Elle stepped out of the bus straight into a puddle. Mud gurgled into her shoe. She sighed to herself. The perfect end to a perfect day.
Elle had spent the rest of science class in the girl’s bathroom, in one of her favorite stalls, good ‘ol Stall #3 at the end of the bathroom, the only stall with a reliably working latch. The bathroom’s pastel pink walls and green tiled floor were, if not soothing, at least reminiscent of better times, like the 1960’s, back when teachers were respected and asbestos was considered a great building material. Back when Elle wasn’t born.
Leaving science class abruptly without permission was probably not the best idea, but it was better than letting Kat see her cry during The Homecoming Memorandum. She had enough problems. She was fine until Kat started talking about the Homecoming post-dance party, chaperoned by parents (or "those of us with parents," as Kat had so tactfully pointed out). Luckily, Elle had no intention of going to the party, so what did she care?
She would probably get a detention slip from Ms. Schmidt for skipping class, and that would mean her grandpa would get another phone call from Principal Burke, and probably a few more hours with Dr. Dismell, but Elle didn’t care.
Elle plodded down the gravel road at the edge of town, following the winding path through a gateway of oak trees into a clearing of bright green grass and clovers. A small, slightly dilapidated ivy-covered farmhouse perched on a small hill, melting into a sunny back yard. At the edge of the yard, several strewn rocks marked the entrance to a thick forest of rambling woods. Far in the distance, beyond the forest, rolling hills appeared like patchwork.
As she turned down the gravel driveway, she reminded herself that here was at least one beacon of light left in her world. Her grandfather’s home was her pillar of security, her sanctuary from the daily atrocities of Middle School life and her stronghold against the hordes of math teachers and bullies.
Colorful bright blue window boxes accented the old farmhouse, filled with Mums of vibrant red, lilac-purple and sunshine yellow. It reminded Elle of the large flower gardens her grandmother used to tend.
She stomped up the weathered wooden stairs onto the wrap-around front porch, flung back the rickety door, and was greeted by the aroma of home.
As Elle slumped onto the faded couch in the living room, she thought about the future. Maybe she could run away. Then she would never have to endure Kat and “The….pause for effect (PFE) Crushinator” again. Surely there was a Physical Education Witness Protection program she could join. But she probably wouldn’t be able to avoid Algebra or pop quizzes, unless she ran away to another planet.
Running away……Elle fantasized about running away, starting life over in a different town. She could change her name, grow a beard, and no one would ever recognize her....
But she couldn’t run away. Where would she go? Besides, she was sick of moving. Her grandpa’s house was her home now. Her Permanent Home, she reminded herself.
The house itself was small and ramshackle, and the roof was always in some state of near-collapse, but Elle had so many good memories of the house. She had spent every summer here for as long as she could remember. Her grandfather had built it with his own two hands (and probably a few tools—although judging by the state of the roof, you had to wonder sometimes). It was full of happy memories of her and her mother and grandparents. The green chair in the back room was her grandmother’s favorite. Some of Elle's earliest memories, bright flashes of happiness, involved sitting on her grandmother’s lap in that chair. The warm, cozy kitchen was, despite all appearances, not just a fire-trap waiting to happen, but the very spot that her grandfather taught her how to make tea (and subsequently, where to find the fire extinguisher). Her room, with its bright quilt, cozy pillows, stacks of books and actual wood dresser was wonderful. OK, the one, small, moldy bathroom she could live without, but all the rest of it was special.
And then there was the backyard. Her grandparents’ farm house was set on a hill between two huge oak trees with a great sloping yard in the back, bordered by large fragrant flowering lilac bushes. The edge of the yard abutted a richly forested area with a stream winding through a canopy of trees, leading to a rock-strewn creek, known locally as "Crater Creek," nearly a half-mile away in the Old Woods. Elle had never asked why it was called Crater Creek, but had been exploring its rocky shores every summer for as long as she could remember. She had spent hours in the backyard with her mother, watching the clouds, catching butterflies and releasing them again, picking flowers and all kinds of plants, only a few of which turned out to be poisonous. She used to watch the stars on summer evenings with her grandpa, laying on a bed of soft cool grass. When she was a little older, he started letting her look through his telescope in the observatory tower at the edge of the forest. It was built several decades ago by her grandfather after he got his job in astrophysics at the University in New Billings. His hobby was star-gazing, and he spent many a night charting in the old tower. Now days, the ground floor served mostly as a make-shift garden shed, but the upper level, with its large, retractable roof, still functioned. And Grandpa's telescope was still poised, ready for action.
There was one place at home that she usually avoided. Most days she never went into her mother’s room. It was too painful. But after today, she needed to feel close to her. Elle walked down the dark hallway to the closed door. She stood for a moment, and then took a deep breath and turned the knob quietly. It was like entering a silent, deserted churchyard. She rarely went in the room, not since the Incident last April, the day after they arrived in Clark.
That April morning, all those months ago, Elle woke up from dark dreams, and knew that something wasn’t right. When she went to her mother’s room, it was empty, the bed made as though she hadn’t even slept in it. Her journal was lying on her bed, open to the last page. There was no sign of her mother. The VW was still parked haphazardly outside. Her mother’s overnight bag was still in the closet where it had been hastily shoved. But there was no note. No call. Nothing.
The police looked for her for six months, but then they stopped and put her name in their missing persons’ case files. Now days when Elle stopped by the station, they just shook their heads and made comments about the situation being “Hopeless,” and “Tragic.” They sent her their “thoughts and prayers,” but ever since the new police chief took over, they didn’t send any more officers to look for her mother. They made it clear that Elle’s mother would not be coming back. Elle knew they were convinced that she had died.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
But Elle still looked for her. Every evening after supper she walked through the Old Woods, picked her way along the creek looking for clues. She ended the evening by visiting Grandpa’s old observatory, where she would scan the horizon with her binoculars, just in case there was some sign- any sign of her mother. On bad days, she would sit on the edge of her mother’s bed and flip through her mother’s journal. She always ended staring at the last page. Empty except for a string of incomprehensible letters and a little doodle.
Apparently, there had been no “Closure,” a term that Ms. Dismel liked to use a lot. The way she used it made it sound like it was a good thing, but Elle didn’t want closure. She wanted the absolute opposite of closure--- “Opensure.” She wanted her mother to open the door, and walk back into her life so Elle never had to look down the dark hallway to the closed bedroom door again. Closure meant death, The End of the World.
The End of the World had come, all right, and Elle was left wondering what had happened—what did she do to make her mother leave? Was it her fault? Would she ever come back for Elle? Was she even alive? Elle didn’t know what was worse to consider, that her mother was dead, or that she had just left.
Clutching her fists so hard that her fingernails left marks on her palms, Elle closed her eyes, trying to stop the dreadful depression consuming her from inside. She felt her chest become as tight as her fists, and there was pounding in her ears, and she felt a tingle shoot down her arms and legs. She could hear noises, a susurrus of whispers at the edge of hearing, and the room began to spin. Something was wrong—she could sense it. Then the noises were gone in an instant, leaving nothing but silence. The shock of the sudden quietness of the room was like a slap in the face.
Elle looked around her mother’s room and could tell at once that someone had been in here, moving things. Her mother’s journal was gone. Elle always left it on the bed, open to the last page, exactly as she had found it the day after the Incident. Elle quickly searched the bookcases, but stopped when she heard the door creaking open slowly. Elle quickly ducked behind the door, hiding.
The door opened, and a small figure slid into the room from the dark hallway. Elle watched the creature scuttled quietly on padded feet towards the dresser. Just as it began rummaging in the top drawer, Elle broke the silence.
“Don’t you knock?” Elle asked bluntly.
Aunt Mindy squeaked, looking up guiltily from her loot of dresser treasures.
“Goodness, you scared me, Elle!” She blushed. “What are you doing in here alone?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Elle glared at her. “What are you doing in here?”
Mindy must have sensed the danger in her voice because she took a step back in retreat and said, “Well, now, remember how we had a talk about clearing some of the extra stuff out…”
The subject had never actually been openly broached, but Elle knew what Aunt Mindy was doing. She was slowly getting rid of everything in the house. She called it “Getting grandpa’s things in order,” which was a polite way of saying, “Selling the house and shipping grandpa off to the nursing home.”
Elle's grandfather, a brilliant astronomer many years ago, had retired from work the year after Elle's grandmother had died. He still did research, but recently, he had gotten a little rusty with the things in life that didn’t have to do with space, like where he parked the car, or how to get back home from the grocery store, or the conventional use of pants. For the last few months, Aunt Mindy had been whispering to the neighbors about his “condition.” Elle used to think that this was a reference to the stuff he put in his hair after his shampoo, but that turned out not to be the case. Aunt Mindy was talking about his mental condition, and she was careful to make sure that everyone knew how "fragile" it was.
Elle was the first to admit that her grandfather had his quirks, but she couldn't see how a nursing home would help him. On good days, her grandpa was just silly and would joke about ridiculous things, like being a General in the American Revolution or being the first person to land on the moon or having tea with Her Majesty. On bad days, he would forget Elle’s name. But Elle loved living with her grandfather, even if he did sometimes think that he was the inventor of the light bulb.
“Where’s my mom’s journal?” Elle cut into Mindy’s babbling.
“Well, we’re getting ready for a garage sale, and I’m just tidying up!”
“Right. Sure you are. So, then.....where is it?"
“Well, now, I don’t know—wait—I think it got put in the pile of stuff for sale, although I don’t know if it would be worth anything,” she said, blinking innocently at Elle.
“Yeah, I know it’s worthless to you,” Elle said, her voice deadly calm. “But you should ask yourself what it’s worth to me,” Elle felt warm all over, her fingers tingled. “You don’t have any idea, do you?”
Aunt Mindy gave Elle a calculating look. “I suppose not.”
“Go get it," Elle commanded, “And next time, knock before you come in,” Elle said, pointing towards the door.
Aunt Mindy narrowed her eyes and shot back, “Why should I knock? No one's here.”
The gauntlet was thrown. Elle yelled, “It’s not your room, that’s why! Even if it is empty! IT. IS. NOT. YOUR. ROOM!” She was nearly face to face with Aunt Mindy, so mad that she felt tiny flecks of spittle flying from her mouth as she yelled.
There was a flash of fear in Mindy’s eyes, Elle was certain, but it was only a flash, and soon replaced by her usual cat-like cunning hidden behind a mask of boredom.
“Yes, well, that’s certainly true,” she nodded, and then smiled. “For now.” She turned abruptly and glided out of the room on silent bunny-slippered feet, leaving Elle glaring holes into the back of her head. *Mindy was the type of person that would wear bunny slippers using the carcasses of real bunnies.
She returned a moment later with the journal. She passed it to Elle without a word, and slammed the door on the way out.
Elle slumped on the bed. "That's true. For now." she knew what that meant. Aunt Mindy had Plans which involved getting grandpa to sign over the house and all his property to her, shipping him off to the old folks’ home, and collecting her money on the sale of this place. With Elle’s mother gone, and Elle only 13 years old, she would have no problems getting what she wanted.
Elle suddenly couldn’t stand being in the room. She grabbed the journal and ran out of the room, out the back door and down the hill towards the Old Woods. Black clouds brooded on the distant horizon. The wind had kicked up, doing its best to strip the trees of the last few colored leaves of autumn as a cold, harsh reminder that winter lurked close at hand.
Elle moodily stomped along the stream, kicking sticks and pebbles into the water. She sighed as she plopped down on a large, flat, smooth stone near the water’s edge. It was her favorite spot, her Thinking Stone, a retreat from life or whenever she needed inspiration or just a moment alone. Now she came in need of both solitude and solace.
Aunt Mindy got on Elle’s nerves all the time now. Ever since the Incident, Aunt Mindy, who was actually not her real aunt, but one of her grandfather’s distant cousins whom she had never met before, had volunteered to help Grandpa and Elle. At first, she stopped by once or twice a week to help cook meals. At some point, she must have realized that Grandpa wasn’t playing with a full bag of marbles, and now she was always at the house, fussing over everything, nagging Grandpa about his medications, and apparently, selling everything she could get her hands on.
Elle glanced at the journal in her hands. Mindy had nearly tried to sell it, totally oblivious to its importance to Elle. Elle leafed through the pages. She studied the pages, filled with only random doodles and notes, mostly reminders or shopping lists. Nothing to help Elle understand her mother's departure. (CATCATCATCATCAT)
Elle gazed into the shallow water of the rock-lined creek and was soon lost in thought, hypnotized by the current, her thoughts swirling as freely as the eddies of water. She closed her eyes and lay down on her back in the cool grass. It was so soothing to sit and listen to the distant rumble of the brewing storm.
To her surprise, she saw a face staring back at her from behind her eyelids. It was the face of the old beggar from the city all those months ago, the one with the wide rictus of a grin. The End of the World is Coming! Then, his facial features blurred, and then she was looking at a reflection of her own face, which warped and became old and wrinkled and filled with hatred.
She gasped, opened her eyes and looked up at the sky, then she sat up and gazed around the woods, sure that she would see the face again. The image she had seen had deeply disturbed her. She looked into the water in the creek at her own reflection. The blue-grey eyes were there. Not old and full of hatred. Just tired and incredibly, incredibly sad.
She gazed at her reflection for a while and then realized that her eyes were fixed on something white under the moving water. Some object was buried in the murky, muddy floor of the creek. She dipped her fingers in the cool water and wiped the sludge off of a thin, white object:
A small, delicate bone.