Z Children (Book 1): Awakening (19 page)

5

BONNIE GREENE

I’d been up since 6 AM out of
habit. Maybe that’s unusual for a twelve year old kid, but I wasn’t an average
preteen.

I was always up
early- making sure everyone had what they needed before I left for school.
Today was a teacher work day for the county though, so I got to stay home with
Grandma and run errands. I’d called Mrs. Alice next door at 7 AM sharp, knowing
she’d be up and having her morning coffee.  I loved her name, because it
always made me think of wonderland, of someplace magical.

I felt bad
calling so early, even though she was already awake, but I’d forgotten to call
her yesterday and tell her we didn’t need help today. She always sat with
Grandma when Dad and I weren’t home. She didn’t charge us anything, said she
liked the company. Part of me believed her- she must get lonely now that her
husband, Mr. Lloyd, had passed away- but the other part of me knew that she was
just being kind, knew we didn’t have enough money to pay her even if she asked.
We really couldn’t ask for a nicer neighbor. Or one that made better apple pie
in the summer.

“Dad!” I waited
for the groaned response that always followed my morning yell. “Dad! You’re
going to be late for work again!”

It sounded like
a bear was upstairs, the way my dad stretched and carried on every morning, but
he was always so overtired. I tried to get him to quit his second job, told him
we made enough money… which was a lie. He’d said it wasn’t normal for a kid my
age to worry over a budget. But I was the one who wrote checks, mailed bill payments,
called the electric company when we couldn’t pay on time. Dad just didn’t have
the energy to focus on that stuff. And Grandma sometimes didn’t know what day
it was and she sometimes forgot that Grandpa was dead and that mom was gone.

I didn’t think
about mom anymore. I barely remembered her face now. But Grandma was always
looking for her, always calling for her daughter. It made me sad to always have
to tell her that her Rosie Lynn wasn’t home. Sometimes, she’d mistake me for
mom, because- according to Dad- we had the same dark auburn hair and forest of
freckles. I wore glasses though. Mom never needed them so her blue eyes were
never hidden behind thick frames.

“Dad!”

“I’m up. I’m
up!”

“Want me to
throw a pop tart in the toaster?”

“Do we have any
brown sugar left?”

Walking away
from the kitchen doorway, I opened the wall cabinet that held most of our dry
food. We never had much on hand towards the end of the month. SNAP-approved
items courtesy of $247 in food stamps and small paychecks never lasted as long
as we hoped. Generic pop tarts and instant oatmeal packs were stuffed into a
brown basket on the lower shelf. I rummaged through for a moment. All we had
left was strawberry, Dad’s least favorite, but the only kind Grandma would eat.

“Sorry! We’re
all out! Want something else?” I was almost screaming now and startled when Dad
walked into the kitchen, his hands vigorously rubbing a towel against his damp
hair.

“Don’t have to
yell, Baby Bird, I’m not deaf.” Dad walked over and kissed my forehead, then
playfully dropped the semi-wet towel over my head.

“Hey! It took me
an hour to make it straight!” I faked anger, slapping the towel off of my head.

“I like it
curly.” He walked away and opened our fridge.

“When it’s
curly, Grandma always mistakes me for Mom. She seems to remember I’m me if it’s
straight.” I didn’t let my voice be sad. I was over mom leaving, really okay
with it, but Dad was still hurt… I was pretty sure he’d always be sad Mom left.

Dad was quiet
for a moment, but then shook his head and started moving things around in the
fridge. “We out of milk too?”

“Yeah, Grandma
keeps pouring it into bowls and leaving it on the stoop for that stray cat; she
used the last of it yesterday.”

“I think she
wastes more food than she actually eats.” Dad sighed, grabbing the bag of
fruity pebbles on the counter. “Breakfast of champions,” he joked, taking a
fistful of dry cereal and stuffing it into his mouth. He crunched happily,
filling a glass of water to wash down the healthy meal.

“It’s grocery
day, at least.” I smiled, nibbling on a strawberry pastry. “Want to make hot
dogs and mac and cheese tonight? We’ve still got some
Worcestershire
left over from last time and hot dogs in the freezer.” We’d been making hot dog
mac and cheese ever since I could remember. Dad would slice and fry up the
chicken hot dogs (they were cheaper than the beef ones) in the sauce until they
caramelized. Then he’d make the mac and cheese (with extra butter when we could
afford it) and mix everything together until it was a gooey, delicious mess.

“I’m working
late tonight, Baby Bird. Not sure I’ll be up for cooking.”

“Oh…” I trailed
off. It wasn’t that I was surprised. Dad was always working late at his first
job or picking up an extra morning shift at the gas station.

“Sorry. Bill
called out sick and the plant offered me his shift tonight. I’ll be home around
three for an hour though. Let’s make some quick ramen and watch that show you
taped last week. What was it?”

“A documentary
on post-World War II Germany, but it’s almost three hours long. And I know you;
you’ll just end up falling asleep five minutes in.”

Dad laughed,
bits of rainbow cereal snowing from his open mouth. “You’re probably right. You
watch it and I’ll nap.”

“It’s a date.” Chewing
the last bite of pastry, I looked at the clock. “Crap! It’s almost 7, Dad.”

He looked at the
time and tossed the still-open bag of cereal onto the counter. Some of it
spilled. I’d be the one cleaning that up. “Where’s my shirt?” Dad was
scrambling now, trying to find his socks, shoes, uniform. It was another part
of our typical morning routine.

“Your socks and
shoes are next to the door and your shirt is right there,” I pointed to the
small breakfast table- which we rarely used- where his shirt was hanging over a
chair. “I washed it last night, your name tag is already on it, and your lunch
is in the fridge.”

“What would I do
without you, Baby Bird?”

“Oh, I don’t
know. Lose both your jobs, forget to shower, eventually smell like a sewer.
You’d be pathetic, that’s for sure.”

“Totally
pathetic.” He laughed again. I loved that sound; it was deep and rich- like
Mufasa from the Lion King.

As Dad shoved
his arms into the pale blue shirt he had to wear at the gas station, I brushed
the spilled cereal off the counter and into my cupped palm so that I could dump
it back into its box. We couldn’t afford to waste.

Like clockwork,
Grandma came into the kitchen. This morning, like many mornings, she was still
in her long nightgown with her hair rolled up in soda cans. Dad had bought her
curling rods last Christmas, but she’d tried them once and returned to her old
faithful method. I always wondered how she could sleep with her head lumpy and
lopsided.

“Morning, Mom.”

“Joe? You’re up
early. I thought they put you on third shift this week. Did you already collect
the eggs this morning? I can go get them.” Grandma looked confused, her gaze
darting about the kitchen as if the checkered valence and white coffee maker
weren’t familiar. I knew what she was seeing- I’d been in the old house she’d
shared with Grandpa before he’d passed away. Their kitchen had been mostly
brown- brown curtains, brown table cloth, white and brown plates.

“Mom, it’s me, Clark.”
Dad pointed to his name tag. “See. I’m your son-in-law. Dad passed away four
years ago.”

Grandma shook
her head and then placed her index fingers against her temples. “Clark. Oh.
Where’s Rosie this morning? Does she want some eggs? Hopefully the chickens
have laid us a few.”

“Mom, we don’t
have the chickens anymore and remember Rosie left on a trip a long time ago.”

I could see that
Dad was getting frustrated; he always tried to be so patient. But mornings were
rough for Grandma. Once she’d been awake for a few hours, had a cup of tea,
she’d be okay. “Grandma, do you know who I am?” I moved in front of her,
pushing my straightened hair behind my ears. I waited a moment, but Grandma’s
lips were concreted shut. “I’m Bonnie, Grandma. We’re going to get dressed and
take the bus to the Murphy’s today for groceries.”

She smiled at me
now. “Can we get some ice cream? I’d like some ice cream.”

“Sure.” I lied,
knowing the frozen treat would melt on the more than thirty minute ride home
from the store. Murphy’s was only ten miles away, but there were nearly half a
dozen stops. Even with the insulated bag, buying frozen items was a gamble. And
we really didn’t have the extra money to take that chance. Dad used to stop at
the store for treats like ice creams since he had the car and could get it home
quickly, but his schedule had been so erratic the past two months that he
hadn’t had the chance.

The clock struck
7 and it pinged an alarm. “Dad, shoes.” I reminded, wanting him to make his
7:30 shift start. He’d been late four times last month and the owner hadn’t
been very happy with him.

“Shoot,” Dad
darted out of the kitchen. I followed with his lunch bag, and then watched him
skip socks and just shove his bare feet into his white sneakers.

“Your shoes are
going to smell tonight.” I crinkled my nose, remembering the last time he’d
skipped socks. I’d had to wash his shoes twice over the weekend and sprinkle in
baby powder and that had only masked the smell rather than eliminating it.

“Look on the
bright side; it’s grocery day so we’ll have lots of detergent.”

“Very funny.”

Dad grabbed the
car keys off a small peg on the wall and jokingly waltzed out of the front
door, throwing up jazz hands to make me laugh. He didn’t need the keys; they
were mostly for show. The car was so banged up, Dad used a flat head
screwdriver to unlock the doors and turn the ignition. Someone could steal it
in a heartbeat, not that anyone would want to. The radio was broken, the seats
were decorated in cigarette burns- courtesy of the last owner- and the side
mirrors were duct taped to the car. That was Grandma’s fault. She’d gone on a
midnight, joyride forgetting she was 75 with no license and absolutely no sense
of depth perception.

We’d used to
have a really nice car, but mom had taken that the night she’d left us.

***

I waved to Dad
from the front porch as he pulled away from our house in the ancient Toyota
wagon. The car was going to be mine when I turned sixteen and could drive, but
I doubted the poor vehicle would still be around. It coughed and sputtered just
reversing from the driveway.

“Rosie?” Grandma
called from the kitchen. She was probably trying to find the red tea kettle.
I’d started hiding it from her, because last time she had tried to heat up
water, she’d turned on the gas, but hadn’t lit the burner. It had taken an hour
with all the windows open for our tiny house to air out. “Rosie?”

“Coming,
Grandma.” I emphasized her name, hoping it would jog her memory before I
entered the kitchen. I was disappointed that my stick-straight hair hadn’t
seemed to help today.
Just pretend she’s calling you; that she’s using your
middle name. I’m not Mom. I’m Bonnie Rose… not Rosie Lynn. Grandma knows it’s
me.

***

Grandma was okay
now. She’d still been a bit disoriented during the bus ride, but once we’d
gotten our cart and walked into Murphy’s, her eyes had cleared and she’d looked
at me and smiled. Hopefully that meant that the worst of her confusion was over
for today.

The grocery
store was always busy the day SNAP benefits went out; our community had lost a
lot of jobs last year when the bottling company moved across the border and
many families were still without a steady income.

I always had
Grandma push the cart. She needed the support and it kept her from grabbing items
we couldn’t afford or didn’t need. “Let’s start in canned food, Grandma.”

“Are we still
getting ice cream?” Her voice was sometimes like a child’s- innocent and sweet,
not realizing the weight of adult responsibilities. Just another reason why I
had to be the grown up more often than not.

“We’ll have to
see if we have the money for it, Grandma. And I’m worried it might melt on the
bus ride.” Her face fell and instantly I felt terrible for bursting her bubble.
“Maybe we can stop at the gas station and buy an ice cream from Dad. We can get
those push pops you like and Dad gets his discount.”  My words made her
face light up again. If a dollar and a half for two orange-flavored sherbet ice
creams could make a person that happy, then it was worth the money, even when
times were tight.

We took our time
strolling up and down the aisles. The boxes of pasta were on sale 10 for $10,
so I picked up twenty. I could make a lot of meals out of that- combined with
the variety of sauces that were marked down in the clearance aisle. There was
even a jar of vodka sauce for 75 cents. That was Dad’s favorite sauce, but I
didn’t buy it as often because it was usually a bit more expensive than the
plain old marinara. The expiration dates on the discount sauces were pretty
good; about a month left and even after they ‘expired’ we’d be ok to eat them
for quite a while. Most people didn’t like to do that.