Call It Red

Here is a short story I wrote in the car.
(Warning, I'm rating it PG13.  So if you're sensitive to that sort of thing, or simply don't feel like reading anything dark, then I suggest you don't read this).

Call It Red

The straps on my shoes are red.  The advertisements are bright and red.  Seems like each one that passes by looks brighter and sillier then the next.  The grass between the roads and buildings is dark green.  Each building structure is intricate, decorative, colorful…joyful.  Every person we pass is smiling.  Their clothes don’t very much in style, only in color.  So many colors.  And the color red.
I turn and look at Mama.  She sits next to me, reading from her book screen.  The light reflects in her half closed eyes.  Her lips are red.  Stretched into a smile.  Always smiling.  When I smile for too long my cheeks go numb.  But Mama smiles like her face was sewn that way.   Like how a shirt is pulled tight and hung by two clothespins, Mama’s smile seems stretched and pined to her face.
Maybe it has something to do with her face enhancement surgeries.  I wonder what people look like without face enhancement surgeries, maybe they turn into ugly animal creatures.
I thought the color red was equal to the amount of any other color in the city.  In the world.  But I was wrong.  I’ve seen red.  Real, deep, dark, thick, warm red.  A lot of it.  Just hiding inside us where no one can see.
 try to imagine all the red in side of Mama.  I can’t.  her skin is too tight, smooth, pink, untouched.  Unscratched.
Mama must sense I’m looking at her because her head tilts towards me, “Hay sweaty, don’t forget to smile, okay?”
She gives my chin a stroke, her fingers warm minus the cold metal of her ring.
I look out the window again.  A billboard high above flashes a picture or the widest and brightest smiles a face could possibly hold, with the only word I can read below, ‘’smiling.”
I slouch deeper in my seat buckles, keeping my head back and hoping no one out side see’s me not smiling.  There’s a tray of untouched crackers in front of me.  My stomach refused them.  I look at Mama’s stomach, her seat belt hugging the little round problem.  The problem that seems to grow larger and larger every day.  That’s what Mama and Daddy call it.  Yet they keep smiling.
“Mama?”
She doesn’t respond, so I say it louder, above the hum of the engine and air conditioning.
“Mama?”
She hums, her dimples deepening, but she doesn’t look up from her screen.  This is how I know she’s not going to answer my questions, but I ask any way.
“What’s the problem for?”
“Hm?  What problem?”  Her voice is high with concern, though her expression is still as a pond.
“The problem in your stomach.”
“Oh,” She laughs, looking under her screen at her stomach, “You mean, what is the problem?”
“What is the problem?”
“Well, it’s not really a problem—the doctors will take care of it in two seconds.  But they have a nice play room for you and probably a movie, it’ll be fun.”
I predicted I would get an answer kind of like that.  Usually I quit here, knowing I wont get anywhere, but there’s a hurtful flicking in my chest, telling me that I will never be at peace until I understand.
But I can’t.  I never understand anything.  In the moments where I think I understand, someone informs me that I really don’t.
For me to understand would be like trying to fill up a dried ocean with a garden hose. 
“Mama?”  I try again.
“Hm?”
“What’s inside you?”
She takes a breathe through her nostrils, “Well, it’s like an egg, or a lump that needs to come out.”
“Which is where I came from.”
“What you…” She looks at me, “Oh, yes!  Uh-huh, you’re right.” She grins deeper and bows back to her screen.
“So who’s inside you right now?”
“You mean what’s inside me right now?  I already told you.  Keep smiling, honey.”  She raises her eye brows at me to emphasize  the order.
I stretch the corners of my mouth slightly, and look at the empty seat beside me, the one closest to the window.  The loose seat belt.  Every time I look I think I’ll see her sitting there, short brown hair in her face and pointed nose.  Her skinny knee caps protruding from a pair of shorts.  But she’s not there.  She’s never there anymore, she’s nowhere.
I’ve looked for her everywhere.  In her room.  Every corner of the house.  In the back yard.  Out the window on drives, in case I might see her on the side walks.
Mama and Daddy keep telling me she’s moved away.  But they wont tell me where.  I’ve looked everywhere.  Maybe they don’t know.  Even though they know everything.
The steering wheal turns automatically, and the auto control voice says, like a happy melody, “We are 5 minutes from the Joy4all Hospital.”
“Is Phoebe there?” I ask.
Mom pupils stop twitching.  Her eyes still glow with the screen light, but she’s not reading.  It’s as though time paused. “No, she moved away, remember?” 
“Like how Grandma moved away?”
“Yeah,” She whispers, squinting me a quick smile.
She keeps turning back to her book.  Maybe she’s just speaking and not listening. 
“But that’s where they took Phoebe,” I proceed, “Maybe she’s still there.”
“No, she’s not.  She moved on.”
“Maybe she didn’t, and you just don’t know.”
“No, Tom, she’s not.”
“Maybe they cleaned her so she’s not red any more.”
“No.”
No.  It’s so short and robotic sounding from Mama.  I look away and suck the inside of my cheek.
Mama and Daddy always seem to have answers for every question I have.  That’s how I know they know everything.  And I’m wrong.  Always.  And now my mind drifts out into dangerous, unknown seas.  I know what I’m thinking, but I’m so afraid that my thoughts will be loud enough for Mama will hear.
I’m the last one that saw Phoebe.  Not Mama.  Not Daddy.  Me.
I look at the empty seat.  I see her.  She watches me.
Maybe Mama and Daddy really don’t know where she is.  Maybe I’m the one that knows where she is.  Then I should tell them.
I can’t.
I shouldn’t even be thinking about this.  It’s bad for my positivity, whatever that means.  Mama might have me go to Mrs. Prig’s office for a disciplinary talking to.  I hate those.
Phoebe still watches me from the empty seat. 
I’ve come so far.  The excitement of treading these dangerous waters is too much.  What would happen?
I open my mouth.
“Phoebe died.”
Mama’s head jerks up, I’ve never noticed Mama had so much white in her eyes.  I open my mouth again.
“I killed Phoebe.”
Her red lips pull together, there are winkled lines on her mouth.  Without the smile, she looks like a different human.  My tongue is stiff.  I don’t breathe.
“Who taught you to say that?”
“No one.”
“Tom,” Her voice is slow and peaceful, “No one…’Dies.”  Her eye lid twitches, she licks her lips, as if cleansing them from using such a word.
No one dies.
“That’s what I told Phoebe.”
Mama doesn’t answer right away.  In fact, there is silence after my words.  Just the hum of the car and the hiss of cars passing us.  The silence is wrong.  I need to fill it, but there’s nothing else to say.  I just wait.
Mama scratches her twitching eye lid with the tip of her finger nail, her face slowly regains it’s normal composure and she says, “I’m sorry you feel a little sad that Phoebe isn’t here, but we have to remember to say happy things, and smile, it’ll make it better.  Okay, sweetie?”
The car slows down, turning into a large parking lot.  Ahead there is a monstrous white building, stretched as wide as a forest so tall I have to duck to see the top through my window.  It get’s smaller and smaller at the top, like stairs meeting each other. 
“Welcome to Joy4all hospital,” says the car.  Our seat belts and the door’s unlock with a simultaneous; ‘click.’
Mama’s book goes back and she tucks it in her purse, throwing the strap over her shoulder.  She opens the door and steps out.  Normally I’d follow her.  I don’t.  I sit heavy and still, like there’s a brick in my chest.  It hurts.  I let my jaws pull tight together and my face go hard and scrunched ‘till it’s warm.
“Come on Tom.” Mom motions to me.
“I hate smiling.”
“Tom!”  Mom ducks into the car, her purse dangling from her arm, “Where did you hear those words?” As she reaches for my arm, she holds her stomach with the other.
“Who’s in your stomach?”
Her eye lashes flicker, masking an eye roll, “What’s inside my stomach, and I already told you.  It’s time to go.”
 She pulls my arm.
“I came from your stomach,” I say.
“Yes, very good, and we have to go now-”
“Phoebe came from your stomach.”
She pinches my knee.  It doesn’t’ hurt, but the sharp movements makes me jolt.  “Tom,” Her eyes look straight into mine, “I don’t want to be late.  Don’t make me call Daddy to tell you to get out of the car.”
I let her take my arm and guide me out.  I watch the ground, my legs heavy and slow.

We approach the glass entrance.  Pictures of smiling people line the windows.  The sunset behind them.  Some fancy words underneath.
As Mama and I push through the pinning glass doors, she whispers, “Smile.”  Her face back to grinning.  And she doesn’t look down at me.
The inside of the building is so wide, with so many people and shiny tile.  I see the reflection of my shoes as we walk.  There are sections of blue chairs, plenty of people and screens.  So much light and color.
Mama guides me down the long expanse, to a hallway with elevators.  There’s a slight ease of weight inside me.  I like elevators. 
The glass doors slide open and we step in, Mama tells the voice monitor what floor we’re going to.
Phoebe and I used to jump in the elevator, to see if we could make them go down.  I watch my shoes.  I didn’t even ask to press the buttons.
We go up, but my insides sink.
I come to a realization.  Something happened to me that I was unaware of.  I don’t like elevators any more.
The round lights above the door change slowly to the right, as the floors pass us under us.
It’s so quiet.  Just the two of us.  No, three of us.  I look at the tiny, barely noticeable bulge in Mama’s stomach.

Don’t be scared  Phoebe, there’s no such thing as death.

There’s another Phoebe.  A Little Phoebe.  Right here.  So close, yet invisible.  So small, in the dark.  Unknowing.  Like she was.  I wonder if Little Phoebe could have as much red in her as my Phoebe.  My arms shake.  I can’t make it stop.
We’re almost at our floor.
“Mama?”
“Hm?”
“Is she a boy or a girl?”
Her lips part, still smiling, though veins appear in squiggled bulges on the side of her forehead, “It’s a blob of matter, Tom.  Am I not explaining well enough?”
The elevator slows, my stomach flutters.  I used to laugh at the feeling.  Now I want to puke.  The doors slide open.
We enter into the noise and voices again, and a room identical to the one we first entered, as though we never moved.  Even the people look the same.  Mom holds my wrist as we walk.  Nurses in bright baggy shirts smile at us when we pass.  Especially at me.   Even some of their shirts have smiley faces on them.
Everything seems to stare at me.  The only one not smiling one.  I’m surrounded.  Figures in obscurely painted masks, they cornering me, the plastic of their smiles grow wider and wider, as though they’ll swallow me.  No where to hide.  No where to run.
And I never noticed.  I wish I could go back to not noticing. 
My legs slow down, forcing Mom to grab my wrist tighter and pull harder.  My shoes squeak on the tile.
We stop before the desk screen.  She doesn’t let go of my wrist, and I don’t stop pulling back. 
“Mama, is she a boy or a girl?”
“Tom, please,” Mama articulates, “I wish you wouldn’t be so difficult.  There’s a fun room for you so you can-”
I’m not listening any more.  There’s a lady sitting in a chair behind us with bright, died red hair.  Her glasses are red.  There’s a man in the seat facing her with a red notebook binder.  In the vending machine behind him contains some kind of red energy liquid.  The nails of the girl who slips her coins in the machine are red.  Her jacket is red.
It’s all the wrong kind of red though.  I look at my shoes.  What was it?  I don’t remember…
“Blood!”
Mama’s shoulders tense, her bangs fall in her face and she bends down to me, “Where?!  Are you okay?”
“It’s called blood.”
She puts a finger to her lips, glancing around, her voice is hissing and sharp, “Sssh, don’t ever say things like that!  Especially here!” 
“I know what blood is-”
“Tom,”
“It’s inside you and when your skin opens up-”
“Tom—ssssh-”
“That’s what comes out.”
“Stop.”
But I don’t stop.  I can’t now. 
“And it’s dark and warm and red and it’s everywhere Mama!  It’s on that truck and all over the road because I killed-”
“Stop!”  Mama has my shoulders, tight, her teeth are bared, “Stop it, stop it, stop it!”
She closes her eyes and exhales, her breathe warm and minty.  Taking my sore arm, she stands, clicks a few more rapid taps into the screen and pulls me down the hall with her.  A few people glance at us as we pass, Mama just smiles back.  She takes me around a bend with a water bottle dispenser.  I still hear voices, but they are distant and the hall is narrower and empty.  Mama faces me, bending down to one knee and looking me in the eyes, taking my hands in her thin, warm ones.
“Tom, I can’t believe you would say those words.  I think you owe me an apology.”
“Phoebe died.”  My throat constricts, and I can’t fight the tingling in my nose and heat that rushes to my face and eyes.  Mama’s lips part.  Her eyes look up, not at the ceiling, not at anything really, just not at me.  Something happens to her eyes.  They’re shiny.  Like wet, newly cleaned glass. 
“Tom, there’s no such thing as dying.”  She whispers.
“But I saw it.  I killed Phoebe.”
“There’s no such thing as killing.” The lump on her throat moves up and down, I hear the wet swallow and she looks at me, the smile returns, “You can say; taking away, or leaving, and that happens.  But you know what?  It’s okay.”  She strokes my hair, her hands clammy against the moist my forehead.
“We don’t have to be sad about it, because there’s so reason to be sad.  People leave, and sometimes it’s necessary.”
“But it’s wrong.”
Mama shakes her head, her bangs slip back in her face and she tucks them behind her ear. “Don’t say wrong.  We all make our own choices, and if it’s right to them then it’s right.  There’s no wrong.”
I don’t understand.  If there’s no wrong, then why was Mama just telling me what she thought was wrong?  I just look at her.  I don’t ask any more questions.  I can’t put my questions into words.  And I don’t want any more of her answers.  I just want to hug Mama and close my eyes and pretend none of this ever happened.  I don’t want to know the things I know.  I hate the image of masks, attacking me.  I hate elevators.  And I hate the color red.  But I can’t say any of this to Mama.
And the Little Phoebe has no words at all.  Just darkness and a warm little home.  She doesn’t know what’s happening.  What will happen.  She might not even know that there are more people in the world besides her. 
Mama gives me a kiss on the forehead.
I try to imagine Mama giving the Little Phoebe a kiss too.  It’s hard.  Because Mama doesn’t seem like she wants Little Phoebe.  I wonder if she’s a boy or a girl.  I wonder if she’d look like me.  Maybe be good at soccer, like Phoebe was.  Or good at drawing, like I am.  Does she have light hair like me, or dark hair like Phoebe’s?

Mama and I walk back to the waiting room, and as we walk Mama says, “I’ll take you to the play room now.”
“I don’t want to go to the play room,” I protest, “Please can I stay with you?”
“You can’t, I’m going to my appointment.  Daddy’s coming to pick you up soon any way, it wont be long-”
“Can I just wait with you until you have to go?”  Mama stops walking and squishes her mouth to one side. 
“It’s just right there, isn’t it?” I point to the end of the hall with the sunshine sign, and plastic orange gate.
Mama agrees.
My heart beats again.

We sit in the blue cushioned chairs.  The TV in front of us plays some colorful cartoon that includes flowers and happy children.
My mind screams at me.  My chest aches.  I can’t sit here I silence.  I have to say something to Mama.  Something, anything in any effort for voices Little Phoebe. 
I can see her looking at me.  “Can you save me, Tom?”

I see her again.  All of the sudden she’s older, like me, she looks like my Phoebe.  She squeezes me with arms so little soft.  She says, “Thank you for letting me be alive!”
I hug her back.
Tight.
And I don’t let go.

“Lilly Haliber?”
I look up at my Mom’s name.  To our left standing at the door is a skinny woman with curly green hair and baggy flower shirt, looking at her clip board and scanning the waiting room.  I hope Mama didn’t hear her.
“Hello,” Mama grabs her purse from under the chair. Smiling broader and almost as fake as the cartoon on the movie screen.  She stands.  Along with Little Phoebe.  I stand too. 
“Tom, go head to the play room now.”
She turns to the nurse with formal laughter.
My chest pounds so hard I can hear it.  Can anyone else hear it?
“Mama!”
She turns.
“It’s okay Tom, Daddy’s gonna be here soon to pick you up.”
I take her hand as she tries to walk away from me, “Mama don’t go, please don’t go, I want Phoebe, Mama.”
Mama looks back at the nurse, then to me, giving my hair a rub, “Be good.  Keep smiling.”
She turns, pulling her hand away from mine.  Mama and the nurse exchange smiles and happy words. 

And I see Phoebe.  Running out, hair ruffled behind her by the wind, casing my toy air plane, running and leaping up trying to catch it.  She ducked under the orange tape, the place we’ve never been, and kept running after it.
Because I told her to.
Because there’s no such thing as death.  No such thing as killing.

And there’s Little Phoebe, who I’ve never seen, never met, inside my Mama.  And Mama fallows the nurse.  Because Little Phoebe is nobody.  Just a lump of nothing.
What’s she doing right now?  Is she sleeping?  What’s she dreaming about?  Can she dream?
I don’t know.  But it’s going to end. 

And the people hide the blood.  Hiding death underneath smiles and happy words.  It's bright.  But I've noticed; you can't have so much bright without a shadow.
So what's happening in the dark?
Keep smiling.
Keep smiling.
Mama and the nurse disappear.  The door clicks shut.
And Phoebe keeps running.  And the truck doesn't stop for her.
My Phoebe.