arashi

WHY IS THIS SCHOOL CALLED Portmouth High when it's not even close to a port? Does Lexington even have a port?

I need to find out the answers someday. Probably today.

This thought infiltrates my brain during English class, which is going on right now. It's the last class and I'm waiting for the bell to act as my Declaration of Independence. 

The image of the Pink Panther pajamas appears again, and a small smile forms on my face. The fact that she knew exactly why I called her the teleporter; it reminds me of my friend back in Boston, Bryan. He was almost always accurate at figuring out the strange nicknames I gave to people.

After teaching us some 'essential skills' for debating for the first fifteen minutes of class, the red-haired lady, whose name I've forgotten already, announces us to open our textbooks as she's going to start reading a poem. I don't have mine, so I just blankly stare at her face.

"When You Come, by Maya Angelou," she reads out, her voice earthy and clear.

It catches my attention, because Mom loves Maya Angelou. Loved. After dinner, she always used to read out some poem or the other, most of them her's, to me and Dad. Mom always made comments on how sad or fantastic or thrilling or creepy the poem was. She found every poem so full and complete, no matter how unfinished it sounded.

I might've listened to When You Come too. But I have a feeling that I'm muddling it up with When Autumn Came.

The teacher starts.

"When you come to me, unbidden

Beckoning me

To long ago rooms,

Where memories lie."

She stops reading to evaluate the first stanza.

These lines are reminding me of Mom, and they aren't pleasant memories. It's the ones including her in the hospital, with tubes attached to her body and bottles of saline hanging next to her bed. Her eyes are closed. When she hears me breathing beside her, they open, and she gives a frail smile.

I don't like this poem. It's simple. I don't want it to be so simple. So direct and easy to understand. I don't want to understand it at all.

She resumes the poem.

"Offering me, as to a child, an attic,

Gatherings of days too few.

Baubles of stolen kisses.

Trinkets of borrowed loves.

Trunks of secret words,"

A pause.

"I cry."

The last two words ram into my soul, forming a deep and hollow crater.

Drops of salt water materialize in my eyes. The tears hang at the edge of my eyelid arrogantly; there's a confusing pain inside me that feels enough to murder myself but not to make the tears fall. I'm shaking my legs too fast, and it's making my whole body tremble.

Damn my fate. It had to be that poem today. Had to be.

From somewhere distant, I hear Mom's voice. "Honey, I'll be fine," she says.

I know she won't. I want to yell at her to stop lying. I want to yell at her to stop her from going wherever she is going, and come to me. I want to collide into her arms and be covered by her unceasing pineapple scent.

"Are you okay, Mr. Murphy?" the English teacher asks.

There's no need to hide myself now. The quivering of my body has become thoroughly noticeable.

I don't respond.

Mom's voice is shrieking in my head. Like a malfunctioning Oracle, she's spewing all the lies and false hopes everyone offered to our family like prophecies. All the wrong things they'd said about the future.

A wooden coffin looms out of nowhere, and I crumble under the weight of her body.

"Mrs. Lowry, I think we should take him to the Infirmary," someone says. I'm so distracted, I can't figure out if it's a boy or a girl.

The teacher probably says okay, and then helps me up. She addresses some words hastily to the rest of the students, and takes me out of the room.

I feel uneasy. The warmth of my mother's hand is what I'm longing for, not the burning heat of Mrs. Lowry's.

Although wanting to break out of her grasp, I don't. I'm scared I'll be on the floor if I'm on my own. The coffin hovering above might fall on me and crush my bones.

After an unknown span of time, we reach the Infirmary. Mrs. Lowry gently leaves my hold and takes me to the nearest bed. I sit there clutching at the sheets, while she converses with someone else in the room, most likely the nurse. She comes to me, and the two of them slowly help me lie on the mattress.

It's a bad decision. I see the coffin straight above me this time, and I shut my eyes hard and fast. Darkness becomes my surrounding. I'm not sure if it's better, but I don't open my eyes. If I have to see this scene every time, I'd rather keep my eyes glued forever and bask in the dark.

Sympathetic fingers weave their way through my hair. It's both comforting and not.

Slowly, my violent tremors turn into a soft vibration. Little later, I start to feel drowsy and my eye muscles relax, no longer fighting to keep closed.

Mom speaks again, but her voice is softer this time. "Don't worry. We'll be fine, honey."

We'll be fine.

We'll be fine.

We'll be fine.

🎕

"How're you feeling now?" I wake up to a mellow voice. It's Dad. He sounds sorry. Like he thinks it's his fault I had a breakdown, because since we shifted, I barely have anyone I'm comfortable with to stay by me now. Texts and calls can only do so much.

I feel horrible for thinking he should be.

"Better," I reply, getting up to sit on the bed.

I look out the window. It's minutes away from nightfall.

"Let's go home. You're good, right?" Dad asks, and I nod.

He smiles, and then waits for me to put my feet on the floor, supporting me in the process. I say, I'm fine. With a smile, because I don't want it to brush off in a wrong way.

It's not a lie. I do feel better. I'm not shaking anymore, and it feels like my muscles have regained it's stability to a large extent. Above all, I can't spot any flying coffin in the room.

As we get out of the Infirmary, Mrs. Lowry meets up with Dad.

"Thank you for taking care of my son," Dad says, bending his head ever-so-lightly.

"Of course, but you should really say that to Ms. Hernandez. She was beside him the entire time, quite literally," Mrs. Lowry answers, wearing a homely smile.

Like the gentleman he is, Dad faintly bows again. "Yes, I already have."

I haven't. But on looking back in the room, I don't see any woman there. She must have gone somewhere else after talking to Dad.

Mrs. Lowry then turns to me. "Mr. Murphy, you missed an important announcement in English class. I don't want to waste your time further by repeating it, so I've emailed it. The work done in the rest of the classes is attached along with it. Take care."

"Thank you so much."

When I say those words, I realize how much of an understatement it is. My surprise masks my gratefulness. I literally stopped this woman's class midway and she repays me by arranging notes and even sends them online.

Sixteen minutes later, Dad and I are getting into our Volkswagen. I feel relieved that Dad had suggested to drive me to school instead of letting me get here in my car. It makes me have one thing less to stress about.

My mother's death was not sudden. We knew it was going to happen. She was diagnosed with lung cancer around six months back, and she died two weeks ago. We knew that there was no chance of a recovery. Yet, like slow poison, her death numbed our insides.

Mom's passing away hit Dad deeper than I could imagine. For one entire day, Dad didn't leave the side of her body. He didn't comfort me and I didn't comfort him. We stayed in our own places. Me with my mouth absolutely dry, and Dad with his swollen red eyes. Almost a week later, he spoke to me. "We're going to stay in Lexington from now on," he said.

"When are we shifting?" I asked him. 

"Next week."

Lexington is the place where he met Mom. He came here on a college trip with his friends, when his car broke down. Mom was the daughter of a garage owner in that place. They hit it on from there.

I was worried about Dad when he said it. It was as if he was holding onto a ghost. I was scared that he was losing it. But he reassured me in his softest tone countless times that he just wanted to let his memories come at a standstill, right where everything started. And also to give her parents support.

Our journey home is quiet except for a few formalities. How was the first day? Good. How's the canteen food? Better than I expected. Are you fine now? Yep.

At 7:41 p.m, we reach home.

Dad couldn't think about living with Mom's parents, so he just bought a house on the next street. I must admit, he got a pretty good deal. The place is quite big. It's two-storeyed, three if you count the attic. With four bedrooms and one living room, it's perfect for a family of four.

But it looks monotonous. The walls and roof are contrasted with light and dark grey hues. Mom would hate this colour combination on a house. The only thing she'd approve would be the bright white window panes and chic ebony door. For the walls, she'd have gone for something more yellow, light blue or maybe even baby pink. Our previous home was actually a mix of all, which made it look like a candy store. But all of us loved it.

Great, now I even miss my home. My old home.

Mom loved colours and experimenting with them. It's why she decided to become an architect instead of continuing as a mechanic. Grandpa and Grandma fully supported her when she said she wanted to turn the garage into her office and blueprint studio. She didn't immediately get calls to design something, but her breakthrough came when some guy from the neighbourhood wanted to build a villa on a new plot he bought. He was so impressed with my Mom's work, he immediately gave her contacts to a friend of his, who was the owner of a Building Contractor company. She got married later on and shifted to Boston with Dad, expanding her business. Long story short, Mom's career just kept going uphill after that. Just not her health.

Entering this new place feels awkward, mainly because it hardly feels like it belongs to me. It's barer and bigger than our last one. 

I walk up to where my room supposedly is. It's big and empty. A smell of paint still lingers. I wonder if the emptier your room gets, the emptier the space inside you feels. Because it's applying well to me right now.

"I'm gonna make some pasta. Do you want some?" Dad asks me.

"Yes," I reply. On cue, my stomach roars.

Dad laughs. "Go freshen up. I'll call you down when it's ready."

I smile and go up to my room. After taking a shower, I plop onto the bed and check my phone to see three texts from Bryan.

Hey man

So how was your first day at Fishlips High?

XD

I laugh.

It was okay

And it's Portmouth High

Is the place good?

Idk right now

Maybe

We continue with a general conversation after that. He doesn't give any unnecessary remarks and just reads my texts, replying with OKs and Uh Huhs. I'm glad they're like that; it's why I even let myself talk with him. I'm not in the mood to receive any pep-talk no matter how small.

Dad calls out from down. Dinner's ready.

Dad's a good chef. So good, that Mom, I and also Mom's Japanese parents had requested him to open a food truck or something similar. Pasta's his outright specialty. 

I text Bryan a dramatic farewell and then head down to fill the grumbling pit in my body.

☀ ☀ ☀

Hey guys! You made it till the fourth chapter! Thanks for giving it 200+ reads and 40+ votes. I'm so grateful to anyone who decided to tune into this book. Really, I am! And I so love you for that!

Stay safe and I hope the rest of the story will stay with you. Thanks again.

Lots of sunshine,

Genesee

:)

<3