Mirrors

Bottle

Chapter Twenty-Six

Bottle

June 1st—it was my birthday. It was the first time I had ever spent a birthday with a quiet house.

Grandma had finally gifted me a painter’s set. She sent it in a package with a card, telling me to use it wisely. On the morning of my twelfth birthday, I quickly rummaged through the curious package. Inside was an easel with two large sketching pads, drawing pencils, erasers, oil pastel, paint and brushes. It was an artist’s dream come true. I immediately set myself to work.

Usually a party was prepared for me, celebrating my special day. Almost all of my relatives would come and visit our house. Even when some of them lived so far away. They would spoil me—bring me presents for me to enjoy. Our large front yard would serve many people with food and drinks ready to be feasted upon by everyone who came. It was the beginning of summer; it meant that the world gifted me with sun and warmth.

The air was filled with the smell of barbeque. Laughter rose across every corner of our property. The sun’s illumination brightened up everyone’s day, giving them enough time to forget the stress of their everyday lives. The children would go off into the street, playing games to pass the time. The teenagers would set aside their moods, joining in the fun with the younger kids. The adults would gather around to gossip, or complain about the government. It was a traditional function set for me. And every kid in our family had a turn on their special days.

Moving away was different.

Washington was cold even when the sun came out. The wind blew by, piercing my skin when I came out of the house. With my parents’ new jobs in this state, they couldn’t set aside enough time to invite our family over. It wouldn’t be the same, after all. Our yard was bigger, but the house was smaller. The weather was too bipolar to agree with me. The aura of this new neighborhood was not pleasing either. It didn’t feel like home even after a year of living there.

And there was something else that mom didn’t want to tell me. It was something too personal—something a twelve-year-old wouldn’t understand. Eventually, I learnt the partial reason for leaving home: mom and Aunt Katherine—Jaren’s mom—had a fight. That was all I knew. I had no idea what for, but it was vital enough to make both angry. Mom was finished, and she needed to leave the place. She wanted to get away from everyone, starting anew.

I blamed mom for everything; for leaving our home, for little Irene turning to Valerie, for my quiet, twelfth birthday, etc. It was all her fault. It was all her doing that I couldn’t handle that green bottle from exploding, spilling all my emotions into a ravaged set of potions intermixing into a toxic waste. Those feelings came out more intensified than it should have been. It had been kept inside for so long.

There was no other time in my life that I had hated my mother so much.

***

I stood watching dad cry on our round, dining room table. Valerie and Quinn sat on either side of him. Our little sister, Florence, was missing. Mom was missing. We had no idea where they went.

A waterfall of emotions started spilling out of Valerie. There was no filter. Nothing held her back. Quinn sat in silence—a seven-year-old who knew more than she should. She pat dad’s back as he wailed. That was the first time we saw him break down. It scared me to see him so helpless.

That hatred I had faded away; regret took over.