by Nancy Isaak
“I’m up!” I answered, quickly—forcing what felt like a very weird version of my own body to rise up from under the covers.
* * * *
Mrs. Michelson was in the process of placing the dinner plates in the dishwasher when Kaylee and I came downstairs. There was a piece of dried pasta on one plate and it made me remember that the three of us had been eating spaghetti that Halloween-past. The Chunky Monkey ice cream had come after that, in between “Doctor Who” television episodes and little kids in costumes ringing the front doorbell.
Almost like a faucet that had suddenly been opened, memories of that evening began to flood back. I suddenly remembered handing candy to two little kids dressed as Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls. My heart missed a beat as I thought about how similar those kids had been to Ethan and Lily—same height, same body size, same reddish-blonde hair behind their rosy-cheeked masks.
Could it actually have been Ethan and Lily?
Was that particular memory my mind’s way of proving that the twins were real? That the old world existed?
Or was my mind, in a fracturing state, simply using that moment with those two raggedy-kids, even now building a delusional reality around them?
“If you want a bagel, there’s some in that bag over there.”
With some effort, I brought my mind back to the present, focusing in on Mrs. Michelson. She was pointing to a crumpled paper bag on the kitchen counter. “I got those blueberry ones that you girls like.”
For the first time since she’d risen, Kaylee put down her phone. Reaching into the bag, she pulled out two of the bagels, sliced them up, and slotted them into a nearby toaster. “You okay with taking these bagels with us, Jay? We can eat them in the car.”
“If I can find my keys.” Mrs. Michelson was digging through her purse, lifting out her wallet, her phone. “There you are!” She held the keys up proudly. “Right in the side pocket where they were supposed to be…if I had been smart enough to look there in the first place.”
“You’re always losing things,” Kaylee told her. “Or forgetting them. Must be old age.”
“Watch it, young lady,” warned Mrs. Michelson, “or I’ll forget you the next time you need to be picked up from someplace. Make you walk home like I always had to when I was your age…”
“…because you grew up so poor,” completed Kaylee. “Like you’ve told us a thousand times. Yeah we know, we know, Mom.”
Mrs. Michelson gave Kaylee an affectionate nudge; this was a conversation I had heard them have many times. “You think you know what it’s like, Kaylee, but you kids really don’t know poor. You and I might have had it a little hard these last few years, living in a townhouse instead of your dad’s mansion down in Malibu. But try living in a trailer up in rural Quebec in the middle of winter with no power or running water…when your dad has just lost his job and your mom’s check only covers the food.”
“Yeah…boo-hoo. Try living without mascara. Now, that would be roughing it.” Kaylee nudged her mom back, with an affectionate bump of her hip. “I’m out of LashBlast, by the way… in case you didn’t read it on the fridge.”
Mrs. Michelson went over and looked at the little sticky note above the ice maker. “Don’t forget I need some new LashBlast? Jeez, Kaylee, could you make it a little more bossy?”
With a sigh, Kaylee picked up a pen, leaned over, and added the words—Love you—to her note.
“Aww,” smiled Mrs. Michelson, “I love you, too, sweetheart.”
Behind the two of them, the toaster suddenly popped—two sliced and browned bagels miraculously appearing. I stood there, watching hungrily, as Kaylee slathered butter on one and cream cheese on another. Just the smell of the warm bagels had my mouth salivating an embarrassing amount.
When Kaylee handed a buttered slice to me, I simply held it in my hand, staring down at its deliciousness in wonder.
“Jay, do you want some jelly on that?” asked Mrs. Michelson. “We’ve got some blackberry in the fridge.”
For a moment, I was completely conflicted; my whole being seemed to revolve around that one warm and buttery slice of bagel.
Could it really be made any more perfect?
Did I dare hand such life-giving food over to another human for the addition of something as exotic and rare as blackberry jelly?
Or should I, even as Mrs. Michelson and Kaylee watched, simply shove the slice greedily into my mouth and gulp it down like some starving castaway?
“You okay, sweetie?”
I looked up to see Mrs. Michelson staring at me, motherly concern written all over her face.
And it hit me—
Motherly concern…mother.
Ohmigod…
“Blackberry jelly, please!” I shoved the bagel into Mrs. Michelson’s hands and took off running. “I gotta’ do something really important…I’ll be back in a minute!”
* * * *
I was almost sick with excitement as I ran toward my family’s townhouse. My heart was beating so fast, I could hear its rhythm in the blood rushing through my ears.
Oh god, oh god, oh god…
Please let them be there…please!
There was a sudden whirr beside me and I almost jumped out of my skin as a dark blue car shot past. It was a Prius, making that odd, ‘not-quite engine-sound’ as it turned into a nearby carport.
I recognized my somewhat-new neighbors as they got out of the car—the Korean family from the townhouse on the end.
They had obviously just returned from shopping at Ralphs; they had a bag of groceries with them—a bag that I remembered as having been abandoned on the sidewalk in front of their house once upon a time!
Their little boy, who couldn’t have been more than 5-years old, stuck his tongue out at me as I ran up my own sidewalk. Even as my mind took note that the kid was under seven (as in, part of the ‘other’ world’s disappeared), the rest of me was busy banging on my own back door, praying desperately that my own family had reappeared in this one.
That my mother was back.
* * * *
“Stupid Sissy’s at the door!”
My 5-year old brother—Salim—held the door open and glared at me. He had a piece of black licorice in one hand; the other he used to reach out and pinch my arm. “She’s gonna’ steal all our Halloween candy!”
“No candy…no candy!” Little Umar waddled up and kicked me in my ankle. “Go way!”
I bent down and grabbed a brother in each arm, squeezing them tightly. They smelled of candy and unwashed boy and they wiggled like little rats, trying desperately to push me away.
“You stink,” I told them. “I missed you so much!”
“You stink!” Salim told me. “You get no candy!”
“Go way!” yelled Umar. “Stink, stink, stink!
“Let your sister in the door.” The very sound of my mother’s voice brought tears to my eyes.
As I hurried inside, Salim slammed the door behind me, then gave another pinch to my arm as he raced off into the living room. Umar followed him a moment later, but not before kicking me in the shin, once more telling me, “No candy!”
But I didn’t mind…I didn’t mind at all.
Because she was standing there.
My mother.
* * * *
She was at the kitchen sink, her hands deep in soapy water. Pulling out a plate, my mother scrubbed it clean, then placed it inside of the nearby dishwasher.
It made me smile—so like my mom.
Who else would clean a plate, then put it in a dishwasher for a second washing or—as my mother liked to say—sanitizing.
I was stunned by the ‘normalcy’ of it all.
From the clunks and bangs suddenly coming from the living room, I knew that Salim and Umar had begun chasing each other around the furniture. My father’s briefcase was not in its place on the corner of the kitchen counter, which meant that he had already left for his I.T. job in the San Fernando Valley.
But my mother!
/> She was dressed in her ‘cleaning sari’—an old blue and pink hand-me-down from a cousin back in Pakistan—and already at war with every fleck of dust, bit of grime, and errant bacteria that had the misfortune to find their way into our house.
Fighting back my tears, I practically leapt at my mother, placing my arms around her from behind, holding her tighter than I had in years.
“Mommy!”
Like I had with Salim and Umar, I happily breathed in her scent.
She smelled of lavender lotion, with a slight hint of the spiced oil that she regularly massaged into her hair. Those long black tresses hung down her back now—woven into a thick braid that went to a few inches below her butt.
I released one hand from the death-grip I held her in and gathered up that braid and held it to my nose…cinnamon…
“Mommy,” I sighed, contented. “You smell so good!”
Sensing that something might be wrong, my mother immediately dried her hands on a dishtowel and turned in my arms. She put a hand on each of my shoulders and pushed me back, so she could peer at me closely. Her eyes traveled across my face, examining the flush on my cheeks, the whites of my eyes, the color in my lips.
Even after all these years—my mother, the doctor.
“Did you eat too much Halloween candy, Jayalakshmi?” she asked, placing the back of her hand against my forehead. “Does your belly hurt?”
“I’m fine,” I told her. “I’m completely fine, now.”
“Now?” My mother’s forehead crinkled with worry. “Were you not so fine before? There is something wrong, I think.”
This time, she placed her lips against my forehead, a way of testing my temperature that she hadn’t used since I was Salim’s age. I felt an intense surge of pleasure—my mommy was back and she was taking care of me again.
“You do not have a fever, I am certain,” my mother decided, pulling back from my forehead. “But there are shadows under your eyes. You did not sleep well?”
Not for two years, Mommy.
“Kaylee and I stayed up pretty late last night, Mom,” I said—the only safe thing I felt I could tell her at the moment.
My mother placed a hand on each of my cheeks, holding me in place gently. She looked carefully at me, frowning. “You have had bad dreams, I think.”
“Very bad,” I admitted.
Her dark brown eyes stared into mine, as if willing me to tell her more. I remained quiet, however, afraid to tell her the reason for my bad dreams.
That I was most likely delusional.
See, my mother had been a very good pediatrician in Pakistan. If she—for even a moment—thought that I was having delusions, I knew that she would take me immediately to the hospital for testing. And that would be absolutely devastating for my mother, because I knew what she would think.
Jayalakshmi, the Goddess of Victory—her only daughter—was showing all the signs of becoming a schizophrenic.
Read all four installments of
“The 365 Days Quadrilogy”
PUBLICATION DATES:
365 Days Alone: May 22, 2017
365 Days Hunted: June 5, 2017
365 Days At War: June 26, 2017
365 Days Revealed: July 10, 2017
Also by Nancy Isaak
Alone in the sky--her pilot incapacitated!
Now, 11-year old Connie MacDonald must somehow fly her way home across the Colorado Rockies in a small Cessna airplane on Christmas Eve. But a storm is coming...And who is that old war vet flying up beside her, determined to shepherd her through the wind and the snow, safely back down to earth?
"Flight 308 to Christmas" is a safe book to read this holiday season. For children and adults who believe or disbelieve in Santa, this is a story that will charm you, that will make you smile, that will make you cheer, and for some--perhaps even make you cry a little…..ON SALE: Now!
Dear Reader,
I hope that you enjoyed reading “365 Days At War”. Don’t forget that the final book in “The 365 Days Quadrilogy” will be released within two weeks of this book, in order to give you a better reading experience.
If you did like “365 Days At War”—and you have the time—I would like to request that you post a review to Amazon or GoodReads or anywhere else that you think would be suitable.
By the way, if you’ve never written a review before, know that it doesn’t have to be long. It can be as simple as a one-liner—“Loved the book, can’t wait for the movie”—that sort of thing.
Writing these four books together has been a l-o-n-g endeavor for me. I would really love to hear back from readers like you to know that it has all been worth it.
Knowing that my story has been read and enjoyed by another human being (my cats never respond when I read them my fav bits) would be the best thing ever! In fact, it’s a fair bet that I will hop-dance around my living room when I read your words—although I refuse to admit that in public.
Either way, no pressure. Just thank you once again for taking the time to read my story.
Sincerely,
Nancy Isaak
P.S. If you would like to join my Book Club, you can sign up on my Facebook page at:
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I send out an e-mail no more than once a month, except to notify of any new releases. Plus—one or more members will be chosen at random to receive a free book or other prize(s) at regular intervals.
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