Short Story
Photo by Ahmed Nishaath on Unsplash
Malia wrapped her fingers around the steering wheel. A foggy feeling enveloped her, the same as it had every day this past year. Pushing through the heaviness of insomnia was a daily battle. Highway 406 stretched further than either she or her son John could see. She tried to remember the last time she and her family traveled this highway, but her recollection was interrupted by the pounding in her ears. Last night’s argument with Will flashed angry and resentful on the highway. Photos she found on Will’s computer, the emails she discovered, all kept her from keeping her attention on the road. Her throat tensed and Malia felt a widening hole in her stomach. That same pit that grew larger every day, just before the memories played.
John sat next to her, screaming along to the music he’d inherited from Will, his high-pitched voice no match for the deep growls blaring through the speakers. This brought Malia back to reality. After a chuckle, she began to hum along with John.
“Do you like this song now?” John turned to his mom, hope in his eyes. “You used to always make Dad change it whenever he played it.” Malia turned and smiled at her son.
“Ha! You’re right it did, I guess it’s grown on me,” she said with a smile, lifting her hand to tousle his hair but stopping last minute, remembering John hates when people touch his hair. She thought back to the summer that Will decided to pick up learning guitar and turned their garage into a makeshift music studio, the song blasting and shaking the metal garage door. Wait, was this the song? Her mind thumbed through her memory of Will’s music catalog.
A shadow darted across the highway causing Malia to swerve the car to the right; a rolling growl filled the car when her tires clunked over the rumble strip.
“You good?” Malia asked. In her periphery, she could see John was staring at her knuckles, white from lack of blood.
“Yeah, you okay, Mom?” A hint of worry made his voice sound small. She immediately loosened her grip and sensed his tension ease.
“Of course! Absolutely!” her voice coming out more excited than she intended. “I almost got that little bugger.”
“Oh, I didn’t see anything” turning his head over his shoulder to scan the road behind them.
“It was fast, probably a jackrabbit.” John accepted this explanation and went back to attempting his raspy sing along.
Malia scolded herself. Keep your eyes on the damn road. The road demanded her attention. And John deserved safety. The early sun cut through the rear window casting spears of light on the dashboard. She needed a way to steady her thoughts. Her head was heavy, and her mouth felt dry. She remembered a breathing technique her college therapist taught her to use whenever she struggled with her writing program’s extreme demands. If the memories pulled at her again, she’d breathe in for a count of four, hold, and then release slowly through her mouth. Touch something. Say something to John. All attempts to stay present.
Her duty was two-fold — get them out and keep John from suspicion. Earlier that morning, Malia worried the trek to the mountain cottage would be longer than she could handle. But when they arrived at the first of several mountain towns, she felt relief knowing they had just a little over an hour to go.
John groaned softly. “Mom, I’m really hungry.” She realized she hadn’t offered him anything to eat since they left home. In that early hour he didn’t have much of an appetite. Hunger evaded her — anxiety. But he was a child, he needed to eat. She made a mental note to check in on him. Your head is all over the place, get a grip, make sure to feed your kid! The fear, the worry, the unknown — it was all very close to too much to bear.
Malia pulled her car directly in front of a pizza restaurant along the main stretch of highway. She was relieved to see the word OPEN lit up in neon pink. She grabbed her phone and set an alarm for 7 p.m., a reminder to feed John. The tinge of guilt she felt at his small, hungry voice faded the moment he exclaimed, “Pizza!” Oh, thank God. Relief washed over her. She promised John telepathically that she would stay present for this meal.
Nausea rose and saliva flooded her mouth when she opened the heavy wooden door. She gripped the doorframe, breathing slowly, trying to steady herself. Following John to the corner booth next to the window, she fought hard not to let her empty insides spill onto the restaurant floor. She practiced her breath work before sitting down. A 90s-style jukebox sat in the corner. Mad World by Tears for Fears played on the crackly speakers above them.
A memory rushed her, Will standing behind her, arms wrapped around her waist as they swayed side to side then interrupted by the teenaged waiter in a white apron placing red plastic cups down on the worn wooden table. Cups cracked by age and usage. Grateful that their drinks came quickly, she kept her lips pressed to the straw of her lemon-lime soda, sipping slowly to hold the queasiness down. When the pizza arrived, she managed only two bites, both forced. Her appetite was replaced by anxiety, fear, and a tightness in her throat. Relief came briefly as she watched John gleefully devour his slices of pizza. John’s face was a mirror image of Will’s, but her love and adoration for John remained untouched.
Malia waved her credit card at the waiter, as he took it from her hand she asked, “Could you box this up for me, please?” Malia hoped her appetite would return once they reached the cottage.
“Here you go, thank you, Mrs. Johnson,” the server said as he placed down the black plastic tray with a little white slip and a pen. Johnson...am I supposed to keep that name after what happened?
She lifted her body sluggishly off the bench and headed for the door, John happily trailing behind. The cool, clean mountain air erased the last traces of her earlier nausea. The sun was warm on top of her head, which made her straighten her back. She reached into her purse for her keys and found them quickly. Once they were back in the car, Malia felt an ease in her shoulders with most of the drive behind them. The rest of the drive would be manageable.
Forty-five minutes later they arrived in Cardinal, the last little town before making the steep climb up the mountain. Malia pulled into the first gas station she saw. As she pumped the gas, her thoughts drifted again, but she was pulled back when something cold and soft landed on her nose and then her cheek.
Snow.
Shit, so much for groceries, she thought as the muscles in her body clenched. The tension released when she flipped the phone over to see the time. Huh. I thought it was later. I’ll just get the groceries when we get closer.
Thirty minutes later, they reached the long gravel driveway that led to their cottage. Malia didn’t quite remember the cottage being so isolated. Neighbors seemed further away than ever before. Her teeth ached as the pebbles underneath the tires scattered and rumbled. Malia turned off the ignition and stood on the gravel. She shielded herself behind the car door and stared at the cottage. Something’s missing, she thought. But what? Her search for the answer was cut short at the sound of John’s happy feet running toward the front door. She closed the car door and retrieved her one bag from the trunk. Opening the back door to grab the leftovers, a realization hit her hard. Empty? You’ve got to be kidding me. She slammed the car door shut, a little more sharply than she expected.
Malia slid the cottage key into the deadbolt and placed her palm on the door. John nearly tripped over the threshold, bursting through. Malia found the light switch and flicked the lights on. Her eyes scanned the wooden walls. The cold and quiet cottage smelled familiar but with a hint of mustiness. Malia’s arm extended automatically to place her keys on the console table. A loud clatter echoed off the walls when the keys hit the wooden floor, the noise causing John to stop in his tracks and look at his mom. Malia let out an awkward nervous laugh.
“That’s funny, I could have sworn there was a table there. Silly me.” Malia sat her keys on the luggage and walked into the kitchen. She knew it was silly to look in the fridge, but she did it anyway. The fridge was empty and warm, a reminder to plug it in.
John continued his way to the television and VCR and slid the plugs into the outlet. Malia and John’s father had argued about bringing a television to the cottage. John’s father held the position that the cottage was supposed to be a place to get away from technology. Malia argued that the summer days were long, and having some entertainment was not a bad idea. They settled on a TV and VCR only. John popped his custom-made VCR tapes of Gravity Falls into the player. The only tapes that lived in the cottage.
“Hey, hun,” Malia called out to John. “I’m going to head to town real quick to get some food. Come with, question mark?”
“No thanks,” John replied, whistling along to the theme song.
“Okay, I’ll be real quick. I’m just going to grab a few things. Use the kitchen phone if you need me.” Malia grabbed her purse and stepped out the door into the brisk early evening.
Pulling her car down the driveway, she slammed on her brakes when she heard a Thunk. The sound of firewood splitting rang in her ears. Her eyes narrowed and she could see Will bending his knees and swinging down an axe. Firewood. Piles of firewood usually lined the front of the cottage. In their absence the cottage looked naked. Don't forget the firewood, Malia. A snowflake hit the windshield, then another. Malia pushed the immediate panic away.
The parking lot was empty. Malia parked her car in the spot next to the automatic doors, grateful for the brief walk to the warmth she was sure to find in the store. With the snow falling steadily and evening on its way, she knew the storm would soon turn heavy. Be quick, she told herself.
Malia stepped through the sliding doors, when an elderly woman stopped directly in front of her shopping cart, blocking Malia’s full entrance.
“Malia Parker! It has been such a long time since you’ve been in town. How are you? It is so nice to see you again. We’ve all been so excited since we heard you were coming back.”
Malia froze. Hearing her name in a stranger’s mouth felt eerie.
“Oh... um... hello, thank you, Mrs... I’m sorry, have we met?” Her voice came out softer than intended.
“Mrs. Harrison,” the woman said warmly. “It’s been an awful long time since you’ve been home. We’ve been looking forward to hearing you read.” Home? Read ? The words echoed in her head after the woman disappeared through the doors. Hearing the word “read” brought Malia back to her college years, nights when she and her friends would go into town and join open mic nights reading their quick writes from their creative writing classes.
Did she say Parker? Malia stood still, her hands resting on the empty shopping cart. She hadn’t used Parker in over ten years. What was THAT? Mrs. Harrison? A quick flicker of the fluorescent lights above made Malia shudder. She started to walk again, trying to shake off the dizziness of the interaction.
Pushing her cart aimlessly down the aisles, passing cereal boxes and bread, her cart remained empty. What am I doing here? Suddenly an image of John on the couch, watching TV, broke through the fog. John. She made her way to the snack aisle and stood staring at the display. What are his favorite snacks right now? Unable to recall, she decided she couldn’t go wrong if she just grabbed several options.
“Good evening, Mrs. Parker,” a man said as he passed
“Good evening,” she replied hesitantly, rushing past, not wanting to make anymore small talk with strangers.
Wine. Wine was going to be necessary in order to get her through this night. As she headed toward the alcohol section, Malia stopped. She looked into her basket at the selection of high-fructose corn syrup packaged in various boxes, when a young woman approached. A blond. She was not quite running but was in such a hurry it caused her ponytail to swing side to side somewhat violently. Please don’t talk to me.
“Mrs. Parker.” A hint of annoyance made the young blonde’s voice sound firm. “There you are! I have been looking all over for you. We need to head over to the cafe immediately.” The familiarity in Sylvie’s voice was bewildering. The woman grabbed Malia’s hand and directed her away from her shopping cart and back toward the automatic doors. Malia stumbled briefly when she looked back at her cart gaining distance.
“I’m Sylvie, by the way. It’s an honor to meet you,” she huffed. Once outside, Malia scanned the parking lot noticing the collection of snow. Was it this dark when I went inside? She reached into her purse to grab her phone and check the time when Sylvie’s voice interrupted her mid-action.
“Here we are.” Sylvie said as she opened the door to a cafe that sat next to the grocery store. Forgetting what she was searching her purse for, she followed Sylvie into the cafe.
Malia almost lost her footing when Sylvie dropped her hand. The frantic energy Sylvie had shown minutes ago was now gone. The café was warm and cozy. Overhead lights glowed softly, fairy lights traced the walls, and a fire burned in a rustic fireplace in the corner. A lone podium stood in the center of the room, surrounded by soft flickering tea lights placed evenly at the base. The space was full of energy, music, and laughter. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something. Malia felt a shiver when she looked to her left and saw Mrs. Harrison staring at her with a wide smile. When the rest of the crowd noticed her entrance, a round of applause filled the air and the music stopped. The applause was unmistakably hers.
Malia felt like she was floating toward the podium, lights blurring all around her. Vertigo followed. As she passed the tables, patrons rose to their feet, their applause growing. She could feel her lips loosen into a faint smile.
“Thank you, thank you for coming,” she said into the microphone.
When Malia averted her eyes, she noticed a manuscript lying on the lectern: A Day in the Life of Malia Parker — by Malia Parker. A Post-it note marked start here in her own handwriting, with another signaling where to stop. Hesitantly, she opened the manuscript.
“I want to thank you all for coming here tonight,” Malia said into the microphone. “I am honored and surprised by tonight’s turnout.” The words slipped out effortlessly, almost rehearsed. This café —this version of herself— felt familiar and planned, yet she couldn’t remember ever being part of that planning.
Malia began to read, her voice low at first, then steadily growing in confidence. When she reached the section labeled end, the audience cheered and rose to their feet. Malia leaned back and smiled softly. This is amazing, she thought. This feeling, this energy — both novel and familiar.
As she stepped away from the podium, eager listeners rushed toward her, vying for her attention. “Miss Parker," a voice murmured, their questions about her book tangling together faster than she could follow. Her head spun and she felt fuzzy, almost drunk. With each passing second, she felt more at ease in this place — talking about her writing, absorbing their praise. And yet, something pulled at her, something impossible to ignore.
Where was I before this? She squinted, trying to hold onto the thought.
Malia was unable to hold onto the meaning of the question. She felt separated from her body as it floated around the room. She found herself mid-conversation with a young man. He raised his champagne glass toward hers. Where did that come from? She noticed how tightly her hand was clasped around the flute stem, then she became lost in a memory: her hands holding a steering wheel, a young boy sitting next to her singing. She knew him but couldn’t be certain where she was pulling this memory from. What’s his name? Malia gasped and her grip loosened. As the glass crashed to the floor, she choked as she quietly said his name. “Johnny.”
“Oh my God, Johnny!” she shrieked, running for the cafe door. She pushed past anyone who got in her way. She crashed through the cafe doors and pulled her phone from her pocket. Dread hit Malia as the cold air pricked her face. There was so much snow on the ground, making her steps slow and awkward.
She stumbled to her car and looked down at her phone. Malia’s mouth and eyes opened wide when the screen showed eleven missed calls from the cottage. What have I done? Malia opened the keypad and began dialing.
“Mom?” Her son’s voice was frantic on the other end of the line. “Mom, when are you coming home? I’m scared, I keep hearing...” Johnny’s voice turned small, “a scratching noise.”
“Oh my God, John! I am so sorry! WHAT NOISE? ” Malia didn’t wait for a response — she ran to her car. Oh God please, please, what is happening?
“Mom, come home, please. I’m scared.” His voice carried hurt and fear.
“I’m on my way,” Malia said, her voice tense. “Don’t leave the cottage. Don’t open the door. I’m on my way.”
Malia hung up, grabbed her keys, and opened the car door. She plopped into the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition, pushed the gearshift into reverse, and let off the brake. Her car moved one foot before flashing lights and sirens filled her rearview mirror — a patrol car now blocking her from pulling out. Child endangerment.
Malia slowly put her car in park and stepped outside into the snow — expecting handcuffs. But then she watched as an ambulance approached. There was so much noise, she couldn’t quite place where each distinct sound was coming from.
A young girl, wearing what looked like Blues Clues pajamas, cried in pain as medics and police officers helped her toward the ambulance. Another girl was being escorted out of a store, a police officer’s hands around her arms. She kicked and yelled obscenities, behavior that seemed out of place for such a young mouth.
Malia was stuck. She watched the events unfold around her. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t find words. Without Malia noticing, she and Sylvie were now standing shoulder to shoulder.
“Let’s go back inside, they’ve got it handled,” Sylvie said and grabbed Malia’s hand again. The feeling of warmth was welcomed.
Malia, standing at her car door, started to take Sylvie’s lead back to the café. Then an alarm sounded on her phone. For a moment, she expected to wake up from this confusing dream. Malia tore her hand free and looked at the screen. Why did I set this? She was confused, but somewhere deep inside her, she knew the alarm held importance. A vision surfaced of a pizza restaurant in a small mountain town, her setting an alarm on her phone, a reminder to feed her child. Tears pushed at the back of her eyes. I am losing my mind.
“Oh my God, John!” she yelled. “What is happening to me? Who are you?” A part of her wanted to stand still and wait for Sylvie to answer. But she ran to her car.
She flung open the door and scanned the parking lot. Malia sat down, turned the key, and backed out quickly before someone or something else had a chance to take her hostage.
The snow fell heavily, rendering the wipers useless, but she drove quickly anyway. A five-minute drive back to the cottage felt like a lifetime of worry and panic wrapped into one nightmarish moment. She had to rely on instinct as she navigated her car around the bends. When Malia reached the cottage, her throat tightened and quiet tears streamed down her face.
She ran into the cottage, crashed through the front door, and threw her arms around her son.
“Where were you?” he asked, his legs crumbling underneath him. Malia caught him just in time.
“I’m so sorry, John, I will not leave your side again, I promise.” Her arms stayed wrapped around him. Together they sank to their knees, embracing. Words were no longer needed. Malia and John felt relief in their closeness. Even through numb fingers, Malia could feel the chill of his skin
“Mom, I’m so hungry and cold.”
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I am so sorry.” She tried to account for her whereabouts but couldn’t remember anything past parking at the grocery store.
“Tomorrow we will go shopping together. You can get anything you want. Let’s keep warm and get through the night.”
“Can we start a fire? It’s so cold.” A hint of suspended steam escaped his mouth.
“You know what, honey? I don’t have firewood either, so let’s put the heater to use.” Malia released her arms from around him and stood quickly, making her way to the thermostat on the hallway wall. She slid the lever to the on position.
An immediate sputter sounded from the vents. The sound promised warmth. Relieved, Malia started back toward John. She had almost reached him when the heater clanked, and the sputtering stopped.
She turned around and headed back to the thermostat. A low-battery warning blinked on the display. Malia stood there, staring at it, trying to process what she was seeing.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
“I forgot the batteries.”