Long Story Short, 4/05

Johnny lies beneath the quilt his mom made for him. She’d sewn patches of blue jeans, a faded pink blanket, worn towels, even an old dishrag that she had dried her hands. Eyes closed, he runs his fingers over the fabrics as if they were Braille, tries guessing which is which. He can’t feel the stitches. But he can see his mother’s hands moving beneath the whirring machine, bunched into cups, then slowly opening into suns. 

His pajama top’s soaked through, but that afternoon, Aunt Mary pulls the quilt up to his chin again. She isn’t wearing black today. She gives him two spoonfuls of hot licorice syrup, and looks out the window. A wrinkle arches from her eye like a falling star.

Johnny thinks of his mother as somewhere out the window too. A couple days ago, Dad told him Mom was in a car accident, that she went to Heaven. Heat bloomed in Johnny’s chest, the air changed to a faint yellow. When he could talk, he said, “I don’t feel good.”

His dad took his temperature, and tucked him into bed even though it was bright outside. The last thing he said: “Mommy went quickly. She didn’t feel any pain.”

That was important to his father, that she didn’t feel anything before she died. But what’s important to Johnny is where she went after that. He wants to be able to see her somewhere. She must be out the window. In the sky, or air. She might be sitting on top of a cloud.

Aunt Mary touches his cheek, moves toward the door. Johnny keeps his eyes out the window. Clouds drifting across blue in an easy wave. They remind him of sailboats.

That’s where his mom would be. In the clouds.

He drifts into sleep. The window’s light seeps into the room, swishes around him like water. A gold fountain bursts from the ground, and an angel appears, wearing all white, and a long cape. Her blonde hair shines down her back. 

You’re going to be okay, Johnny. 

Where’s my mom?

She’s with me. She’s safe.

Safe, he thinks, and falls back to sleep.

When he wakes again, his room is dark, his sheets, damp. The window glows blue. His father sits on the edge of the bed, a shadow. Johnny feels the weight of his hand on his shoulder.

“It’ll be all right,” his father says, deep voice shaky. “You get better now.”

“She’s safe.” Johnny struggles for breath. “The angel said — ” 

“Shhhhh.” He pats Johnny’s forehead with a towel, the scent of cigarette smoke on his fingers. Each night, Johnny has heard the squeak of the back door: Dad still smokes on the porch even though Mom wasn’t here to scold him. She’s outside, in the clouds.

“Goodnight, John,” his father says. “Get some rest now.” 

The door closes. Johnny looks out the window to say goodnight to his mother. The curve of blue sparkles with stars, tiny points of light, set apart from each other. No clouds. Where does she go at night? Johnny lies beneath the quilt his mom made for him and hopes for another dream.