Meraki

Holes

For this part, I just have to warn you:

This was a novella I wrote as a part of a Norwegian exam, and later I used it as homework in English (the exercise was to translate a text from Norwegian to English), and I chose this one as it was simple and short and easy. That is why this is not the best of novellas, and I'm not particularly proud of it, but I realized I hadn't published anything here for a while, and I really do believe it is not the worst story out there, so here you go.

Consider yourself warned.

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She gave me an umbrella and sent me out, into the rain.

              Sitting on the sidewalk, waiting, I did not know what to do. Feeling the rain through my clothes, down my back and into my hair, I felt cold. But I did not dare move. She would come out soon, she would be sorry for everything she said, blaming her husband for leaving her, blaming the though years after her graduation, saying she would never so such a thing again,

              And I would run into her arms, never doubting the truth in her voice. That was simply the way it was. That was how it has always been. She would send me away, onto the streets, and I would stand there until she calmed down, until she felt the regret, and then she would let me come into our warm home again. It was the same deal, time and time again.

But this time, she did not come out again.

This time, the windows stayed closed, the door shut, locked.

She did not come out to me, sitting in the rain a dark autumn evening. She did not come with a warm cup of tea with sugar, a carpet draped loosely around her shoulders, an apologetic look in her eyes, pleading. I could not even see her head from behind the dark glass of our window, peering out to call me in.

I stood.

Walked a couple of steps onto the street, now as flooded as the Nile running in Egypt.

Turned around again, to the door, walked up the steps to our front porch.

No lights in the windows, no voice calling my name.

The water traced the wood of the walls keeping me out. The street was empty save myself.

What was I doing here?

What right did she have to chase me out from my home, my room, my world?

We lived together; we were family. She was supposed to take care of me, not shut me out when dusk colored the sky black. She had given me an umbrella. With holes. Useless.

What did she think she was doing? Why not just let me in? How did this solve any of our problems? I had no idea.

I looked up at the evening sky through a hole in the umbrella. It was dark, clouded, crying. The tears fell around me, over me, tangled in my lashes and my hair. It reminded me of myself, just standing here – at the edge, about to jump into all the hatred and loss and the dark thoughts.

              And all at once it became unbearable. I could not hold on any longer, impossible to hold on to the edge with bloody hands and grime in my eyes. I fell. And fell. And did not hit the bottom.

How had I managed this rejection before? How had I survived, knowing my mother did not love me, and my father had left me, and all that I had left, was out of reach? Why did I still miss her, after everything she had said and done, after all these years of pain?

I barely knew who she was anymore.

Every day she came home late.

She always left, in a hurry, when someone came to me – or her.

She did not talk to her friends anymore. Did she have any?

She did not talk to me.

She avoided every question asked directly to her.

She yelled and screamed, suddenly exploding, if the smallest thing was out of order.

Like a backpack on the floor. A pair of shoes in front of the door. Some clothes in the bathroom.

Or like a paper on the table, or a bowl in the sink.

She exploded. Even the dust bothered her.

Worst of all: thoughts.

I was not to believe anything she did not believe in, not to think anything she did not find to her liking.

              I was not supposed to believe in anything but her.

I was crying now, like the sky so far above me.

Maybe I was more like the umbrella than those gray clouds. I could not protect myself from the rain entirely, but taking it away would only make me soaking wet. My entire life was just as dark as the water running down the dark glass of the windows to my home.

Then the door behind me creaked.

I turned slowly, wearily.

Mother gave me a tired smile, standing in the doorway, not braving the water. In her hand was a steaming cup. A blue one. On her shoulders lay a woolen carpet in dark blue.

She did not come out onto the porch. It was just as wet, just as cold, as I was.

I stood. Again.

Looked her into those blue eyes, those eyes that I knew so well.

The traces of my tears could barely be seen through the rain, but she saw. She frowned.

"You are crying," she said.

I nodded.

"Come on in," she said.

I nodded again. And took one step toward her.

"Mom," I said. I still cried.

"Come on. I forgive you.

Then she dragged me into the house, into the warmth of my home – the home that never felt like a home.

The warmth was good. My mother was good.

And the blue umbrella – the one with all the holes – was left on the street, the streets like the Niles, washing it away.