Starsong

The Mourning Girl

The floor was too cold. As was the climate. She couldn't walk the new house barefoot or without a sweater. Her mother's new high heels always clicked loudly and Monroe could pinpoint her exact location from anywhere in the house.

Deborah Lancey now got up every day at five in the morning, drank a cup of dark roast coffee, black, typed a little bit on her laptop at the island and went back upstairs for a shower. It was still dark out by the time she left for work, her heels clicking out the door. Today her mother left the house at 5:47 in the morning, according to the door slamming, its echo reverberating off of the hardwood flooring and all the way upstairs. Deborah Lancey now worked as an assistant to the vice president of some high rise in Boston. The money was good and they needed it, but Deborah was not an assistant and usually came home around nine at night.

Sleep was something foreign to Monroe now, and instead of gravitating straight towards her sketchbook, she headed downstairs. Her mother left a note and a ten dollar bill on the island: 'Won't be home until late, order pizza.' Sighing, Monroe crumpled the note up and tossed it in the trash, catching a glimpse of the calendar magnetized to the refrigerator. It had been three months since her father died. Instead of opening the fridge to pour a glass of orange juice and start her day, Monroe avoided the handle like the plague. She went back upstairs, crawled under the now cold covers and shivered until a dreamless sleep claimed her.

Sometime later a call woke her. Her mother spoke from the other end: "Sweetie, you have to go to school."

Monroe cast a tired glance at the time: 11:29, more than three hours after she should have been at St. Mary Archibald's High School for her first day of senior year. "It's easy to tell me that from twenty miles away," she said, tempted to hang up the phone.

"Please, Monroe," and she paused, as if reluctant to hold over Monroe's head what Monroe knew she would, "Do it for Dad. I love you."

From then on Monroe decided she resented her mother for that. How could she say that when they left his memories, his spirit, his grave back in Louisiana? Was she doing it for him then? She hung up without giving a response.

After mulling over how exhausted she felt in that moment, Monroe threw the covers off and shuffled towards the bathroom. The hot shower did nothing to warm her, only a momentary relief, for as soon as she pulled back the curtains to step out, the cold slapped her wet body, the front just as abrasive as always.

Instead of finding some way to get to her new school, Monroe sat at her desk, stared at the sketchbook for a bit, cussed, and made her way back downstairs. The routine was quite boring and often left her wondering if it was all her. If she was the only one hurting this much, the only one who could not for the life of herself bounce back from a loss. It couldn't be only her. But as she sat at the counter in silence, still refusing to open the refrigerator, she convinced herself that it was all her. She lost her dad three months ago; she was still feeling too much for it to be healthy. So, she stomped upstairs, shoved her feet into some sneakers and threw on a sweatshirt before leaving the house. It was now bright out, the sun reached its peak at midday.

The mourning girl walked a couple of blocks away from the new house she begged her mother not to buy. It was too expensive; they didn't need it. But Deborah was convinced a substantial change would rough up her life just enough to drive thoughts of her dead husband away. Now she had to work her ass off to afford the mortgage. Monroe couldn't even bring herself to think it was nice. The dark wooded place screamed asylum, a cold and sterile institution akin to a prison. Monroe decided then that she would attempt at only being there to sleep, which, truthfully, was almost the entire day nowadays.

Reaching an intersection, she debated which way to turn. To the left, she could see a small shopping plaza in the distance. To the right loomed buildings that seemed to increase in height, a highway wiring in, out, and around. Monroe headed for the plaza, acutely aware of the ten dollar bill in her pocket. She would decide once she got near the stores whether or not she would be responsible tonight.

The first shop was a cornerstone, a blue sign on the window with the word 'Larry's' splayed diagonally across. Underneath, a 'Help Wanted' sign leaned against the glass. The ten dollar bill felt lighter as Monroe walked into the store and asked the clerk for an application.

"There ain't no application. You just gotta talk to the manager. And that's me," the man--Larry, presumably--said with a toothy smile. Monroe caught a glimpse of a silver cap on one of his canines. He seemed like the type of man that thought he was a hoot, the type that could talk your ear right off.

So, she gave the man her number and he said he would call. He didn't say when just that he would call. Monroe went to the next store, a thrift store full of consignment clothing. Then the next, a bookstore. After neglecting to enter a few after those, Monroe reached the last store in the strip, Cross Family Arts, but the 'C' was hanging upside-down, the top nail having come loose. Although her gut wrenched, Monroe traipsed into the store, a bell jingling above her head as she opened the door. As soon as she entered, colors blinded her vision. Artwork obscured the walls and seemingly every available flat surface. Rows of shelves brimmed with paints, brushes, tins, graphite pencils, erasers, and sketchbooks. Canvases of varying sizes lay scattered along the wall to her right. She didn't feel anything stir within her and turned to exit when a warm voice called out to her.

"Can I help you find something?" a short woman said. She looked to be in her early forties, crows feet fanning out from the corners of her eyes and laugh lines running along her face. Monroe wondered why the woman was asking her. Two other shoppers roamed the store. One had their face scrunched up, perplexed at all the different colors. The other strayed near the check-out counter in waiting. They needed help; Monroe didn't.

"No thank you--I was just looking," Monroe said as politely as possible, though she only felt unnerved. Just from a smile and a smooth voice, Monroe could tell that this woman was a helper, an 'everyone else comes first' kind of woman. She was always eager to help and fix. Monroe didn't need someone to fix her. She left without another word, and as soon as she did, she felt she could breathe again.

She knew then that she could never stop feeling so much and that it wasn't unhealthy. At that point in Monroe's life, she didn't want to feel better because that meant acknowledgement. Calling acknowledgement a bridge she didn't want to cross was almost too small a comparison; it was a castle she had to invade and leave unscathed—one that was heavily guarded as well. She knew she wouldn't make it. So it was fine—the dull ache in her chest, they way her heart felt as though it was beating harder than normal, all the time. She would just deal with it. She would deal with it all and maybe that phenomenon called healing would happen eventually.