be worse than what he has imagined. There was no love there. There was no family. Families don’t last.
“He just— he just jumped up and ran off. Scared me half to death!”
“Miles, sweetie. Look at me. Sweetie? Look at me, Miles.”
He’s terrified. Everything was his fault. He wasn’t part enough of his family. He didn’t interact enough. He was too meek. He was too terrified. If he’d been stronger, then his family would have been stronger. And if his family had been stronger, the individuals would have been stronger. Families make individuals stronger. His mother would have been stronger, and she wouldn’t have left. And if his mother hadn’t left, the neighbors wouldn’t have heard. The neighbors wouldn’t have heard and his father wouldn’t have been taken away for the cameras. And Miles wouldn’t have been taken away. And this family… this true family… they wouldn’t be facing collapse. With Miles they face collapse. He won’t be part enough of this family. He won’t interact enough. He’s too meek. He’s too terrified. There’s no time.
He bursts into tears, trying his hardest not to go to pieces. Trying his hardest not to break down. His knees quake and his arms tremble. His hips threaten to give way. The pain in his back hardly exists now. It doesn’t matter. Right now, all that matters is he remain standing. He can’t be so weak to break down. He can’t be.
“Miles— come here. Come here, sweetie.” His not-mother lays the strip of bacon on the counter and takes him into her arms. He squirms but can’t escape, so then he droops. She’s so warm. His real mother was never so warm. Never so comfortable. The carnations were simply too sweet. Miles notes that his not-mother doesn’t smell like carnations at all. She doesn’t smell like anything, as far as he can tell.
He droops but can’t escape, so then he throws his arms around her. She kneels and takes his weight as he sobs against her shoulder. She keeps him from collapsing. She squeezes him tighter. She hums in his ear, a pleasant, vaguely recognizable tune. She’s nothing like his mother.
(She’s better.)
“Should I do something? Get something?” His not-father says from behind Miles. Miles closes his eyes and fights the fear. If his not-mother is okay, who’s to say his not-father isn’t also? But who’s to say he isn’t terrible?
Who’s to say Miles will join this family? Who’s to say, if he does, it will last? Who’s to say everything won’t be his fault again?
“I’m sorry—” Miles chokes. His voice is marked by the tainted, too-sweet aftermath of his mother. He sniffs and presses his nose against his not-mother’s throat. “Imsorryimsorryimsorry.”
“Sweetie, no. Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything.” She rocks him gently, then hums some more. A pleasant, vaguely recognizable tune. She’s nothing like his mother. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t be sorry,” she says again. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay now.”
Everything is not okay now. He’s confused and scared and there is nothing about this situation that is okay. Nothing is okay now. Nothingnothingnothing.
He wishes the tears would stop. He now thinks there’s enough water pooled in his eyes to doggy-paddle in. Probably. If not in his eyes, then on his not-mother’s neck.
He doesn’t know her. She doesn’t know him. She thinks she does, but she only knows of him. They only know each other through salutations. She doesn’t know what’s okay and what isn’t. Nothing is okay now. And nothing will ever be okay again.
Miles cries. And continues to cry. Eventually his not-father leaves the room, giving the two bodies that hold each other space. Her body sways his. Her body eases his. He cries. And continues to cry. But the swaying and easing is helping. He may cry and continue to cry but it’s not bad. He doesn’t feel weak. He doesn’t feel small. He feels like a part of something. He feels like a part of something bigger. He feels like a part of her. His body is hers is his-hers, and not even in the way that his body would sometimes be his father’s, be his father’s behind the camera lens. It’s comforting and she was right. It is okay. Everything’s okay now. Everything’s okay if he lets it be okay. If he lets it.
He feels like a part of something bigger.
Maybe his not-father is in the other room, giving them space, but maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s just as big a part of the something bigger as they are. Maybe they’re family. Maybe they’re family if he lets them be family. If he lets them.
But that doesn’t change his ability to ruin things. Everything was his fault. Everything could be his fault again. Maybe there are no carnations now but in time there could be. There could be a day years from now, an unexpected day, when his not-mother embarks to the kitchen to make delicious pancakes and bacon, which Miles actually intends to eat, and doesn’t come back. There could be a day years from now, an unsurprising day, when she leaves in a flurry of carnations. There could be a day years from now, a heartbreaking day, when Miles is left to catch them as they blow through the air, catch the carnations, and breathe them in, and smother himself in them, and die in them.
There could be a day years from now, or months from now, or weeks, or days, or maybe only hours. There could be a day, and a day could be today.
But if it is today, it isn’t now. Now he is being held. Now he has a family. And he wants the now. He wants the now like he’s never wanted before. He cries. And continues to cry. And his not-mother picks him up, his nose still tucked against her throat, and carries him to his bed, and sets him down, and lets him cry some more.
There is always carnation. The tainted, too-sweet aftermath of his mother. He wrinkles his nose and sniffs. He hates her for leaving. Hates her every day. More and more. He can’t escape the aroma she left in her wake. There is always carnation. Always and never. He didn’t know what to expect. He doesn’t know. Maybe he’ll never know. He’ll never know what to expect.
“I want my mom,” He whispers, squeezing his not-mother. She shushes him and starts humming again, a pleasant, vaguely recognizable tune.
He knows his mom won’t come. He knows his not-mother can’t just make her reappear. She left. She’s gone. No more carnations. Always and never. Never and always.
“There, there. Get some more rest, Miles. It’s okay. You’ve been through a lot, but everything’s okay now.”
“I want my mom…”
“I’ll stay here with you.”
He pushes her away and curls up beside his pillow, mumbling something about how she isn’t his mother. And yeah. He knows his mom won’t come. But that doesn’t mean he needs a substitute. Doesn’t mean he wants a substitute.
“I’ll stay here with you,” she repeats, lying down beside him. He doesn’t like it at first but then he decides it’s nice. She’s so warm. His real mother was never so warm. Never so comfortable. The carnations were too sweet. Miles once again notes that his not-mother doesn’t smell like carnations at all. Nothing. She smells mostly like nothing. He shivers. She keeps him warm. He inhales. She exhales.
He doesn’t need a substitute. Not a substitute mother. This woman, this woman that is not his mother, is also not a substitute. She is nothing like his mother. Nothing like his mother.
She’s there. She’s compassionate. She’s caring enough to hold him when he cries. She’s not a failure. She’s willing to stay while he rests. She’s strong. She’s theretherethere.
“There, there.”
And he can leave to catch the carnations as they blow through the air, catch them, and breathe them in, and smother himself in them, and eventually die in them, or he can embrace the heartbreaking day, the unexpected day, the unsurprising day. He can embrace the today, and let himself be part of the family, and let everything be okay.
He doesn’t need a substitute. He needs someone who’s there. He needs someone who’s willing. Someone who’s strong.
She is nothing like his mother. Nothing like his mother. She’s not.
(She’s better.)
He ignores the conversation going on around him. He doesn’t know these people. The woman who insists he call her “mom” is not his mother, the man certainly not his father. He’d rather be where he was before. At least there he knew what to expect.
Carnations, mostly. Salutations, rarely.
Salutations, always. Carnations, never.
(He never knew what to expect.)
Such deep thoughts for a child of his age. Too deep. While he’s having too-deep thoughts, his unmet peers are having too-deep pools. Incidents with doggy-paddling. He’s never seen a pool, never tried to doggy-paddle. Sometimes water would pool in his eyes, but never enough for any method of swimming. Never enough to fall past his lashes.
He doesn’t know these people. They don’t know him. They think they do, but they only know of him. They know of his father, of his mother, but that’s not him. He’s born from them, yes, molded by them, yes. But he is not them.
He gnaws on his bottom lip and tells himself he’ll never be them.
No more carnations. No more salutations.
He doesn’t want to be molded by his parents. Mostly he doesn’t want to be molded by his mother. His father at least showed love. Painful, unfair love, but love nonetheless. He views his father through a camera lens, just like his father viewed him. Distant but with admiration. But his mother. His mother left. He hates her for leaving. Hates her every day. More and more.
“Miles?” His not-mother says, nudging forward a plate of food. Something encouraging leaves her mouth but he ignores it. He doesn’t want to eat, doesn’t want to listen to her. Doesn’t want his not-mother’s encouragement. Doesn’t want his not-mother’s anything. If she smells like carnations he doesn’t want to know. If she mumbles loving words he doesn’t want to hear. If she blows her brains out he doesn’t want to care.
About nothing does he want to care.
He wants to go to sleep, or maybe be put to sleep, or maybe be rocked to sleep, or maybe not.
He doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t care to know what he wants.
“…at least something to drink. Milk? Juice? Water? Come on, Miles, please. You have to have something.”
He has to have something. Has to want something. But he doesn’t want to.
His not-mother. “Dol, what should we do?”
“I don’t— I don’t know.” Certainly not his father. His father always knew. In a crisis, he knew. Behind the camera lens, he knew. At the breakfast table, he knew. His father always knew. “I didn’t think— I didn’t expect— this isn’t— ”
He disregards their conversation again because it doesn’t make sense. Because when the tears happen, when the emotions happen, he doesn’t want them. He has his own emotions. He has his own emotions to deal with. He’s dealing with them.
(He’s not dealing with them at all.)
His not-parents later give him a bedroom of his own. He’s never had a bedroom before. A bed, yes, but not a room with a bed. A basement with a bed. A basement isn’t a room at all. As far as he’s concerned, a room is a room because it says “room.” Bedroom. Bathroom. Living room. Basement? Kitchen? No. Not rooms.
They’re entirely different. Basement is his father. Salty. Kitchen is his mother. Sickly. He gnaws on his bottom lip. He’ll stay out.
His not-mother leaves, as does his not-father (though that’s hardly important), but the carnations don’t. He worries the carnations will always be there to haunt him. Stain his nose, leave imprint on his eyes. Imprint. He wishes he could have seen her go so he didn’t have to imagine. Nothing could be worse than what he imagined.
The bedroom light is switched off but the door is left open a crack. The solid stream of hallway light penetrates the room, splitting it into halves.
He wonders what his half means.
Why is he on the left side when he could be on the right? And if someone were looking in, would they not see him on the right side, instead of on the left? Or would they see him at all? The room is very dark. He doesn’t think the stream of light illuminates him enough for someone to see that he is in fact within the dark. So maybe he doesn’t exist at all. Maybe he’s a figment of his own imagination. Which means he exists somewhere…
He wonders if his half means anything at all.
His stomach pangs. It’s been too long since he’s eaten anything, yet he’ll still resist. He doesn’t like swallowing substance. It’s gross and it makes him feel sick. Sicker than the way carnations make him feel. But he can’t avoid the carnations so there’s no sense in trying. Swallowing substances, like salutations, can be avoided. He doesn’t need them. He’s used to hunger, used to thirst.
He lies back and falls asleep with very little trouble. It’s been a few days since he’s slept.
Sunlight from the window rotates around his room the next day and hits his face at about eleven thirty. At first he forgets where he is. At first he thinks the sunlight is not sunlight at all, but the light above the staircase. The staircase that leads down to his basement bed. Back home. At first he sits up quickly and presses himself against the wall. Habit. He hides behind his sleep-ruffled hair.
After a moment where he doesn’t hear any footsteps coming down the stairs, he looks around, sees his new bedroom, and falls back down onto his pillow and weeps.
There isn’t enough water to swim in, but there’s definitely enough to fall past his lashes.
The tears dry up quickly and his gut throbs. Crying is gross and painful and meaningless. Crying is weak. He sniffs and stands, wiping his face with his sleeves. He’s about to leave the room when he sees a pile of fresh clothing. He promptly puts it on. The old stuff is starting to smell too much like tears and stupid emotions. The new clothes fit him better. They don’t hang uselessly from his body and get in the way.
He doesn’t go towards the dining room where he can hear his not-parents having a conversation. He goes the opposite way down the hall and slips through an ajar door at the end. It looks like their bedroom. He almost leaves upon realizing this, but curiosity takes hold of him. If he gets in trouble, he gets in trouble. There’s not much more to it than that. He’s really not worried. Really.
The room itself isn’t too unusual. The walls are a pale yellow and the floor is a thick, grey carpet. The wooden dresser is set with a mirror and some lame photos of his not-parents when they were younger and probably actually in love. There’s a blown-up, framed photograph on the wall of them kissing at their wedding. All lace and flowers and crisp in black and white. An illusion. His real parents had one too. Lace and flowers. In the kitchen.
It’s the bed that captures him. At first glance it seems to be fine. The sheets and blankets are neatly tucked in, and the pillows are lined up and nice. When he steps closer, though, he sees that only one of the pillows is fluffy. The other has two indents that squish it. Also the blankets on that side are not as even, not as neat. He half smiles. Only one of his not-parents sleeps in this bed. The other probably goes to the couch.
(But there are two indents squishing the pillow.)
They don’t hold each other at night. No.
Families don’t last. If his mother and father taught him anything, that would be it. Families do not last. All that lasts is the memory— the tainted, too-sweet scent of mothers, and the bitter, salty flavor of fathers. Oh, and the footage. They can’t remove it from everywhere, they said.
“Miles?”
He startles and falls to his knees. Habit. The thud is muffled by the thick, grey carpet.
“Miles, what are you doing in here?” His not-mother. He bares his teeth, but she probably can’t see. “I didn’t mean to scare you. How long have you been awake?” After each phrase she pauses as though she expects a response. He won’t give her one. “You ready for breakfast? I can make you some delicious pancakes. And bacon. Have you ever had bacon? Everyone loves bacon!” Besides, he’s not supposed to talk.
Because of this he smothers a brewing growl.
“Come on. I’ll help you up.” She steps forward and leans down to touch him, but he leaps backwards. Habit. “Oh!” His not-mother says.
His back cracks against the bed’s sideboard, but he’s not hurt. He doesn’t really have the time or patience to be hurt. He straightens himself out a few good feet away from her. He doesn’t need her help. He doesn’t want her help. He doesn’t want her hands on his body. He’s completely over having people’s hands on his body. Especially the hands of people who say they want to help him.
Nobody really wants to help him. He’s just there and a kid and everyone thinks they need to help a kid who’s there.
He resists the urge to reach back and massage the pain away. He doesn’t have the time or patience for that. Nope.
“Sorry, sweetie,” his not-mother doesn’t take the hint. She steps forward. He steps back. “Are you alright?”
He lets out a long breath and bravely strides around her. He marches as melodramatically as possible to the dining room and flops into a chair. He doesn’t get in trouble here, apparently. He broke into his not-parents’ room and nothing happened. He doesn’t get in trouble here. So he can act however he wants to act. Defiant included.
His not-father is in the seat opposite of him. He looks over his newspaper and flashes Miles a grin. “How’d you sleep, bud?”
Miles rolls his eyes at this stupid salutation and slinks down in his chair. He ignores the pain that peels down his spine. No time, no patience.
(Not that he has even the slightest of things to be doing.)
“He’s extra jumpy today,” his not-mother joins the dining room party. And what an exciting party it is.
Swallowing another exasperated sigh, he looks away. He is not “jumpy.”
His not-father says something or another to his not-mother and then she wanders off to the kitchen to make late breakfast. He doesn’t care what time it is. He doesn’t want to eat. The thought alone makes him want to puke. He worries about how he’ll feel once the house fills with breakfast-y smells.
“So, Miles.” His not-father. “What do you think of your room? I hope you like blue.”
He prefers red and scowls.
“You know…” (More than he wants to.) “You should be nicer to your mom.”
What’s meant to be a snarl sounds more like a whine. Too much carnation filling his nose, he blames.
“Don’t be that way. She’s done a lot for you, and she’s not as strong as she looks. I know that’s hard to believe, but…” He goes on but Miles trails off to a little field of thought.
It’s not hard to believe. He believes it just fine. No one is as strong as they look. His father wasn’t. His father gave into temptation the moment he was faced with the mere concept of loss. His old neighbors? When they entered his home, they’d sometimes say “hello.” But when they entered his basement? They became weaker than most — or maybe not. They’d sometimes faint. They almost always cried. So weak.
And his mother, well. He always thought she was strong. She looked the part, definitely. They shared dark, strong hair. They shared a strong jawline. But no one is as strong as they look. No matter how firm her jaw was or how tight her fists were, nothing shows more weakness than leaving. He hates her for leaving. Even if he isn’t as strong as he looks, with his hair once shared, he swears he’ll never leave. He doesn’t want to be molded by his mother. His father at least showed love. Painful, unfair love that left salt on his tongue, but love nonetheless. His mother left. He hates her for leaving. Hates her every day. More and more.
It makes him weak. Her leaving makes him weak. It makes him cry. It makes him crumble. It makes him feel alone. And he hates that.
For a split moment, he worries about his not-mother.
It’s a very split moment.
“…know you understand me, Miles. Stop pretending like you don’t. I can see it in your eyes. Why don’t you talk to us? Why are you ignoring us? It’s kind of hurtful, you know?”
He disregards his not-father’s monologue when the tears happen, when the emotions happen. He doesn’t understand why this man is so emotional. He doesn’t want his not-father’s emotions. He has his own emotions. He has his own emotions to deal with. He’s dealing with them.
If his not-mother is also not as strong as she looks, with her straight lips and carved-out cheekbones, how long will she last? What if she’s already leaving? He can’t smell any breakfast-y smells. He gnaws on his bottom lip, glances toward the kitchen. Kitchen is his mother. Sickly. He’ll stay out.
If he hadn’t stayed out before…
He could have stopped it.
Could he have stopped it?
He could have stopped her. She didn’t have to leave.
That kitchen is his mother. But this is a different kitchen. There’s nothing to be afraid of here. At least not yet. He doesn’t get in trouble here. So he can’t get in trouble there. So he can act however he wants to act. And right now, he wants to act.
He throws back his chair, making his not-father jump, and runs to the kitchen. It’s clean. Cleaner than his mother’s kitchen. Less sickly. More… white. Whiter than his mother’s kitchen. He’d only been in there once but once had been enough. Enough to give him a place to imagine. He wishes he could have seen her go so he didn’t have to imagine. Nothing could be worse than what he imagined. Nothing could be worse than how beautiful he imagined it to be. Carnations in her wake. He’ll catch them as they blow through the air.
His not-mother turns from the stove, surprised. A raw strip of bacon dangles from between her fingers. “Miles?”
Cooking. She’s not leaving. She’s cooking. She’s stronger than leaving. She has family. She has a husband who loves her. Who holds her at night. Their family has lasted. Families make individuals stronger. Some families last.
So why didn’t his?
Well. The difference is him. Right? He’s the sole divider. He was in his family for maybe two years before they began to collapse. Or at least that’s what they said when they went through the footage (his family was collapsed for as long as he could remember). He’s only been in this family for two days. There’s still time. It won’t take long. Families don’t last. Right?
Is it not beautiful? He’s not even a part of this family. He won’t allow himself to be. He doesn’t want to be.
(Right?)
He doesn’t need more carnations gathered onto the pile. There are plenty already and they’re plenty aromatic.
“Miles? What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t want to be molded by his parents. Mostly he doesn’t want to be molded by his mother. She left. Nothing could be worse than that. Nothing could be worse than what he has imagined. There was no love there. There was no family. Families don’t last.
“He just— he just jumped up and ran off. Scared me half to death!”
“Miles, sweetie. Look at me. Sweetie? Look at me, Miles.”
He’s terrified. Everything was his fault. He wasn’t part enough of his family. He didn’t interact enough. He was too meek. He was too terrified. If he’d been stronger, then his family would have been stronger. And if his family had been stronger, the individuals would have been stronger. Families make individuals stronger. His mother would have been stronger, and she wouldn’t have left. And if his mother hadn’t left, the neighbors wouldn’t have heard. The neighbors wouldn’t have heard and his father wouldn’t have been taken away for the cameras. And Miles wouldn’t have been taken away. And this family… this true family… they wouldn’t be facing collapse. With Miles they face collapse. He won’t be part enough of this family. He won’t interact enough. He’s too meek. He’s too terrified. There’s no time.
He bursts into tears, trying his hardest not to go to pieces. Trying his hardest not to break down. His knees quake and his arms tremble. His hips threaten to give way. The pain in his back hardly exists now. It doesn’t matter. Right now, all that matters is he remain standing. He can’t be so weak to break down. He can’t be.
“Miles— come here. Come here, sweetie.” His not-mother lays the strip of bacon on the counter and takes him into her arms. He squirms but can’t escape, so then he droops. She’s so warm. His real mother was never so warm. Never so comfortable. The carnations were simply too sweet. Miles notes that his not-mother doesn’t smell like carnations at all. She doesn’t smell like anything, as far as he can tell.
He droops but can’t escape, so then he throws his arms around her. She kneels and takes his weight as he sobs against her shoulder. She keeps him from collapsing. She squeezes him tighter. She hums in his ear, a pleasant, vaguely recognizable tune. She’s nothing like his mother.
(She’s better.)
“Should I do something? Get something?” His not-father says from behind Miles. Miles closes his eyes and fights the fear. If his not-mother is okay, who’s to say his not-father isn’t also? But who’s to say he isn’t terrible?
Who’s to say Miles will join this family? Who’s to say, if he does, it will last? Who’s to say everything won’t be his fault again?
“I’m sorry—” Miles chokes. His voice is marked by the tainted, too-sweet aftermath of his mother. He sniffs and presses his nose against his not-mother’s throat. “Imsorryimsorryimsorry.”
“Sweetie, no. Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything.” She rocks him gently, then hums some more. A pleasant, vaguely recognizable tune. She’s nothing like his mother. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t be sorry,” she says again. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay now.”
Everything is not okay now. He’s confused and scared and there is nothing about this situation that is okay. Nothing is okay now. Nothingnothingnothing.
He wishes the tears would stop. He now thinks there’s enough water pooled in his eyes to doggy-paddle in. Probably. If not in his eyes, then on his not-mother’s neck.
He doesn’t know her. She doesn’t know him. She thinks she does, but she only knows of him. They only know each other through salutations. She doesn’t know what’s okay and what isn’t. Nothing is okay now. And nothing will ever be okay again.
Miles cries. And continues to cry. Eventually his not-father leaves the room, giving the two bodies that hold each other space. Her body sways his. Her body eases his. He cries. And continues to cry. But the swaying and easing is helping. He may cry and continue to cry but it’s not bad. He doesn’t feel weak. He doesn’t feel small. He feels like a part of something. He feels like a part of something bigger. He feels like a part of her. His body is hers is his-hers, and not even in the way that his body would sometimes be his father’s, be his father’s behind the camera lens. It’s comforting and she was right. It is okay. Everything’s okay now. Everything’s okay if he lets it be okay. If he lets it.
He feels like a part of something bigger.
Maybe his not-father is in the other room, giving them space, but maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s just as big a part of the something bigger as they are. Maybe they’re family. Maybe they’re family if he lets them be family. If he lets them.
But that doesn’t change his ability to ruin things. Everything was his fault. Everything could be his fault again. Maybe there are no carnations now but in time there could be. There could be a day years from now, an unexpected day, when his not-mother embarks to the kitchen to make delicious pancakes and bacon, which Miles actually intends to eat, and doesn’t come back. There could be a day years from now, an unsurprising day, when she leaves in a flurry of carnations. There could be a day years from now, a heartbreaking day, when Miles is left to catch them as they blow through the air, catch the carnations, and breathe them in, and smother himself in them, and die in them.
There could be a day years from now, or months from now, or weeks, or days, or maybe only hours. There could be a day, and a day could be today.
But if it is today, it isn’t now. Now he is being held. Now he has a family. And he wants the now. He wants the now like he’s never wanted before. He cries. And continues to cry. And his not-mother picks him up, his nose still tucked against her throat, and carries him to his bed, and sets him down, and lets him cry some more.
There is always carnation. The tainted, too-sweet aftermath of his mother. He wrinkles his nose and sniffs. He hates her for leaving. Hates her every day. More and more. He can’t escape the aroma she left in her wake. There is always carnation. Always and never. He didn’t know what to expect. He doesn’t know. Maybe he’ll never know. He’ll never know what to expect.
“I want my mom,” He whispers, squeezing his not-mother. She shushes him and starts humming again, a pleasant, vaguely recognizable tune.
He knows his mom won’t come. He knows his not-mother can’t just make her reappear. She left. She’s gone. No more carnations. Always and never. Never and always.
“There, there. Get some more rest, Miles. It’s okay. You’ve been through a lot, but everything’s okay now.”
“I want my mom…”
“I’ll stay here with you.”
He pushes her away and curls up beside his pillow, mumbling something about how she isn’t his mother. And yeah. He knows his mom won’t come. But that doesn’t mean he needs a substitute. Doesn’t mean he wants a substitute.
“I’ll stay here with you,” she repeats, lying down beside him. He doesn’t like it at first but then he decides it’s nice. She’s so warm. His real mother was never so warm. Never so comfortable. The carnations were too sweet. Miles once again notes that his not-mother doesn’t smell like carnations at all. Nothing. She smells mostly like nothing. He shivers. She keeps him warm. He inhales. She exhales.
He doesn’t need a substitute. Not a substitute mother. This woman, this woman that is not his mother, is also not a substitute. She is nothing like his mother. Nothing like his mother.
She’s there. She’s compassionate. She’s caring enough to hold him when he cries. She’s not a failure. She’s willing to stay while he rests. She’s strong. She’s theretherethere.
“There, there.”
And he can leave to catch the carnations as they blow through the air, catch them, and breathe them in, and smother himself in them, and eventually die in them, or he can embrace the heartbreaking day, the unexpected day, the unsurprising day. He can embrace the today, and let himself be part of the family, and let everything be okay.
He doesn’t need a substitute. He needs someone who’s there. He needs someone who’s willing. Someone who’s strong.
She is nothing like his mother. Nothing like his mother. She’s not.
(She’s better.)