The Colour of Strangers --03--

Parents are supposed to care for us, nurture us. But when that's lost, we have to take care of everyone else. Thank you to WalkingBlind of quizilla for this idea!

 

Families stick together, no matter what threatens to tear them apart.

            Mary Boleyn stuck by her sister, Anne Boleyn, when Anne aimed for the throne. Percy Weasley eventually came back to his family. Eowyn and Eomer stayed faithful to their king Theoden, to their uncle, even when he couldn’t recognize friend from foe. Families are there for each other, no matter the hard times ahead.

            My family has been through its share of rough patches. Before me and my brothers and sisters, before America, my parents met in Italy. My Brazilian mother, Grazia, was in Italy for a short trip, visiting a friend. One day, she went down to the harbors, and met my father, Lorenzo Cadorna. It was instant love between them, but that love caused disputes between their families. It was hard on my mother who, several months later, was married and pregnant with me. And so my father decided that they should leave. The two packed up and left for America, starting their family and growing into a true and loving family.

            It wasn’t always easy, after that. Our family was never really well off. We struggled for a long time to make ends meet. My father managed two jobs; on the weekends, he drove limos, and during the week, he worked as a cars salesman. He was always tired, but when he came home at night, it was always to a smiling wife and bright, happy children.

            The family kept growing. A year after me, another daughter was born, this one named Isabella, after a Spanish royal. Then, two years after her birth, my mother took to pregnancy again: a son, this time. He was named Gabriel, after the angel. Another two years afterwards, my mother was again pregnant. This time, it was twins, a boy and a girl. But this pregnancy, unlike the others, was hard. After many hard months, my mother went into early labor and lost a child. My young sister died, and only my younger brother remained. He was named David, when he was finally brought into the world. He was named so after Michelangelo’s David, a beautiful piece of masculinity and potent life.

            When we grew older, my mother decided she should take a job. It was harder finding someone to take her, a foreign woman, but in the end, she began working at a small factory. I was only eleven, so I don’t remember what it was for, exactly, only that it ended in disaster.

            It was a bright morning. I had woken up early because my favourite cartoon would be playing for several hours. My mother had taken David with her to work, because he had an appointment later in the day. I didn’t think anything of it. It was a normal day. Everything should have been fine...

*

            The phone kept ringing. It’s shrill ring finally coerced me into answering it, and even then, I never once thought... never thought... how did it end so badly?

            My mother was in the hospital. She’d been so severely burned. I don’t know how she could stand being in so much pain... Most of her skin looked like it had been peeled away from her body; she was red and scarred and I could see the muscle of her arm, where the skin should’ve hidden it.

            It was so awful looking at her. David – bless him, he was fine – couldn’t be in the same room as our mother. When he saw her frail, charred body, he wailed and fought in my arms, and eventually my aunt would take him out.

            My father spent every waking hour at the hospital. He stopped going to work. I should’ve known then... my mother wasn’t coming back. This was going to be her end. But I didn’t see it. I only mourned for what had happened to her body, not what would happen.

            Months passed. Mother was kept on so many machines; it was difficult to know where she started and where they ended. My father only left her side for a few days to work. But he wasn’t making enough, not to keep my mother alive. Our family lived day to day, hoping to God that our mother would get better, that things would be okay...

            One day, my father told me that my mother wanted to see me. I stepped into her hospital room, fearing the worst, but hoping she would tell me that she might be better, that things would be okay.

            “Mercedes,” my mother said warmly, gripping my hand as tightly as she could. I smiled half-heartedly, trying not to cry.

            “Sweetie, you’re so beautiful. You know that, don’t you?” I stifled a sob and nodded. My mother always told me I was beautiful.

            “Look at you.” My mother’s one good eye swept over me, taking me in. She smiled. “You have my mother’s eyes. I don’t know what colour you would call it... your eyes are both blue and violet...”

            “Indigo?” I asked, desperately trying to keep my mother at ease.

            She laughed slightly. “Indigo. I like that. But it’s a special colour. You’re special. What do you think, should we call it Persian Indigo?”

            I smiled brightly and nodded sweetly, satisfied. This was my mother; everything was going to be okay. My mother breathed in deeply, and several minutes passed in silence. I watched the rise and fall of her chest, taking in every moment, because for these moments, my mother was okay, she was alive, and I loved her. Then:

            “Mercedes, I’m going to die.” My mother wasn’t even looking at me when she said it. She stared solemnly at the ceiling.

            I just stared at my mother in shock. With her words... my lungs ached, my heart raced, and my throat constricted. I felt dizzy... I felt like my world was collapsing. I shook my head vehemently.

            “You’re not going to die! You can’t die!” I was sobbing, gasping for breath, shaking my head. My mother would never leave us!

            She waited patiently for me to calm down some. “Sadie, I am going to die. It’s not long now. But I want you to promise me something, okay?” I could only nod faintly.

            “Promise me that you’ll take care of the family, okay? Your father... for some time he won’t do anything. He’s going to be upset. But you have to be strong, okay? Be strong for the family; take care of your brothers and your sister.” She breathed heavily. “Isabella is going to be inconsolable for a long time; she’ll cry a lot and you have to help make it better. Gabriel, my boy, he’s going to try and be strong. He’ll help you. But he’s just a child. Don’t worry too much about David. For a few days, he’ll miss me, but after that he won’t remember. I just ask that you take care of them, okay?”

            I drew in a straggled breath and nodded. If this was the last thing my mother asked of me, then yes, I’d do it. I’d see it through.

            My mother smiled. “You know, Mercedes, you were named after a woman in a novel, The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. The woman was very strong; she did whatever she could for her son.” With those words, my mother relaxed and closed her eyes. I walked out.

*

            My mother was dead. My beautiful, vibrant, Brazilian mother was dead. There would never be anymore dancing. There would never be movie nights. On Fridays, who would make the spaghetti that we’d come to expect? This was the end of our family, but none of us recognized it.

            At her funeral, my father sobbed. He cried hard and relentlessly. I remember watching him, as he knelt on the ground, gasping for air, asking the heavens why they couldn’t give her back. I tried being strong for my family, just like she asked. I took care of my siblings, cared for my father, and stayed calm and strong.

            Four months after my mother’s funeral, locked in my room, I let the tears fall from my Persian Indigo eyes.

Author's Note

What do you think so far?

Reviews

[Michael]

I have no idea what the plot is, because everything seems to be different in each chapter. However, I have to keep in mind the book is not finished. But on the other hand, it's amazing. Creating a character from just words is a difficult and a daunting task, especially in the first person perspective. You exhibit eloquence that people long for, to inquire into their shorts and novels. You make the impacts feel as strong as they are heard. To conclude, solid average story with a prodigious vocabulary makes worth this book reading!