Status: updating as Clara's story unfolds
This Eternity
ONE
The 21st of August 1996 is engrained into my mind as the worst day of my life. I still remember the ominous knock that came on our front door that warm summer night.
I was setting the table; Aunt Patricia and Uncle Josie were visiting from California. I always loved when family visited. It always pulled my mother out of the slump she went into after my father left. She would dust off her apron and cook a meal big enough to last us for weeks.
Aunt Patricia was just telling me about her run in with a very famous—and very rude—film producer when it came. The hard knocking of knuckles on the heavy wooden front door. It’s a sound I’ll never forget.
Laughter erupted from the cramped dining room as I rushed to open the door. Who could it be at this hour? Marisa probably got locked out again, no doubt. I rolled my eyes and reached for the doorknob, pulling the door open.
Two intimidating men in black raincoats covering shiny silver badges stood at the door. My eyes widened and my stomach started doing flips. I never have had a run in with the law, but if television taught me one thing, it was that police showing up to your house was not a good thing.
“Is your mother home, Clara?” asked the taller of the two, a man I recognized from church as Clifton Bradshaw. I nodded and let the men inside, leading them to the kitchen where my mother was putting away a salad bowl.
“Mrs. Pilgrim,” Officer Bradshaw started hesitantly. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
My mother’s face went white and the salad bowl came crashing to the floor, splintering into a million tiny porcelain pieces.
I was setting the table; Aunt Patricia and Uncle Josie were visiting from California. I always loved when family visited. It always pulled my mother out of the slump she went into after my father left. She would dust off her apron and cook a meal big enough to last us for weeks.
Aunt Patricia was just telling me about her run in with a very famous—and very rude—film producer when it came. The hard knocking of knuckles on the heavy wooden front door. It’s a sound I’ll never forget.
Laughter erupted from the cramped dining room as I rushed to open the door. Who could it be at this hour? Marisa probably got locked out again, no doubt. I rolled my eyes and reached for the doorknob, pulling the door open.
Two intimidating men in black raincoats covering shiny silver badges stood at the door. My eyes widened and my stomach started doing flips. I never have had a run in with the law, but if television taught me one thing, it was that police showing up to your house was not a good thing.
“Is your mother home, Clara?” asked the taller of the two, a man I recognized from church as Clifton Bradshaw. I nodded and let the men inside, leading them to the kitchen where my mother was putting away a salad bowl.
“Mrs. Pilgrim,” Officer Bradshaw started hesitantly. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
My mother’s face went white and the salad bowl came crashing to the floor, splintering into a million tiny porcelain pieces.