The Most Prominent Memory

People usually try to remember the good in their lives, but sometimes there's that one dark memory that just sticks. This is mine. **Thanks guys for the reviews... you made me really proud of this piece; I appreciate it. :D)

 

Three and a half years. Where has the time gone? Sixteen and carefree way back then, when all that I kept stashed away in my back pocket was a learner’s permit and a half-eaten pack of gum. I remember the heat starting early that year, right off the bat in the beginning of June.  Waves of  heated summer breeze blew my long hair in swirls about my head, which irritated the s**t out of me.

            Long hair back then. It’s been awhile.

                For just stepping out into the world and about to be stepping into my junior year of high school, I vaguely remember the first half of that summer. I only really remember a roll-over accident I had participated in; passenger, not driver. No harm done to myself, although one girl who happened to be sitting next to me in the backseat cut her face all to hell. I was lucky to take the left side, I suppose. Lucky not to be scarred, not physically, anyway. It wasn’t my time yet.

                June and July flew by, a whirlwind that just blows across the surface of my memory these days. You can ask me about any day in those two months, and the picture in my mind will be blurred, pixilated, just beyond visual reach. I wish I could travel back to those days and relive them just one more time, and take notes of what I did each day just to remember. When August would come around for the second time, my memory would be shocked all over again, and the warm, comfort-of-home images would fade once more, leaving only notes scribbled on crumpled paper for me to read later and to use only to pretend I remember those words and feelings.

                It’s all so vague to me now; an inner lens out of focus. Then I shift my thoughts to August, and the lens twists to adjust, the image coming in clear and steady. So vivid-- so painfully unforgettable.

                My father worked everyday, and I rarely saw him until the evening. My days were spent with my mother, who had a summer vacation just as I did, since she worked as a paraprofessional for the school system. We’d spend our days basking in the sun that cast itself in shining little beams upon the refreshing water of the pool while sharing stories, useless facts, jokes, and opinions with one another. Complete contentment is what I can tell you in a couple words. The days were hot, but it didn’t matter to us. We got a long just fine together. It must’ve been a good summer, basking in the sun with her everyday. Although I didn’t appreciate it back then, I see now that I would give anything to experience that feeling again.

                Of course, though most days were packed with heavy sun beams, storms would still roll in and out, causing a commotion in the sky, forcing us under the roof into the cold shade. The one I remember most was one that came in the middle of the night and never left me. A perfectly normal night, just like any other; about to become unlike any other in a flash.

                Thunder was booming in her chest, and she could feel the searing burn of the lightning racing through her ribs. And we just stood there while she winced and fidgeted, assuring us she was fine, insisting it was nothing she couldn’t handle. “I’ll just go lay down, and when I wake up, it’ll be gone,” she stated plainly, though lacking her usual bright tone. We nodded and turned away, missing the sight of her hand clutching at her chest, her breaths growing short. She slowly made her way down the hall and into the bedroom, the dark of the doorway engulfing her. I didn’t say anything to her at all, she didn’t give me a chance. And if she did, I wouldn’t have said anything, anyway.

                 The sky grew darker as night set in, the house silent as midnight approached. The sweltering summer heat was causing beads of sweat to break across my forehead, my hair curling and frizzing in the thick humidity. Not being able to sleep under the blanket of warmth, I clicked on the television while my father made his way to the bathroom for a late night shower. He must’ve been uncomfortable in the heat, too.

                Nothing on television, no way to escape the heat. My mind ran free with ideas of this and that, staring at the blank white wall to the side of me, trying to rush myself into some sort of sleep that would pass time faster. I heard the bathroom door click open, which barely shook me from my stuporous trance. His footsteps patted down the hardwood floor towards the bedroom, and my brain relaxed once more. Silence.

                And all at once, shouting. Shouting that shook me beyond the point of simply waking up from sleep. My heart pounded almost out of my chest as he shouted at me from down the hall. “Call 911! Quick! It’s your mother!”

                “What?” I replied. I actually asked what, as if I couldn’t hear the glass-shattering shouts. I know what he said the first time. It’s just that I never thought I’d hear those words in my life.

                “Get on the phone and call 911 now!… I think your mother had a heart attack.”

                Jumping up from the couch, the whole of my backside drenched with sweat, I ran to the phone and dialed the three dreaded numbers. The woman answered in a pleasant voice, and not even listening to her, I blurted out “I need help!”

                Of course she knows you need help, you idiot. You just called 911.

                I couldn’t get words to form in my head at that point, and by that time, my father had already run into the room and I, dumbfounded and speechless, handed the receiver over to his clammy hands. He was almost shouting into the receiver in panic, the operator more than likely holding her end about a foot away from her ear. It all faded away as I made my way down the hall and into the dark room, not wanting to flick on a light, not wanting to see too much.

                As my eyes slowly adjusted to the black, I could see her form emerging, lying silent and still across the bed. She was breathing, but in a way that sounded much like a jammed vacuum. I kneeled on the bed next to her lazy figure and gazed at her face, drool dripping down her chin and onto the soft quilt underneath her. Sticking my finger into her mouth, I moved her tongue away from her throat and tilted her head back. Tears streaming down my face, I blew into her mouth and pumped her chest, slowly becoming manic. Nothing seemed to help her. I rubbed her soft hands, which lay limp on each side of her, begging her to respond.

                Silence was packed in around me, except for the sound of her lungs grasping for air. The noise was absolutely horrible, and I cringed with every breath she took. I wrapped my arms around her dying body , realizing the terrible vacuum sound was ceasing. I sat up as her breath cut off, the room now completely quiet. Tears were coming out something heavy by then, and I slowly turned away and left the room, my father’s panicking voice coming into earshot once more. His pounding footsteps took him down the hall and into the room, where he was instructed by the operator to perform CPR. I had already tried it dad, it’s not going to work.

                I didn’t have the heart to say it, not then, not now, not ever.

                It seemed like hours passed as he begged her to stay alive. Begging at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking every now and then. It absolutely broke my heart to hear him crying out to God, pleading with him to keep her with us; something that God couldn’t comply with, something he wouldn‘t promise.

                My eyes fell to the floor as I sat on the sweaty couch, waiting for help to arrive. What seemed like centuries later, flashing lights broke through the windows and lit up the summer night on our street. They busted through the unlocked door and ran into the room, toting a stretcher and bags of medical supplies with them. Some minutes later, out came her body on a cold, metal stretcher, shirt ripped open and electrodes and whatever else tacked to her chest. They carried her out with stealthy speed, my father following close behind. I didn’t go with him; I didn’t want any more participation in this night, in this life.

                I saw the headlights cast their beams across the lawn some 45 minutes later, and I jumped up off the couch immediately to greet him at the door. He came in with a pause, and walked past me into the living room, where he turned to face me, tears welling up in his eyes. I could read it on his face; my stomach flipped completely upside down.

                “Your mother’s gone. They couldn’t do anything,” he said in a somber tone, a deep gulp following his words. The tears dropped onto his cheeks now, his eyebrows arching in a truly pathetic -looking way. I sighed heavily and threw my arms around him, both of us still taken aback by what had just occurred in the last hour and a half.

                The night lasted for years it seemed, as we sat in silence and clicked on the television, with no way to escape ourselves, no way to escape the heat.

Reviews

[George Love]

Great job. Simply fantastic. It might have been painful for you to recall the events, but you did so in such a way that caputres the reader quickly and keeps them involved. I love the imagery you used as well. I've answered many a call like this and the situation is always shrouded in chaos, and many times the emotions are lost. You brought many emotions back with this writing. Well done. I wish you well and thank you for sharing this work.

[Floornine]

This is so awefully amazing. You really reached into yourself to write this. Anyone can account someone who's passed away in their lifetime, but a lot of those people distance themselves from the truth, the reality of what really happened and just stick to the facts, the events one after another. You really made this so personal and I think it's utterly beautiful how daring and honest you are.

[Delilah Dunn]

I encourage you to read my story "An Ending Without Goodbye", as I can most definately empathize with this type of experience.
This piece is incredible--it reels you in from beginning to end and I was riveted to the page for every syllable of every word. The emotion of the piece is raw and totally honest, and you describe every detail almost with clinical precision. I found this to be a truly talented and touching story. Thank you so much for sharing.

[Kristen R. Heyl]

My heart cried as I read this. I can't imagine being in the situation you and your father were. I lost my mother to ALS 6 years ago but at least we were told 2 years before she passed that she would have roughly 2 years to live. You and your father had no warning. I definitely felt the emotions all through this piece.

[Boonrassi]

Three and a half years. Where has the time gone? Sixteen and carefree way back then, when all that I kept stashed away in my back pocket was a learner's permit and a half-eaten pack of gum. I remember the heat starting early that year, right off the bat in the beginning of June. Waves of heated summer breeze blew my long hair in swirls about my head, which irritated the s**t out of me.

//you ever say 'about my head?'
any of your friends?
clashes with the rest of the language.
you might want some syns maybe.
pure telling so far..

Long hair back then. It's been awhile.

For just stepping out into the world and about to be stepping into my junior year of high school, I vaguely remember the first half of that summer. I only really remember a roll-over accident I had participated in; passenger, not driver. No harm done to myself, although one girl who happened to be sitting next to me in the backseat cut her face all to hell. I was lucky to take the left side, I suppose. Lucky not to be scarred, not physically, anyway. It wasn't my time yet.

June and July flew by, a whirlwind that just blows across the surface of my memory these days. You can ask me about any day in those two months, and the picture in my mind will be blurred, pixilated, just beyond visual reach. I wish I could travel back to those days and relive them just one more time, and take notes of what I did each day just to remember. When August would come around for the second time, my memory would be shocked all over again, and the warm, comfort-of-home images would fade once more, leaving only notes scribbled on crumpled paper for me to read later and to use only to pretend I remember those words and feelings.


//i like the above.. its time for the story to start though.
how would the above look if it were a movie? so far............nothing as happened.

It's all so vague to me now; an inner lens out of focus. Then I shift my thoughts to August, and the lens twists to adjust, the image coming in clear and steady. So vivid-- so painfully unforgettable.

My father worked everyday, and I rarely saw him until the evening. My days were spent with my mother, who had a summer vacation just as I did, since she worked as a paraprofessional for the school system. We'd spend our days basking in the sun that cast itself in shining little beams upon the refreshing water of the pool while sharing stories, useless facts, jokes, and opinions with one another. Complete contentment is what I can tell you in a couple words. The days were hot, but it didn't matter to us. We got a long just fine together. It must've been a good summer, basking in the sun with her everyday. Although I didn't appreciate it back then, I see now that I would give anything to experience that feeling again.

//past time for the story to start..

Of course, though most days were packed with heavy sun beams, storms would still roll in and

//still rolled in..
the was............verb thing. just avoid it.

out, causing a commotion in the sky, forcing us under the roof into the cold shade. The one I remember most was one that came in the middle of the night and never left me. A perfectly normal night, just like any other; about to become unlike any other in a flash.

Thunder was booming in her chest,

or
Thunder boomed in her chest...
which do you like better?


and she could feel

//she felt..
avoid was.............verb, could..............verb builds.

Silence was packed in around me, except for the sound

silence verbed around me.

was packed in.....sounds odd to my ear.


Tears were coming out something heavy by.

//typo...

and 'was...........verb construction again.

tears verbed..........
ok... K, lets just say this story isnt for me. it doesnt get started for a looooooong time. word choice is weak. its 90% all tell v show.
yes.. there are some nice turns of phrase.

an inner lens out of focus...
nice..
a short story is an uninterrupted picture dream, a movie. but, filming the first 10 paras of this would just be impossible. nothing happens in real time.
T

[Creepy Swine Guy]

Disclaimer - Look. This crit doesn't come from a book critic or an editor or even a guy who ever got an "A" in English. So if my crit isn't as glowing as you would hope, you would be well within your rights (and probably correct) in saying "What the heck does that snook know? He's no expert." I can occasionally be helpful by finding typos for you or that one sentence that doesn't read quite right. But please take my crit for what it is ... just one guys opinion.

Spelling & Grammar Nitpicks:
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>>>We got a long just fine together.

[Marie]

Great job. This was well written. Thank you for sharing such painful memories.

[Berkley Conner Jr]

wow. Thats incredible. I cant believe it. I want to say I'm sorry but I also want to tell you that you have an amazing style of writing that just knocks me off my feet. again wow

[Shaun Hardy]

Whoa.

I don't know of any words to best describe my thought right now. I've seen this happen first hand and the emotions from another can be overpowering.