Carnival Souls

The Abandonment Card

Owen arrived home sweaty and out of breath. Jamming his key into the lock, he shouldered open the front door and ran down the hall towards the sounds of crying.

Glass from a shattered picture frame crunched under his boots. When he got to the living room, he stopped. Ethan was curled up on the floor by the couch, crying. The coffee table had been upended and remnants of what looked like lunch were scattered over the carpet.

His mom was sitting on the other end of the couch, head in her hands, the picture of someone at the end of their rope.

"What happened?" Owen asked.

His mom looked up. She too had obviously been crying. Tears, darkened by her running makeup, trailed down her cheeks, giving the impression of someone quite literally cracking under pressure.

"I was just trying to get him to drink milk. The doctor said he wasn't getting enough—"

"He hates milk," interrupted Owen, exasperated. "You know that."

"But the doctor—" began his mom.

Owen ignored her and went to sit on the floor by Ethan who was still crying and rocking back and forth. His brown hair was a mess and there was a large wet spot down the front of his shirt. His cheeks were ruddy and his nose was running.

"Hi, Ethan," Owen said, gently. His brother gave no sign that he had heard him.

"I heard Mom tried to give you milk. I don't blame you. I threw the stuff when I was a kid too. Who wants to drink cow juice anyway?"

Ethan still wasn't looking at him, but he had fallen quiet to listen. Owen spotted a bruise blossoming on his arm just beneath his elbow.

"You know," Owen continued. "I went to the carnival today. I'm not sure you would like it much. Too loud. But I think you would've liked the cotton candy. Maybe the Ferris Wheel too. You know you can see the whole carnival from up there."

Ethan had stopped rocking and was rubbing his eyes, but Owen could tell he was listening. Ethan loved stories, even if he didn't always understand them. And so, every day when Owen came home from school or work, he would sit next to Ethan on the couch and tell him about his day.

"I saw a girl playing a violin too. She was very good. I think you would have liked listening to her play. Her music was like—" Owen paused, unable to find the words to describe it. Everything that came to mind didn't seem adequate enough. "It was like all of your favorite things put into sound," Owen finished.

Ethan finally looked up to Owen and smiled a little. His chubby face was sweet, wet as it was with tears and snot.

"Come on, buddy, let's get you up," said Owen. Moving slowly, Owen hoisted Ethan to his feet by his armpits and helped him settle onto the weathered and stained upholstered couch. Grabbing his iPad, which Owen had bought not too long ago with money saved from his carvings, off the end table, he opened a drawing App Ethan was particularly fond off and placed it in his hands.

Owen turned to his mom who hadn't moved or spoken. She wasn't even looking at her sons, but staring off into space. He cleared his throat and she jumped.

"I'm going to get him a new shirt. Can you handle him on your own for a few minutes?" he said, trying to keep his mounting anger in check.

His mom stood up abruptly and wiped her face. "Of course," she replied, her gaze hard. She bent to turn the coffee table upright and began picking up bits of food and placing them in her palm.

Owen watched for half a beat, reflecting on how she had always been good at cleaning up messes she had caused, before running up the stairs. Instead of turning right into Ethan's room, he took a left into his own. Closing the door, he leaned his forehead against the cool wood and willed himself not to yell, even as it welled in his throat like vomit. A poison his body wanted to purge before it soured him from the inside out.

It was times like this he could not decide who he was most angry at: His mom for being so infuriating helpless when things got difficult, like a turtle retreating into its shell so that problems could bounce off and hit someone else; his father for leaving them all behind because he too was too much of a coward to face life head on; a god he wasn't sure he believed in for showing such apathy for his family; or himself for sometimes wishing he could leave as well.

Owen took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of paint from the door. He relaxed his hands from where they had been balled into fists above his head and turned so that his back was against the door instead.

It wasn't fair, as he had concluded many times before, that he should feel more the parent in these situations. He had understood, young as he was, when his mother had retreated into herself in the weeks and months after his father had walked out. Taking up the mantle of "man of the house" was something he had assumed almost naturally, a quiet acknowledgement that he would have to make up for his dad's slack. But that had been six years ago. Six years of his mom looking to Owen for help when Ethan acted out.

Ethan had a routine and he had triggers, as all kids with a similar diagnosis did. It was a language like any other in the world. Owen was sure that if he spent ten years in Spain and made even somewhat of an effort, he would be able to speak enough Spanish to get by, listen, have a conversation. Understand. It was the same with Ethan. After spending the better part of his life learning with his brother, he was fine-tuned to all of the things that influenced him.

You would think, Owen thought, it would be the same with the parent who gave birth to him.

But it seemed that somewhere along the way, his Mom had stopped learning, had recoiled from immersing herself in Ethan's world and now everything got lost in translation. Leaving Owen to interpret time and time again.

And he loved his brother, but that was just it. Ethan was his brother, not his child.

And if Owen did not get to play the abandonment card, then neither did his mother.

Taking another deep breath to steady himself, Owen went across the hall to his brother's room and plucked a clean shirt from the pile of laundry on the wicker chair. Going back downstairs, he found Ethan alone in the living room, still happily playing with iPad. After coaxing him into changing, he went in search of his mother who he found in the kitchen.

She was scrubbing pots in the sink with a kind of reckless abandon. As though the copperware was somehow at fault for everything that had happened. It was semi-dark in the tiny place. One of the lights over the sink had burnt out since this morning. Owen made a mental note to replace it.

"Are you all right?" he asked, over the sound of the bristles scratching the metal pot.

"Yes," said his mom, not looking up. "I just needed—I'm sorry for ruining your day. I know I said that I wouldn't call you."

Owen leaned against the stove and crossed his arms, watching for a minute. There was a hunch to his mom's shoulders, as though already bracing for his rebuke, and hair that had escaped her usually neat bun was falling into her eyes. His mom was younger than most others who had kids Owen's age, having had him right out of college, but you wouldn't be able to tell looking at her now. Lines pulled the corners of her eyes out, giving her a tired look, and her mouth was in a state of perpetual inexpression.

"You didn't ruin my day," he said finally.

The movement of the brush paused for just a minute and then resumed. She didn't believe him.

"Thank you for coming," she said.

"I'll be in the garage if you need me," Owen replied. His mom flinched slightly at his words, at the implication that she needed him within reach.

"Good," he thought, half triumphant half guilty.

His mom said nothing more except to turn on the faucet; the high pitched plinks of it hitting the metal leaving no further room for conversation. Owen turned on his heel and walked back outside.

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So we have a little bit more insight to Owen's life now. What do you think? Anything I should expand on? Let me know in the comments! And if you enjoyed it, don't forget to turn that star gold :) thanks!!