Snow Angels
Flinging myself into the snow bank my arms flail up and down, back and forth keeping time with my legs to create the perfect snow angel. It has become an obsession since my parents informed me it was impossible. I have tried flipping over, and out, I attempted a back handspring out, I sawed a girl do one at school one time, I was black and blue for at least a week; some days, I am ready to concede that there may very well be no humanly way possible not to get feets prints in your snow angels. Mamma says I am tenacious, and I heard her say I was precocious, too. She didn’t make that one sound so good; she tells me to keep trying, and I tell her I pan on it. Don’t tell mamma. I think she wants me to stay out here so I don’t interrupt her soaps; I don’t understand what’s so exciting bout watching soap no ways, but Mamma really likes tos sok by me I get to practice snow angels. One day, I’ll make the perfect one you’ll see. As soon as I walk in the door, it’s always Go to your room.
Flinging myself down on the bed, I wrap the pillow around my face and scream until my throat burns. It’s snowing outside, my voice raspy, skipping, the end of a scratched record. Eventually, there is only silence. I can’t remember the last time I made a snow angel, but I remember that day. I wipe my hands on the comforter. My breath is uneven pins and needles pierce my chest repeatedly. The walls close in on me. The most spacious room in the house, I feel it growing smaller and smaller, shrinking, because it is the most spacious room in the house. I am trying to stay calm, do the things I’m supposed to. I am counting backwards. It’s not working. Looking for, god, what is it? The 54321, something I can see, hear, feel, smell, I don’t know, I give up. I messed up. Screwed everything up. I have a routine, I stick to the routine, and just like the dumbass you are, you fucked it up. I mean, look at you, look at where you live, look at who you came from, of course, you would fuck it up. You were born to be a fuck up. I mean, you’ve only been following the same routine for two years, you can’t keep to a schedule, you can’t keep friends, you can’t do anything right.no wonder you’re stuck here. You know you can say no when she asks for something, right? That’s what screwed everything up. That’s why you have to do laundry today and why you didn’t do it yesterday when he worked late. We need to leave Now now now go Go Go! Just make sure you lock the door, we can’t go to work smelling like shit. Check it again. Did you lock the door? Wiggle the knob one more time to make sure it’s locked. Did we lock the door? The screaming in my head is so loud the voice stops. I’m grateful because now I can make it out of the house with my laundry. We used to have a washer and dryer here; we still have one somewhere. I never see them take their laundry anywhere, so we must. I searched for it a few times, but there are so many washers and dryers out back and none in the house. I can’t tell if he plugs one in and gets it working to do laundry or if there’s a specific one they use. They all look broken down to me. Dad would tell you that’s the problem with today’s generation. They don’t fix nothing; they buy everything new. I wanna know how he knows which one out here is fixed.
It takes me 10 minutes to trudge up the driveway in the snow with my laundry; I must look a mess when I get to the laundry mat because all eyes immediately swivel towards me. The owner’s daughter almost falls off the counter, catching herself last minute; I remember I am unexpected; today is not my normal day. On my normal day, I walk in, no heads turn, and no one bats an eye. There is a routine, I have interrupted that routine. I see her tapping her mom incessantly on the arm; I keep my head slightly turned because I am also trying to keep an eye on the two of them. I see them talking passionately, animatedly, heatedly, arguing quietly so no one can hear them going back and forth. Luckily, the two machines I use in the back are open, so one thing is going right today if nothing else does. The laundry gods are smiling down upon me. I see the daughter tapping her foot wildly, arms flailing out at her sides, gesturing toward the back, and the voices are getting louder to where you can make out a word or two here and there. Never Here, Check, Mom, No, Go Please, Okay. Mom is walking toward me. Her arms are crossed and she keeps glaring back at her daughter. I almost want to laugh, and I am also completely mortified at the same time. I busy myself by putting my laundry in the machines, she stands there, arms crossed, and says Not your usual Day? No, I got busy yesterday and forgot (lie, why are you lying, not that you owe her an explanation, but why lie? SHUT UP!), so I am here today. Is that alright? Oh, it’s fine, we were just concerned you always come on the same day it seemed unusual, is all. No need to be concerned. I’m fine. Thanks for checking. I watch her walk back to her daughter and smack the top of her head. Why did you make me do that? She is fine, just forgot. The girl looks at me, narrowing her eyes, jumps off the counter without saying a word to her mom, and nods at me like somehow I just confirmed everything she was thinking, and she’s headed my way. I try to avoid eye contact again and fail. She knows I know, and she’s headed my way. I see her eyes laughing, as she changes her mind and direction abruptly, making an about-face toward the kitchen. I didn’t realize I wanted her to come over until I feel disappointment. I stew in self-pity, remembering when I was sick and they brought me soup because I still came to do my laundry. It wasn’t the kind out of the can either. This had big chunks of vegetables and real chicken, making me feel like someone cared. I am engrossed in this memory and hanging my head from the rejection when she slides on top of the washer next to me and puts a bottle of water in my hand. Her eyes sparkle. Hydrate, she says. And that is the extent of our conversation. She pulls out her book and I pull out mine, and we drink the water and read while I do my laundry. While I am packing up she purses her lips and squints her eyes, holding out her hand for my phone she puts her number into it. Next week your regular day. This is not a question she is telling me. I nod, and she nods. I go to say something else, but she puts her hand in front of my mouth and says next week, your regular day. I close the gaping hole so I no longer resemble a fish and wonder the whole way home if this means we are friends now. Shit, I almost missed my turn. Get your head out of the clouds. Maybe she’s your friend now, maybe she’s not, and she won’t have a chance to be if you end up crashing this car, will she? Daydreaming about coffee shop friend dates and bookstores and reading on picnic blankets is cute. There is also plenty of time for that at your dead-end job or when your shut up in your room because the trash heap is piled high with useless junk. If my parents had lived in a more heavily populated area, this property would have been condemned long ago. They wouldn’t be living here, and neither would I. Sometimes, when I’m furious, I think about calling and having the place condemned myself, and then, yeah, I know, where would I go? What would I do? You can’t afford to live alone. Have you looked at the rent prices out there? You’ve never paid bills. You don’t know how to do anything. You’ll never make it. What are you thinking? So I don’t. Plus, would you put your parents out on the street like that after all they’ve done for you? So ungrateful, selfish, always thinking of yourself. Didn’t they raise you better than that, did they raise me, you bitch, shit pay attention to where you’re going.
Not sure how you could miss a house with a yard like that. It has gotten worse, huh, and you did almost miss it. I used to park in front of the house, but I was running late for work one day, I got into the wrong car by mistake, and it wouldn’t start; I had my dad out there trying to jump the car for over an hour before I realized it wasn’t even mine, and did he ever have a good laugh over that one. His laugh is infectious. It’s funnier than any joke you’ll ever hear, but not that day. I was angry. I still had a car to find; it took me another hour to find it. I wanted to cry. I shed a few quiet tears out of frustration; I was two hours late to work, and what could I say? Sorry, I lost my car in the front yard, just car trouble. The front yard was an issue cars, lawnmowers, and piles of wood he would use for one project or another that usually ended up as firewood. My intestines caught in vice grips, twisting tighter and tighter, unable to move when these took place. I voiced my concerns one time, that night he made sure I never spoke about it again. He made the biggest bonfire possible and had me sit outside with them for a nice family dinner by the fire a family meeting, he said. No one spoke that I can remember; they might have, all I recall, that fire so big it looked like he was burning someone at the stake. He was. I still have nightmares about the house catching fire then the neighborhood, the city, the state, the fire traveling cross country, and our family being responsible for killing an entire nation, plants, animals, and people losing homes. The stuff started as a way to make money dad would take it apart and recycle what he could for cash, and for a while things were decent, it got away from him though he got too ambitious and brought home more junk than he could pull apart he never got rid of the spare stuff then never got around to pulling any of it apart because he was always out looking for the next great cash haul. I am procrastinating the walk down the driveway; this whole place is a deathtrap, even without the trash piles, this hill alone could kill a girl.
Despite the mess in the yard, my dad’s truck is unmistakable. It’s huge. You cannot miss it with its splotchy paint job and giant tires. I notice it right away in front of the house, the tailgate, down my stomach drops to my feet tying itself in knots so big I’m unsure how to pull it back into the cavity it belongs. I cannot freeze. I need to move. Pop the trunk, get your laundry, and balance the bag on the basket. Lay your keys on the basket so you can shut the trunk. You got this; now, quickly make your way down the hill. You have a room to protect if you still can. I don’t have time for two trips, don’t judge me, the hill is snowy, it’s cold, you’d do the same, you know you would. Don’t drop the basket, you idiot; it’s slipping; you’re dropping it. You can’t do anything right: bounce it back on your hip. Do I have to tell you how to do everything? How would you function without me? I don’t even hear the keys fall in the snow behind me. I am so focused on getting to the house and the voice in my head my voice won’t shut up about how she’s always right, and I am such an idiot. I rush into the house. Skyscrapers are erecting in my stomach, the scaffolding falling workers hanging from the sides of the buildings while a NASCAR circuit is speeding round and round in my brain, not allowing an independent word to break through the buzz of thoughts circling the door to the house mirrors the tailgate. A house always shut up the shut-ins with a door wide open. It looks foreign, and upon entering the house itself appears foreign with light touching surfaces that haven’t been looked upon in decades for more than a minute; the mood is jovial, the air is bouncing, and it sits wrong and heavy in my chest. I can hear my Dad whistling down the hall. He sounds happier than he has in years; I breathe the drier air and soak in a little bit of that happy; I missed that sound. I want to stay here at this moment, and then I remember that he is happy because he’s moving his junk into the house, and the only room left with space to do that is my room, and my room was locked when I left. I glance over at my mom lying on the mattress in the living room surrounded by blankets and crafting supplies, records, magazines, old appliances, and photo albums she pulls out when she’s feeling nostalgic or when she wants to make you feel guilty about something they work well for both things. Our eyes meet and I swear they want to say something. She wants to say something her mouth goes as far as to open and shut several times, a fish out of water gasping for air, glub glub glub, no words escape, and unlike the door still open, Her mouth closes in a thin, tight line the moment passed lost in the sea of treasure she has hoarded in this house swept away in the undertow of the open door. She lowers her head. I shake mine and continue down the hall, mourning the lost moment as if I could have simultaneously cleaved years of debris from the heart and house. This house is a museum of forgotten treasure and trash vcr’s, VHS, eight tracks, cassette tapes, and road signs. I brought up the idea of making it an antique store or a museum once, and I was so excited, but my mom burst into tears, and my dad ripped me a new one. How could I even think about doing that to my mother? How could I call myself a daughter? He would never embarrass my mother that way. What was wrong with me? Did I even know what Family was? That is not how we treat family. I didn’t get to say a word; I didn’t dare say a word. I sat for a long time, debated what family meant, and came to no solid conclusions. I made some good points for both sides. The hallway glows in the spaces that allow it spaces that are normally dark. Can I leave knots in my stomach tighten I could just sit on the mattress with Mom I haven’t done that since before the snow angels, we could watch a movie or one of her soaps, and still I am propelled forward, my feet carrying me closer to the happy whistles walking out of another open door that I swear I locked Are you sure you locked the door you’re so fucking forgetful I told you to check it did you check it think think think! He stumbles ever so slightly as he turns the corner, that is the only indication he gives of his surprise that I have made it this far. His whistle never falters. We do not make eye contact. My hands are clenched for all his talk of family. He has stolen my space and ability to share in his happiness because his happiness is robbing me of mine. I peer into what was once a sanctuary and am transported to purgatory a memory of an empty yard with a swing set and snow angels and snowmen turned rusty cars and washing machines piled five high and too dangerous to play near. Haven turned danger zone. Without thinking or looking, I sit on my bed and am met with metal. I am fuzzy; halfway underwater, I hear them exchanging syllables. My lungs burn as they expand to a balloon overfilled about to pop, and I cannot take in enough air. I reach for it faster and faster to no avail, trying to stop this carnival game. I’ve found my body playing isn’t working either. Nothing is working so I start throwing stuff off the bed. Maybe if I clear the bed, I can breathe. I throw things everywhere mostly, though I throw them out the door and down the hall, hoping they hear me. When the bed is clear, and no one has come in the room, I look around, and everything piled in the room sits on my chest. I know I need to get out. I can’t stay here in this room in this house near them. I need my keys. I put them on top of the laundry basket, but I don’t see them. It’s okay. Maybe they fell inside, maybe they got jostled down deeper into the laundry I start tossing clothes: a Metallica t-shirt flies this way, an ice cube t-shirt flies over that way, sweat pants fly another direction, clothes go everywhere until the basket is empty but no keys maybe they fell on my way into the room I start grabbing everything and tossing it behind me clearing a path in front of me and making a giant heap behind me my personal hoard things are crashing and breaking the cave opens up and I can see sparks flying as the dragons begin to roar they have heard me rummaging and I pay them no mind I keep going the hunt must continue at all costs. I will find my keys and escape. I don’t even know what I’m throwing, and if it’s not my keys I don’t care. Plastic cups, a needle and thread needlepoint sets, receipts, hats, keys(not mine), and a stop sign. I can hear my mom crying, always crying, crying, and saying Please, No Stop. Don’t, Please. Why are you doing this? And I say I’m looking for my keys, and I go back to tossing shit behind me. I hear her parrot me you’re looking for your keys and then she turns to my Dad; she’s looking for her keys. Mom’s voice going against sandpaper through a megaphone running out of batteries, trying to keep Dad from losing his shit, and Dad he’s had enough. He is screaming so loud I think he will break and split right in two. You need to STOP. YOU won’t FIND THEM THIS WAY STOP LISTEN TO ME YOU’RE DESTROYING MY STUFF. He’s like a cartoon character. I think if smoke could come out of his ears, it would, and if a grown man could stomp both feet simultaneously and have it look intimidating and not like a temper tantrum, well, can you see it? I don’t look up. I hear him. THIS’LL SHOW YOU. The room fills and then empties, not fireworks. The cracking sounds similar; for a moment, my brain says car backfiring. This noise is more familiar, one I hear more often than the other two: fireworks or gunshots, at least I tell myself this at night, car backfiring. Mom is crying, begging him no and please. I still look for my keys, tossing baseballs and paper plates, action figures and yarn plastic flowers, and tea kettles. I think I scratched my leg, and I’m bleeding. I think I scratched it deep or cut it on a piece of glass. I need to pay more attention to what I’m doing; shit hurts a lot. It burns, and it’s bleeding pretty bad. Look around and see what you broke, nitwit. Maybe you caught it on that table. One more spin around the room.
Dad has his. Why does Dad have his gun out in the house? Hey, Dad, why do you have, Get Out! Did he shoot us? I think he fucking shot us. Mom is muttering in the corner. She sits there, not even looking at us. Get Out. Get OUT. The words so loud they come up from his feet, taking so much force to push them out I’m afraid he’s going to have a stroke. I stop, put my hands up, and hobble toward the door. I’m going, see Dad, I’m going, gone. He’s still yelling as I shut the door. My phone is in my pocket. There’s that at least. I could call a locksmith if I could make it to the top of the driveway. I need to sit. I am so tired and cold; it snowed yesterday, and the ground is covered. My leg turns the snow red, my head is spinning. I should have grabbed a jacket, a blanket, something; I look at my leg again and realize it isn’t a scratch. He did shoot me, and she just sat there. Then I hear another shot go off in the house. Laying back in the snow, I move my arms up and down with my legs as much as possible. It’ll be a lopsided snow angel, but as I wait, hoping to hear a second shot go off in the house, I think, I may have finally made the perfect snow angel. I pull out my phone and text the girl from the laundry mat, Hi. I’m waiting for two things when everything goes black. I finally made a snow angel with no feet prints.
Barren
Emptiness awaited. The fields as barren as her womb splayed open in the dirt. I told them this could not be fixed. No one listens to a child, and that goes double if the child is a girl. Every week, the same thing, another doe split open womb emptied meat left to rot in the boiling sun. Barbarians We, This. They call it witchcraft they say tradition, I ask whose? I call them all crazy. I’m calling a curse. Now, they can call me a witch.
Author Bio
Miranda is an undergraduate at CSUSM. She is inspired by the every day, an observer of the world around her, hopeful and excited to see what is around the next corner of this journey she is currently on.