Maria wrung her hands together as she waited. The heavy iron pot that rested on the stovetop was taking longer to boil than usual, and Nicholas was getting impatient. She cooed at the young boy, hefting him to her chest as she did.
Nicholas, she twirled his name like a thick vapor on her tongue. Nicholas, are you hungry? His
eyes were filled with a deep longing, and her heart stung, her thoughts flurrying: How long had it
been since his last meal? He feels lighter than he did yesterday, doesn’t he? She glanced at the
yellowed clock sitting on the crooked shelf to her side, and clicked her tongue. Night, already?
She brushed the thin black hair from his forehead and pressed her palm to his head. She frowned, her brow furrowing slightly, and placed him back on the cold tile. He coughed once before wandering off, content with the affection she afforded him.
She glanced at the clock once more, and steeled herself for the face resting just behind it. She had placed Nadia’s picture just out of sight, for her own sake, so she would only catch the eyes of those who looked for her. It became almost monotonous, the heartache– the shallow breaths and misted eyes had become second nature to Maria, and she had reluctantly begun to allow herself the weight, letting it envelop her completely, if only for a second. Misery to her was like a sweet wine– in moderation, it was a luxury; in excess, damnable. In her stupor, the pot had boiled over.
No! She pulled an old cloth from the waistband of her skirt with such vigor she heard a light snap– she cursed to herself, adding sewing to the long list of chores she could never get to the bottom of. She grabbed the pot with the rag, shut the burner off, and managed to reach a worn wooden spoon with a single, heavy breath. She yelled more at herself than the water that had somehow managed to scald her now red hand, but it felt good to yell. The small added rush of adrenaline made her feel alive– another beckoning fog to be swallowed by, another feeling to push away. Just focus. She took a breath in, steadying her now trembling hands.
The water had cooled by the time she regained herself, but she didn’t care. Her stomach ached with hunger but her eyes were heavy with a deep depression. She would be fine in the morning, should she wake. She had to be. She climbed the steep stairs to the loft, her mind drunk with the lure of sleep. Nicholas could wait.
The next morning, Nicholas lay still in his makeshift bed by the stove. There was only one mattress in the house and his mother wouldn’t let him sleep with her. His face was half covered by a thin quilt that smelled of dust so strongly it had taken years to grow accustomed to the aroma– it was rare that he would break into a fit of coughing but, to his dismay, Nicholas began to wheeze.
In the night, he had shifted to be mere inches from the dying embers of the stove. He moved his arms, the thin, pale stalks stretched towards the cracked and uneasy ceiling. He felt weak and the once-crisp outlines of his vision now blurred. Still, he managed to stand, making his way to the big bay window above the cupboards.
Maria often scolded him for using the shelf as a foothold, scared he would break a glass or two– that, and the pale green paint chipped often, embedding itself into the legs of his overalls so firmly she would have to scrub the already worn denim for hours to get the color out.
Nicholas hesitated, his wide eyes scanning the stairs, waiting for any sound: nothing. He planted his hands firmly on the counter, one foot placed ready. He raised himself to the edge, allowing himself a moment of free air, and fell softly to the surface. Content now, he sat, one leg crossed over the other, and pressed his forehead to the cool window; outside, the sun was just beginning to rise.
He scanned the barren farmland, looking awestruck. The sky turned from a delicate, whispering gray to a brilliant gold, and the last twinkling stars were hushed back into the anonymity of blue, Nicholas felt a dull wave of water-colored loneliness sweep within him. He didn’t remember his sister completely, he couldn’t have, but he did feel a pull in his stomach when he thought of her. He knew from watching his mother that Nadia was not something to be talked about, but a way to feel. She took care of him often, he thought, until she didn’t. He couldn’t think of what happened to her, and felt a vague remorse about his inability to ever find out. Looking back to the stairs, he knew his mother was the only person he could depend on to ease his sadness.
Maria had not stirred since the night before. The weight of utter failure and fast approaching exhaustion kept her still and quiet, but awake. During the night, when those long hours in darkness had covered her completely, she lay silently, thoughtless, her eyes to the ceiling. She had made the attic room lightless, but, in blocking the light, she had also blocked any and all airflow– it was like sleeping in the thick humidity of a hot spring. She didn’t mind, though. Years of starvation had stripped her of any natural warmth she might’ve had, and she had quickly grown accustomed to the constant chill she now felt. In the attic, in her room, though, she felt warm. It reminded her of better days: curled into her mother as they waited for dough to rise or soup to heat– they were always in the kitchen. Will I ever be a good mother? The thought, so tangible and bitter, tumbled through her mind until morning.
Hours later, a small, timid voice called from the doorway: Mama? The sun had risen above the mountains, and playing to her deepest fears, another day had begun. She faced away from the door, lying still and breathing lightly. Maybe, if she didn’t move, if she didn’t make a sound, he would leave. She couldn’t get up just yet, not now; it had hardly been nighttime, why now had the day come for her? Her body begged for rest and her open eyes stung– she would try again come noon. Nicholas knew not to wake his mother– she desperately needed the rest, an escape, no matter how momentary, from daily life.
Around the room, his eyes now accustomed to the thick black darkness that blanketed the room like snow, his attention was drawn to the thin shape of his mother draped in cloth. Her knees were pulled to her chest, and, though her back was to him, he knew her face was stained with tears. There was no furniture in the room– the floor couldn’t handle the weight– but every few feet lie a trinket, small and unguarded. Worn novels, their covers often torn and creased; photographs, the subjects grim and serious; pieces of clothing, small and white, lined with lace– it was all the things his mother loved most. Closest to the doorway was a small stuffed rabbit. Its once-white linen had turned a moorish yellow, but the old eyes that stared back at Nicholas seemed to be filled with a vague air of love, though the expression was blank. The rabbit was
wearing overalls, too– Maria had made them long ago, spending her last few coins on the rose colored buttons. There, she had said, Nadia sat in her lap. The now-gone work table was home to the spilled contents of her sewing kit. Now he’ll be able to see you.
Hours later, the sky was calm, the endless depths of blue hanging heavy above him. The
clouds wove themselves between the thin, lonely juniper trees dotting the mountains lining the
horizon. Nicholas had spent the crisp morning roaming their land, careful to stay within the confines of the old wooden barriers to make certain he didn’t get lost. They had less than a
hundred acres to their name, but it was enough to lose sight of their home. Even now, the house
was a hazy dream in his eyes, its slanted boards and sagging windows swaying between nonexistence and shadow. He wasn’t afraid, though. After all, just today, he had fought fierce beasts, slayed great monsters, met an array of loyal companions, and had saved the rabbit from certain doom countless times.
He sat in a great tree now, one of the few that had branches low enough for him to reach. His legs swung free in the wind, and he sat content, the rabbit held close to his side. He told him stories and secrets alike, oftentimes mixing the two, and, when that lost its sparkle, he sat peeling the smooth, pale bark from the wood. Holding it out in front of him, a warm breeze would send the small pieces sailing to the stiff grass and weathered stones that littered the ground. The air was sweet and clean, but an odd smell of spice on the wind had caught his attention. He perked, his head turning towards the scent. There, just above him, were small berries, all varying shades of dark blue and green– he was transfixed.
Grasping the thick trunk, Nicholas stood. He stretched as far as he dared, but he could only barely reach them on the very tips of his toes. He knew he couldn’t balance should he take his hand off the trunk, but he couldn’t give up. The dull, gnawing hunger he often felt had grown to a deep ache in his chest. His hands trembled as he sat back down. Looking at the rabbit, he had a sudden burst of inspiration: grabbing the soft toy from where it had lain beside him, he hefted himself back to his feet. He tossed it at the needles, and a handful of berries and twigs fell to the hard ground below him, just like the bark had. Elated, he scurried to the bottom, retrieving the rabbit, and repeated the process.
Maria slept heavily. It was the kind of sleep that immerses you so completely it’s only after you wake you realize you had dreamt at all. She moved constantly, tossing and turning, her breath irregular, until, finally, she sat up. She could feel the day creeping just outside of her consciousness, a stalking, starving beast waiting to pounce. The guilt of leaving Nicholas to fend for himself shadowed her completely. What kind of mother– She stopped. The pattern of self loathing and guilt wasn’t sustainable, she knew that. But it wasn’t enough to feel the deep absence of hatred; she had to fill that void with love, for herself and her son.
He was surely starving by now, laying weak in his bed, resenting her for never being enough. For never giving all she has, but what she can. She would make it up to him, starting today: they would have breakfast together, and life would go on. She could do it, not because she had to, but because she wanted to be better.
In her wave of confidence, Maria didn’t notice the missing rabbit before making her way down the steps. She didn’t notice that, though Nicholas was small for his age, his bed was much too flat to have still been hiding him, either. She paid no mind to the new chips of paint that were scattered around the window, either, and she certainly didn’t bother to look out of said window.
Had she, she might’ve seen Nicholas fall, pale and clutching his stomach. Instead, she pasted a weary smile across her face and put on a tattered apron she had been saving for a rainy day. The woman had a newfound determination, and rolled her loose sleeves to the elbow, tying her greased hair into a bun.
She stood idly, her emotions mixed: of course she was proud of the stubborn, forced confidence she now radiated, but a familiar apprehension had begun to creep towards her, the doubt eroding any certainty or control she had felt. After all, it had been weeks, if not months, since she had last been to the market. With her constant exhaustion, she knew she couldn’t make the journey now: should she have begun her trek with the sunrise, she would’ve made it home just before nightfall. She had often heard scratching in the silence that often plagued her, and now had little doubt that rats had made off with what was left of their food. All she found was a near-empty bag of flour and, to her luck, a jar of sweet preserves covered in cobwebs.
Nicholas cried out, his desperate words lost to the rising bile filling his throat. He began to shake, his body convulsing wildly, and he felt the sharp pain of the rocks beneath him as they cut into his back. The rabbit lay at the base of the tree, its empty eyes watching. It felt like a dream, like Nichloas was underwater. Time moved slowly, each flail and cut seeming long and drawn out. And, though it felt like hours, the boy would die in minutes. Was he being punished for his gluttony? His selfishness in not sharing the bittersweet berries with his mother? Worse than the pain was the guilt and shame he now felt.
Maria hummed as she worked, mixing the handfuls of flour with water from the old stone well outside to form a thin white paste. The repetition of mixing and the cool wet dough on her hands became meditative after some time.
Maria smiled, a real, honest smile. The pancakes were cooking nicely, turning a soft golden brown. Nicky is going to be so excited. She glanced out the window, feeling a peculiar kind of dread. Her stomach tensed, but she only sighed. I can’t ruin this for myself. She knew the allure of grief was circling her like a vulture: it would be so easy, feel so good to let herself fall apart– but she wouldn’t fall victim, not again.
By now, the boy’s throat had closed completely. His bloodshot eyes were wide with fear, and he knew his mother wouldn’t come to save him. For all he knew, she was fast asleep upstairs, grateful to be away from him. Mama, he thought, his vision growing dark, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.
She laid out two plates with a pancake on each, and opened the jar of strawberry jam, careful to clean the dust from it first. She knew Nicholas would want to spread it himself, so she placed the open jar on the table, and sat their only silver spoon next to it. The pancakes were cooling fast, so Maria hung the apron back on the nail by the shelf. She paused. Moving the clock aside, she picked up the wood-framed picture. Nadia. She placed the photo on the table, too– This is a family breakfast, after all— and wiped the tears from her eyes. It was time.
She opened the front door, feeling the noon sun bathing her face in warmth. Nicholas, I made you breakfast! Only the birds answered, their distant chirps the only sound. Louder, she called again: Nicholas, it’s time to come in! Again, the subtle fear returned, and she yelled once more: Nicholas!
She didn’t know then, but he would never answer.
