The Fairy Trail

by Catherine Ras

  She was contemplating how to get the row of bottles in the very back of the shelf when she heard a car. She scrambled off the chair, closed the pantry door, and practically threw the chair back to its spot at the table. She made it to the top of the stairs just as the back door opened.

  She slipped into the bathroom and flushed the toilet. That would keep her mother from coming upstairs for a few minutes.

  Now, she really was tired. All she wanted to do was sleep and hope that when she woke up, neither of her parents would be standing in her room, but sleep wouldn’t come for a while. She closed her to the screaming and yelling between her mom and dad.

  She put the pillow over her head and started singing to herself. She sang until she fell back asleep.

  Her alarm was the next thing to wake her. She struggled to open her eyes. Through the slits, she could see the light of day.

  The house was quiet. She might be able to get dressed, eat a little breakfast, and leave for school before anyone knew.

  She went to the bathroom and on the way back she peeked into her parents’ room. Her mother was asleep. Her dad was nowhere to be found.

  After dressing, she made her way to the kitchen stopping in the door way to take in the scene. Chairs were toppled, empty beer and liquor bottles littered the sink and counter, and broken glass was scattered on the floor.

  Maggie turned and left. She’d get breakfast at school.

  This became her life for the next week: listening to her parents’ arguments at night, singing herself to sleep, and going to school the next day. Even with the teasing she was sometimes subjected to at school by Mark and his friends, school was becoming her escape.

  The fights between her parents took on a different tone. They were still loud, but instead of the usual slurring in his speech, she could actually understand what her father was saying, and that scared her.

  He was angrier, and her mother became weak and afraid. Even though her father was hitting her mother, it was always a two-way shouting match. Until now, she really didn’t want to believe her father would hurt her mother to the point of putting her in the hospital. It was usually red patches and bruises on her face and arms.

  By the end of the week, her mother stopped fighting back. Maggie found her mother hiding in her bedroom from her father, much like she hid in her closet from her mother.

  The next morning when she went to the kitchen to grab something to eat before she left for school, she found her mother sitting at the kitchen table still in her clothes from the day before, a mug in her hand. Her make-up was smudged, and her eyes were red. She looked up at her daughter.

  “He’s not right. Your father’s not right.”

  Maggie took a step into the kitchen and heard a crack. She looked down to see a broken bottle. Once again, glass shards were all over the floor.

  Her mother’s eyes scanned the chaos. “He went crazy last night. He opened every bottle he could find, took a drink and threw it on the floor. He kept saying it’s all wrong.” Her eyes met Maggie’s, pleading for answers. “Do…do you know what is all wrong.”

  “No, mom, I don’t.”

  Her mother went silent and focused on her coffee cup.

  Realizing, her mother wasn’t going to say anything else, Maggie ran from the house. When she was around the corner, she slowed to a walk. Seemingly, the gift the fairy gave her wasn’t working. Her parents were nuttier than they were before.

  She continued walking toward her bus stop, crazy thoughts going through her head. If the gift Viridian gave her worked, her father should have tasted alcohol. So why did he open all the bottles, take one drink and throw them to the floor? And if it wasn’t working, there had to be alcohol in those bottles. It didn’t make sense.

  Her mother was falling apart. She needed help, and Maggie didn’t know who to call. Her father was useless, and the only other family she knew of was Aunt Agnes, and she had no idea how to get a hold of her.

  She was tempted to tell someone at school—a teacher, her counselor, or the nurse--but she was afraid of the repercussion from one or both of her parents.

  She had a hard time concentrating all day, and when the final school bell rang, she got on the bus without telling anyone about the chaos at home.

  She reached her front door with all the hesitation of a person who has to jump through a burning fire. She really didn’t want to go in, but she had no other choice. She opened the door and paused. There were no sounds; no one in sight. She quietly closed it behind her and jogged up the stairs to her room.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning, she warily performed her usual routine of getting ready for school. She hadn’t heard arguing the previous night. It had been quiet. Her mother brought a tray of food and left it on Maggie’s night stand, smiled at her, and walked out of the room without a word. What was on the tray looked as if her mother scavenged the cupboards and refrigerator for what little food was left. The only items on the tray were a few crackers, a piece of American cheese, a carrot, a glass of water, and a bowl of cold kidney beans.

  She tiptoed to her parent’s room and peeked through the door. Her mother was still in bed seemingly fast asleep. Her dad, as usual, was gone. Thankfully, her mother would not be getting up to make her breakfast—not that she did much, but after seeing her dinner tray last night, she wasn’t sure what her mother would prepare for her.

  She rummaged around and found the last carrot and one end-piece left in a bread bag with which she made a jelly sandwich. As she was spreading the last of the jelly on her bread, she felt something was off in the kitchen. She stopped and looked around to see what it was that bothered her.

  The kitchen was clean…spotless. It was never clean, and the day before it was downright filthy.

  And…there were no bottles.

  She stared at the counter. There were no empty beer or liquor bottles or ones with liquid in them. There were none. There were no dirty glasses. She set the knife and piece of bread down on the table and walked over to the garbage can. She opened the lid--nothing.

  She opened the closet door where her parents kept the returnables. The bin was empty. She closed the door. Her mother must have packed them up to take to the grocery store and hopefully turn them in for some money to buy food with. That made sense because they were in desperate need of some groceries.

  Her mother would be mad that she used up the last of the jelly. Oh well, she thought a she walked back to the table and finished her sandwich. Placing that and the carrot in a paper bag, she picked up her backpack and headed out of the house. She stopped when she put her hand on the door knob.

  Something wasn’t right. It was all wrong. With that thought in her head she closed the door behind her and picked up her pace as she was already three minutes late. The bus was there at the same time every day, and it wouldn’t wait.

  She was sitting in a corner of the cafeteria reading about the American Revolution when her counselor approached her.

  “Maggie, collect your things and come with me, please,” Mrs. Tilliman said. Maggie looked up at her and immediately noticed her smile was off. Her lips were crooked, and she appeared to be struggling to keep them in an upturned expression of happiness. Maggie knew at that moment she was going to learn what was off at home.

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She had been content…life was bearable hiding out in her room. She didn’t want that to change.

  But it was going to.

  Chapter Nine

  “Aunt Agnes?” Maggie recognized her aunt, but was in denial that she was physically in the room.

  The woman stood and opened her arms. Maggie ran into them and sobbed. Years of pent-up emotions spilled out, causing an exchange of glances that were filled with total surprise and concern between Aunt Agnes and the counselor.

  Aunt Agnes drew Maggie in closer to her body and held her tight. “Shh, sweet Mags. What is it, honey?”

  Maggie instantly stopped crying and unfolded herself from her aunt’s
arms. She wiped her tear soaked face with the back of her sleeve. “It’s...,” she stuttered, searching for an explanation they might believe. “It’s just that I haven’t seen you in so long…I thought, well, mom never said anything about you. I thought you didn’t want to see me.”

  “Well, I’m here now.”

  Maggie’s face dried almost immediately realizing this was all wrong too. “Why are you here?”

  “To see my little Mags and take her home.” She extended a hand to Mrs. Tilliman.”Thank you.”

  “Please keep us informed.”

  “I will.” She took Maggie’s hand. “Ready?”

  Maggie gently pulled her hand away. She wasn’t a little kid who needed to hold an adult’s hand. She had pretty much taken care of herself for a long time now, and she didn’t need an adult treating her like a five year old. “Yes.”

  She waited until they were in the small red car before she assaulted her aunt with questions to explain what was going on.

  “Why are you here, Aunt Agnes? I haven’t seen you since I was five--never heard from you… nothing.”

  The lines on Aunt Agnes’s face grew taut, and her eyes hardened. She swallowed. “This probably isn’t the time to talk about that.”

  “It’s as good a time as any.” Maggie stared at her aunt.

  The woman’s hands were wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, and her knuckles were turning white. “You have your mother’s sass.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I grew up with her.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “This line of questioning sure is a lot harsher than the greeting I got. You want to tell me what happened?”

  “You still haven’t answered my first question. Why are you here?”

  “You’re mother asked me to pick you up.”

  Maggie felt a knot in her stomach and a lump in her throat. Aunt Agnes being here wasn’t good like it should have been, and her mother summoning her home wasn’t either.

  “So what’s happened? You wouldn’t be here unless something bad has happened. Is it my dad?”

  “Mags, I have to let your mother be the one to tell you.”

  “Why, because she’s kept you out of my life for nine years, and she’s still trying to do that?”

  Her aunt was silent for a moment. “You’re one smart kid. But in all honesty, I don’t know if I could explain it. You’re right, I haven’t been here. But I will tell you that it is about your dad.”

  Maggie already knew that, and she was pretty sure it had to do with his recurrent drinking or maybe lack thereof. Her hands started to sweat. What if the fairy’s gift did work? What could that do to an alcoholic who suddenly stopped drinking? She should have looked it up on the Internet at school, but she was pretty sure they policed those things, and if they found her researching something like that, they’d pull her into the principal’s office, or worse—the counselors’.

  Aunt Agnes turned onto the broken asphalt lane that was their driveway. Her fingers swept over the leather steering wheel and hesitated for a brief moment before she turned off the ignition.

  Without a word, she looked at Maggie, smiled and opened her car door.

  Maggie picked up her backpack from between her feet and got out. The only thing she wanted to do was to let her feet take her to the forest, but instead, they moved toward the front door.

  She had never noticed that the door’s paint was fading in spots and chipped in others. The gold plating on the hinges was flaking off, and the door knob was worn where countless hands had rubbed on it when opening the door.

  She felt her aunt’s hand on her shoulder, and when she was given a gentle squeeze, she opened the door. The house had a cold feel to it, but not in temperature—more the absence of warmth and love. Even though it had always been that way, she had never noticed it as much as she did at that moment.

  She put her backpack on the floor and looked at her aunt who nodded toward the kitchen. As she walked down the hall, she felt she was moving in slow motion. When she finally reached the kitchen, her mother was sitting at the table with a mug in between both hands.

  The dingy blind that dressed the kitchen window over the sink was drawn and closed. The brown and green striped curtain that hung loosely on the oval window on the back door was also closed. The only light came from the overhead lightbulb that long ago had lost its cover.

  Aunt Agnes gave her a gentle, coaxing push. She sat down opposite her mother and waited.

  Her mother took a sip from her mug. Maggie could smell the aroma of vanilla coffee, her mother’s favorite. Also on the table was a small, round glass ashtray with a burnt out cigarette butt balanced on its edge.

  “There’s something I need to tell you, Margaret,” her mother began.

  Maggie cringed for many reasons, not the least hearing her name from her mother’s lips.

  “Your father is dead.”

  Chapter Ten

  There were no tears in her mother’s eyes. There was no anger either. There was emptiness. Her mother had put what she had to say on the table and that was it. The simplicity and callous lack of feelings she delivered her news with made Maggie think it was all another one of her mother’s ploys to abuse her—emotionally.

  “How,” Maggie managed to say aware that her aunt was moving. She glanced in the direction of the hallway and saw Aunt Agnes walking toward the living room. “How,” she said again.

  “Alcohol poisoning.”

  “What does that even mean?” Maggie’s head was swimming with questions, and she needed to know.

  Her mother’s eyes met hers, and Maggie shrank from the disgusted look on her face. “He drank himself to death. Does that answer your question?”

  She hated her mother. Why couldn’t she have gone with him and drank herself to death? Aunt Agnes would look after her. Anything had to be better than here.

  Maggie didn’t want to cry. She wanted to scream. Instead, she kept her mother’s gaze. “Where? When?” She ordered her mother to answer.

  “He went to the bar in town and drank, and then he went with some guys to the park and drank there. The police found him last night on one of the picnic tables as dead as the wood used to make it.”

  Maggie licked her lips. “I can guess why you hated my father, but….” She looked at the table to avoid her mother’s glare because she wasn’t sure how her mother would take the next question. “Why do you hate me?”

  She heard metal chair legs scrape on the floor in a slow, angry judder. She didn’t dare look up.

  “Tomorrow morning put on your dark blue church dress and be ready to go by nine A.M. Agnes will pick us up to go to your father’s funeral.”

  Her mother’s feet shuffled through the kitchen and down the hall. Maggie stayed frozen in her chair. She didn’t know how to feel. Lonely, hurt, sad, ANGRY…. Yeah, she was really angry.

  She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. It was strange, different, and it made her cry. Arms encircled her, holding her tightly, yet in a soft and secure way. For the first time in her young life, she cried without embarrassment or a sickening feeling in her stomach that crying would get her a smack across the face.

  ***

  When she came downstairs the next morning in her dark blue, church dress as instructed, the table was set with silverware and glasses. The smell of French toast and bacon wafted through the kitchen and filled her nostrils with aromas she hadn’t experienced in years.

  Aunt Agnes turned from the stove with a plate in her hand. “Sit down, Mags. You need a good breakfast.” Then under her breath, Maggie heard her say, “I’m sure it’s been a while since you’ve had a real one.” She set the plate down in front of Maggie and sat down across from her. “Go ahead, eat.”

  Maggie picked up her fork and delved into the food like she hadn’t eaten in days. When she thought about it, she really hadn’t had much to eat in….

  Aunt Agnes sat across from her, her hands folded on the table. She smiled at Magg
ie who, when she glanced at her aunt, thought her smile was hiding pity and heart break.

  Maggie put her fork down.

  “What’s wrong Mags? Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s really good. I’m just full. Thank you for making breakfast.”

  Aunt Agnes reached across the table and placed her hand over Maggie’s. “That’s okay, honey. Why don’t you go brush your teeth and wash up? We’ll be leaving,” she looked at her watch, “in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Is mom coming?”

  “Of course. She’s finishing getting ready.”

  Maggie stood up. “Are you coming?”

  “If that’s okay with you, yes.”

  “It’s okay.” Maggie turned to see her mother standing in the doorway. She wore a bright red dress, black sheer stockings, and black high heels. She expected her mother to wear something outlandish, but in black, not red? Maggie walked by her mother, and when she knew she was out of sight, she shook her head in disgust.

  Maggie had never been to a funeral before, but she had seen them on television shows and movies. People seemed so sad, often overcome with loss, and they always wore black. So what was the reason her mother chose to wear red? Was it because her mother wasn’t sad? But then again, neither was Maggie.

  Still, she was wearing a dark color, respecting the death and funeral process. She was wearing the dress her mother told her to wear.

  Maggie ran into her room and shut the door.

  “Come on, Margaret. It’s time to go. Get down here.”

  Several minutes later, Maggie opened her door and took a deep breath. Crumpled on the floor behind her was the dark blue church dress. She kept her head held high as she walked down the stairs. For the first time in her life, she took a stand knowing she wouldn’t feel the back of her mother’s hand across her face.

  Maggie got a reaction from her mother she never expected. Her mother looked her up and down, nodding her head with a smile of approval on her face. Behind her stood her aunt whose face was void of expression. Her eyes studied Maggie, and her lips were straight, yet relaxed.