Laurels Literary Magazine Spring 2016 | Page 79

Mother’s Story a half lit corner, down the carpeted stairs, around another corner, and into the bright kitchen which smelled like chicken pot roast. “What’s that, Abby?” “How do you spell—” “Abby, come down! It’s time to go.” Reluctantly, the nine-year-old closed the book and sat up, raising herself to her knees. Little white specks played in the air before her eyes as the blood rushed to her head, and her left arm felt like it was wearing a sleeve made of sewing pins. She raised herself to a running start, flinging the book and purple marker onto her quilted comforter and grabbing up her turquoise rain jacket. “Mom,” she proclaimed as she descended the stairs, using her right arm to feed her limp left hand through the jacket sleeve, “my rain jacket shrunk.” Abby lifted up her arms for her mother to see. The sleeve was many inches too short, exaggerated by Abby rolling her shoulders forward to make her arms grow more. “You grew two inches since last winter. You probably grew in your arms as well. I guess we’ll have to get a new one.” “At Goodwill?” Her mother blushed and grabbed her car keys off the countertop. “No, we can get one tonight at Target on our way to pick up the boys from youth group. We need to get you some nice clothes for C.C.D. class tomorrow. All your play clothes are getting too worn.” “Oh. I didn’t notice.” Abby opened the back door and waited on the brink of the November downpour and the charcoal sky. Her mom checked the crockpot and grabbed her keys off the counter. Bleep-bleep. The van lights blinked and the two sprinted into the side yard driveway, Abby stopping briefly to hop over puddles in her red rain boots. It was a good twenty-minute drive into town. The rain continued to fall. In the back seat, Abby stared transfixed on the video screen that ejected from the roof of the van. She had not switched out the DVD in a week, but she liked watching the current movie over and over. Without knowing it, she was committing the entire thing to permanent memory, and it was so oddly satisfying to do so. She knew the feel of the film—every line, even those with vocabulary she did not understand—had a specific tonal sound which conjured emotions just like music. What Abby did not know was that her mother was listening to the movie, too, internalizing it and combatting it as it repeated like a 67