Over the Rainbow

“At the end of the rainbow, there is a pot of gold” My mother would tell me as she tapped my nose with flour dusted fingers. I use to envision myself sliding down the rainbow and landing in gold, an easy way to get rich. Life became not very simple, by the time I was fourteen and mysteriously depressed, I began to think it was the rainbow, my mother’s baking and our small kitchen with green cupboards and the light summer breeze that use to play with my curls. It was her fault

My mother told my father, who later told me, that she was moving, rather leaving. I was watching cartoons in her flower patterned armchair. She was going to work on a cruise ship as a chef. She said she was going to send money, but that didn’t matter, for my mother was going to slide over the rainbow without me.

When she left, a storm came after, father stood on the dock waving his limp hat, and I could see that he wanted to cry, but held up for my sake. I didn’t understand why mother wanted to leave, especially since she had a good job baking pastries at the posh restaurant downtown. She brought home sweet dough with jelly in the middle that would run down my arm faster than my tongue could lick it. My father’s hands, blackened with his mechanic labour would make every bit of pastry black, and mother would slap him playfully, we ate them anyways.

Now we are standing on the dock, the sky is black and the wind is harassing the trees, making them sway side to side violently to avoid its lashes. The ocean bobbed and the waves lashed the boat my mother went in. I watched as it went up and down on the sea and mother looked rather funny waving and bobbing up and down, holding on to her straw hat with one hand and waving the other.

I blankly stared as the drops started falling, hitting my head with little force, as though it was telling me to leave, but I wanted to see my mother before I left, to memorize what she wore, how she smiled and how she did her hair, if we had a camera, I would have taken her picture and framed it, put it by my bedside and kiss it before I fell asleep, for it would be six months before she could come visit, and to me, that’s a long time.

By the time my father pulled my arm, we were already soaked by the rain. I jumped over to the backseat with my arms folded watching the people run like headless chicken in the streets.  I unwrapped the piece of cake my mother pressed into my hand before she went on the boat. Her eyes were filled with water and she dabbed at them with the embroidered handkerchief I gave to her on mother’s day. She smelt of powder and flowers, which I thought was very inappropriate since it wasn’t spring.

I was afraid to eat the cake, since it would be six months before I could taste anything she made. I wrapped it up and pushed it in my wet fall coat.

Father had to drag me from the driveway out of the rain, because I had little strength, after watching my mother leave.  I sat in the arm chair and listened while my father struggled to pull down the stubborn window, muttering under his breath. I thought to help him, but I just sat and looked at the black TV screen and just kept seeing her hand, her dress flowing, threatening to expose her, I sat there until the vision was confusing and I could no longer see her face.

The biscuits were stale and he seemed embarrassed by the wet rice and overcooked chicken. I ate it just as though it tasted, bland. He glanced at me under his blonde lashes, trying to make out my expression, but as plain as I thought it was, my father just looked confused.

We went to bed without saying good-night. I sat on the bed and watched the light flicker, for the power was gone. I wanted to write in my diary, to describe how she looked and smelt, but that only made it feel as though she was dead and the thought scared me too much. The night felt like when I had lost my best friend. We were fighting over a bracelet that she made for me and wanted it back, but I refused and she bit me, she sank her teeth into my arm, and turned her eyes upward to see if I was grimacing, but I only got pale and her eyes looked like a demon, and she was so ugly that I could not cry, we never spoke to each other again.

The pain came back, it wasn’t a physical pain, so internal that it spread through my entire body in such a speed that I could not breathe. I started to cry, I knew my father would hear me so I crawled under the bed and covered my eyes with my hair. My chest tickled, not in a good way, and the pain for my mother soared to my heart, and it broke.

I would peek over the counter while my father counted the money mother sent us. He always had a twinkle in his green eyes, the colour of a green, murky pond. After those days, the walls started peeling, and when the sink wanted fixing, we couldn’t call anyone. The store bought biscuits stuck to the roofs of our mouth. Our Sunday chicken, beans and mashed potatoes with biscuits dwindled to macaroni and cheese prepared in the microwave with tap water on the side.

The house became dark and dingy and everything was dusty. My father would sit in the armchair that was now worn and the flowers faded. He would bite the pen and circle ads in the classifieds. The following day he would leave with nothing in his stomach, in his old wedding suit and the newspaper under his arm. I would sit in the dark, twelve years old now, in the summer heat and cry for my mother who never called (and the money stopped). My father would come in the evenings, yell “dang it” and slam the newspaper on the counter.

He would carefully slice the thick, brown bread, spread the remains of the jam that could barely reach the centre and we would silently eat the bread, jam to taste and drink water. When I asked for more, he would hit the table and it made me jump, as usual he would yell “Jesus Clara, stop being that way” and I dared  ask “what way?”  Over that summer my father began selling home-made jams, pies and jelly for the old lady next door, who complained about a bad knee, but I felt that she was just sorry for us, our over washed clothes and broken down house.

He went door to door every day in the heat selling her goods. The money didn’t buy a new house or fancy clothes, but we ate chicken on Sundays and our bread was a lot sweeter. It was that same summer, after father left to sell I finally woke up. I was now fourteen and distant, so I spent my summers at home. The house was dark and smelt like a group of rowdy men lived in it. I opened the windows and washed everything my hand could. The wind ran through like a tired traveler returning home.  I was suddenly sad when I saw the arm chair, and with my skinny arms, I threw it on the sidewalk for the garbage truck, I knew it would hurt my father.

It was as though he didn’t notice and we ate baked beans and licked our fingers, but as full as I was, I was still sad. The next day I opened the freshly scrubbed cupboards and saw baking goods, crisp and clean and beaming at me. We didn’t know how to bake, so I thought my father had finally gone crazy. I took them down and retrieved my mother’s recipes from the shelf. The ink was bright and loud, as though she had just written the words. Some of the cards were smudged with chocolate and I could see her by the oven in her bright, yellow apron. I put on my own, now tight around my curvier hips and carefully followed her instructions.

The dough felt alive in my hands, and I carefully kneaded it, adding ingredients to my base. I rolled and cut like it was a baby, dressing it with love, and I finally understood when my mother often said “bake from the heart”.  When I closed my eyes I could see her, I could clearly hear her laugh and it was as though her hands were guiding my own.  At the end of the day I spread the table with our Christmas table cloth and at the centre was a beautiful marble cake baked my own hands and the spirit of my mother.

All my father did was pat my shoulders and say “I knew you could do it”

“Did you speak to mother?” I said, thinking that she finally called and said something.

“No” he said with a tone of apology. I ate everything else with ease, but the cake just wouldn’t move past my throat. Every day I baked, my father brought new ingredients every day, but I was still sad. I didn’t eat anything I made. I started to bake like a mad woman, my father said nothing, but sold extra cakes, we made extra money and I bought new clothes, many still have the tags.

We became independent, he became the salesman and I was the baker. The orders came in faster than my hands could move, but I felt no body could treat the dough with the tenderness that I had. My father hired a girl. I gave her strict instructions, we didn’t talk, by the end of the year, the walls were painted and we were living again. My mother still didn’t call, and it was Christmas day. I finally decided to try the cake I baked. The first piece melted on my tongue and it smelt and tasted exactly like my mother’s touch. The tears slowly fell over my high cheeks, and then they finally streamed down my face. I just sat and cried and my father looked on with uncertainty and pity, and for the first time since she left, he was lost for words.

We got big; we had our names on a sign at Mr. Peter’s hotel. I baked at the back, while father chatted up with the customers and charmed them, until it seemed like hypnotism. I didn’t speak and nobody bothered to speak to me. We moved to the nicer side of town, in a house with a porch wider than our old house, but the house made me miss my mother more, and I sank further into depression, covering my sadness by baking cakes and pies, until we had to throw out some or give away.

The night after we moved, I had a dream. My mother was standing at the front of our old house. She was caressing the flower armchair with her thumb and holding a box of cake in the other hand. I called out to her, but she didn’t even look up, I started to shout and ran towards her, as soon as I got closer, a shower of rain came and it was as though the rain was a curtain blocking her. She started to laugh, the same sound, like a child, followed by a sigh. I started to laugh too, for I was finally going to see my mother again, suddenly the rain stopped and she bit the cake, the box had my name on it and she smiled. As she bit into the cake, she started to frown then she started to cough. She held her throat, I wanted to help her but I couldn’t move, then she just fell over, and we were in a church. The choir was mournfully singing and a casket stood at the front. It opened and I peered inside, it was my mother in a sea captain suit, clutching my box. I didn’t cry, I just sat with my father and we only looked.

I woke up, sweating and gasping, and the harsh reality struck me, that my dream was reversed, and I believe, that to my mother, we were the ones who were dead.

On the eve of my fifteenth birthday, my father sent me to speak to a psychiatrist near the sea, which made me sick and my heart boil with anger. I held on to the small box of chocolate cake listening for my name. A woman with grey streak of silver dancing about her head pushed her head through the door. She had a warm smile, and without much thought I handed her the cake. I talked to her; it was my first time in years telling anyone how I felt. Her hands were warm and the light in her eyes seemed sincere and I felt some of the ice melt away. At the end I watched as she opened the box and placed a piece of the cake between her teeth. Her eyes popped and I was warm all over. It was the first time I felt like I achieved something although I had been told over and over. She handed me a slice and it tasted different, it didn’t taste of my mother’s hands, it tasted of my own, and finally I was on my way over my own rainbow.

 

Author's Note

Made a few errors earlier. Please read and respond. thanks :)

Reviews

[Patricia]

I am not qualified to critique stories but I know what I like. You have such a talent for details making it so easy for the reader to just climb right in and walk aside you in the journey. This is a wonderful write, in my humble opinion I truly enjoyed it. :)

[ReneeJ]

Thank you!!! I greatly appreciate your thoughts :)

[Lorna]

This is another great story. I love the different mentions of food because it all sounds so delicious and I love what complete thoughts you have from the beginning to the end. Everything ties together so beautifully. You've written another one of my favorites. Great job!