Every Sunday, mother comes home from the town at three in the afternoon with the same groceries; a bag of carrots, one chicken, one jar of peanut butter, two loaves of bread, and a carton of milk. Every Sunday, I take the groceries and put them in their respective spots. It was the routine. I put away the bread, peanut butter, chicken and carrots while mom put the milk carton in the fridge. She never let me put the milk away, she said it was “too heavy” and that I could pull a muscle.”
Today, Sunday, December 8th, 1985, is my birthday. Today the grocery run brought back: flour, eggs, sugar, and candles; a recipe for the perfect birthday cupcakes. I knew dinner tonight would be amazing with just mom and me. We would bake and devour the cake leaving no crumbs for leftovers.
“Another year, another birthday, and another birthday photo,” I sigh as I admire the past 6 birthday photos strung over the window. Before my seventh birthday, Mom wasn’t able to afford a camera so we just have drawings up for those years.
“Fable, I’m going to invite Johnathan for dinner tonight. I really want you to get to know him more and what better day than a day all about you.”
Jonathan is mom’s boyfriend who she’s been seeing for a couple of months now. I don’t hate the guy but I don’t want him to teach me how to change a tire or jump-start a car. For the sake of my mom, I’ll stay civil with him.
Immediately, we begin making the cake, starting with putting the ingredients on the table. Along with some ingredients that we had, we lay out the plan on the counter. From left to right, mom likes to have them in order of use: flour, baking powder, eggs, sugar, salt and butter. The powdery flour and sugar create a cloud in the kitchen, filling the air with sweetness.
Once adding in the eggs, salt, and butter, I picture the room as a bakery where mom and I are famous for our vanilla cupcakes and cinnamon buns. We see people lined up around the block waiting impatiently to get a bite of the goods. Billboard around the town plastered with our address and promoting our twisted cakes 3 for 1 special that are practically free. The smell of the bakery attracts customers from 4 blocks out and brings me back to the feeling of home. I break out of the fantasy coughing from the dry dough. Milk. Leaving the dream, I open the fridge picking up the carton with both hands and turn back to the counter. The milk is snatched from my hands leaving them chilly. Mom looks at me with a nervous laugh.
“THANK YOU!” she interrupted, “Thank you. Thanks honey – for the milk.”
She turns her back toward me and seems to put two cups of milk into the mixture which defuses the bomb that the flour has made. In seconds, the carton is back in the fridge guarded by my mom like a lock on a safe. She shuffles me over so that she becomes a barrier between the fridge and me. Not thinking much of it, I whisk the milk into the mixture while she lines the pan and preheats the oven. I think that she doesn’t want me to touch the milk so I dip my finger in to see if she notices. Nothing. We put the batter in and leave it in there for 20 minutes as it refills the room with the warmth of a bakery. Meanwhile, I set the table for mom, Jonathan and me while she goes out to the outdoor stove to bring in the chicken soup.
Dinner is great. Jonathan is cracking up jokes that mom laughs way too hard about and I just admire her being happy. Her smile is infinite and her shoulders relax as she is carefree and just enjoying the vibrant room. Ding!
“The cupcakes are ready! Honey, would you go grab the frosting and two knives for me? I’ll only grab two cupcakes since Johnathan is lactose intolerant.”
I open the fridge to get the frosting and catch the carton sitting on the second shelf. Curiosity begins to burn within me as I want to know what is so wrong with me getting the milk. If I can drink it and add it to my food what’s so wrong with me holding the carton? It’s my birthday. I am a big girl now, a whole year older. I want milk.
Dismissing the frosting, I grab the carton and bring it to the table to pour my first glass of milk. I set it on the table and am confused about why that was too heavy or too difficult. With mom being distracted with dessert, she doesn’t notice it until she comes back to the table with the sweets. She drops the plate of cupcakes shattering the porcelain and sends shards everywhere. Unfazed, she knocks the milk carton and my glass off the table like Greece’s last supper. Jonathan yells, “Opa!” trying to save the craze and uncertainty but mom falls to her knees and puts her hands in her face. Her voice began with soft sorries that quickly grew into a crescendo of shrieks. I see the carton in my peripheral as I notice the red text.
MISSING CHILDREN!
Please contact the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children if you see any of these kids.
(+1) 801-843-5678
BENJAMIN FLYNN LILLY IDEN MABEL CADWELL
The names were followed by a photo of the child and a description of each being missing for 6 years. Mabel Cadwell was me.
I was holding a mirror that showed me my past life – a life with my family. Feeling heavy, my eyes begin to pool with tears as my ears go deaf to her screams. I slowly back away into the corner feeling numb to the pain of my back crashing against the walls.
With my hands on my ears, they muffle the stranger’s screams turning them into a baby’s cry. Instantly, I am brought back to my childhood where the furthest thing I can remember is my seventh birthday where mom was so excited to finally take a photo of the two of us for my birthday – the first birthday that I had with her. As I gain some consciousness, I want nothing more than to get out of this house bringing nothing but this cardboard mirror. I do nothing but scream only to receive an echo from the dead silence from the field around us. The world spins around me and my head is pounding trying to find some kind of sanity within me. Were the past 6 years a lie? Why me? Who are you?
Dear Hadlen,
I like to base my impressions of a blog from the Free Choice, since you have the most creative room to be able to experiment and show your true colours. I found this to be an incredibly well-written piece with a surprisingly dark twist coming out of an incredibly light-hearted story. My favourite thing about your writing is that you manage to create an atmosphere of comfort and stability and then end it off with “Who are you?” which contrasts the beginning and end so much. This would work great in trauma/horror writing, so you should definitely look into doing more of that.
For improvement, I would simply suggest possibly reworking the original routine of the groceries back into the end to create a sadistic “loop” of sorts almost, but I can understand why you’ve ended the way you have and I’m just being nitpicky here.
Excellent work my friend, and I am pleasantly surprised with the excellence of your writing ability.
Sincerely,
Zaid