Date: Mon, 10 Feb 1997 21:45:42 -0600 Message-Id: <9702110345.AA23463@popalex1.linknet.net> Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii" From: "J. Rowland" Subject: Because I Love You, Goodbye; Ch. 2 Because I Love You, Goodbye; Ch. 2 by Jennifer L. Rowland Mrs. Calavicci propped the note for her husband against the dresser mirror, where he would find it on his return the next day. She walked into the living room with a suitcase in each hand and checked the window for her taxi. It was waiting at the curb. Mrs. Calavicci looked at her home one final time before locking the door behind her. The clicking lock was the first sound Al heard as consciousness returned. Despite a splitting headache, he got up from the couch to look out the window. He saw his mother helping the taxi driver lift her luggage into the trunk of the cab. "Momma, no!" he cried. Al ran to the door, but couldn't open it. It had been locked from the outside, and he couldn't unlock the deadbolt without a key. He frantically jiggled the door knob, crying for his mother all the while. Realizing the futility of his effort, Al ran into the kitchen, which was closer to the street. Al climbed onto the counter, pressing his hands against the kitchen window. "Momma, no! Don't go!" he screamed as he beat against the window. "Momma! Come back!" Al saw Mrs. Calavicci look back before she sat down in the taxi and closed the door. "No!" Al screamed. He beat his hands against the window so furiously that one hand went through the glass. Al didn't even notice; he continued calling for his mother. "Momma! Come back! I'll be good! Don't go!" Al screamed for his mother until his throat was raw. Al would never know how his screams tore at his mother's heart. All he knew was that his mother was leaving. He continued crying for her after the cab was out of sight. "I'll be good, Momma. Come back," he whimpered. The cold air bitterly nipped his fingers as he waved his arm through the broken pane. He stretched his fingers out, snatching at empty air. "MOMMA!" he screamed again. He stayed at the window for what seemed like an eternity, but the bright yellow taxi never rounded the corner. The thick, hot tears filling his eyes blinded him. He pulled his hand back through the broken glass. New cuts appeared on his arm from the shards remaining in the window pane. Al couldn't hold back a whine of pain, and he hugged his arm against his chest. He leaned his head against the cool glass of an unbroken pane. The sharp, shooting ache in his head was making the little boy sick to his stomach. A fat tear splashed off the end of his nose and landed on his bleeding arm. He winced at the sting from the salty water. With his arm pressed against his chest, Al clambered down from the counter, swaying when his feet hit the floor. He sank to the floor, leaning against a cabinet door flaking yellow paint. He stared at the red streaks on his arm, corresponding to wide stains on his white shirt. Momma wouldn't be happy about the mess he'd made of his shirt, Al thought. He began sobbing again at the thought of his mother. "Momma, come back," he whispered, fighting to force the sounds past the thick sobs in his throat. The force of his weeping combined with his lacerated arm and sickening pain his head soon proved too much for the little boy to handle. Unable to run to the bathroom, he leaned into a corner and was sick. Without a parent to soothe his face or wipe his mouth, Al found no comfort from his nausea. He lay on his back on the cold linoleum and cried, his breathing spastic from the tears and the mild panic he always felt when he threw up. Al closed his eyes in an attempt to stop the kitchen from spinning about him. "Al?" A small voice squeaked in his ear. Al reluctantly opened his eyes and turned his head to the side. Trudy's tear-stained face came into slow focus before his eyes. She huddled on the floor in a tight ball, gazing on her big brother. "Where's Mommy?" Al swallowed hard, battling another wave of nausea as he sat up. Trudy immediately snuggled against him. "She...sh-she left," Al answered. Trudy turned her face up and blinked furiously. "Mommy go bye-bye?" she asked. She burst into tears and buried her face in her knees. Al sighed and wrapped a comforting arm around his sister's shuddering shoulders. "It's all right, Trudy. I-I'm here." Trudy slowly lifted her head. Al brushed the tangled locks from her face. Her round face was flushed and a small trail of mucus was making its way down her upper lip. Al crawled to the table, too dizzy to walk. He pulled himself up with his good arm and reached for a napkin from the nearest place setting. He crawled back to the sniffling Trudy and began cleaning her face. "Blow," he instructed her, holding the napkin below her nose. Trudy complied, giggling as she always did, despite her tears. "Al!" Trudy shouted. "You hurted?" She pointed to his right arm he still cradled against his body. "I-I'm okay, T-Trudy," he stammered. He shook his head to clear it and immediately regretted it. The shooting pain resurrected a powerful wave of nausea. He dragged himself back to the corner where he had been sick earlier as quickly as he could. He spat and shoved himself away equally as quickly and lay on the floor again. Trudy curled next to her prostrate brother and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Al was feeling so sick he didn't even try to deny her her pacifier, despite the fact he and their father had been trying to break her of the habit. He missed their mother so much that he, too, shoved a thumb in his mouth, something he hadn't done for several years. He gradually inclined his head until it was resting against Trudy's. Then both children fell asleep.