ocean.”
We’d stayed at a little cabin a block from the beach. The sheets smelled funky, and it had been cold out, too cold to swim. We’d walked barefoot on the rocky beach, eaten popcorn shrimp and saltwater taffy, and watched the stars at night. The beach town didn’t have a curfew like Hamilton and the other big cities did. I’d loved that freedom. The world seemed so much bigger.
Then one evening just before sunset, as Mom and I hunted for sea beans along the shore, I saw a familiar figure walking toward us.
“Nora,” Dad called. He was wearing jeans and flip-flops and a golf shirt under his Windbreaker.
I ran to him, but Mom didn’t budge from her spot on the sand.
“I’ve missed you, Princess,” he said as he wrapped me up in his jacket. It was warm and smelled like him. He gently steered me toward his car waiting by the road. “Ready to go home?” I turned back toward Mom, who was still standing there staring at us. “Mommy can bring your things when she comes. She has a new job starting soon,” he said loud enough for her to hear.
Mom had come home at the end of the week.
I had to ask it now.
“Mom, were the Nomuras your clients, you know, before you switched?” I looked at her as if I were Winter watching one of her creations through those X-ray eyes, trying to see where it had gone wrong.
Mom looked at me blankly. “I don’t think so, but my memory of clients from those days is a little hazy.”
Then I remembered. The day after she’d come home from the beach, Mom had made her first trip to TFC.
The mall was beginning to close in around me. I needed some air.
“Can we get out of here?” I asked, not really waiting for her to answer as I threw away my cookie and half-filled cup of caffeinated crap.
We didn’t buy anything else that day.
12
I Hate Pudding
Therapeutic Statement 42-03282028-13
Subject: NOMURA, WINTER, 14
Facility: HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42
I was in this room. It’s the basement of our old house. Mom’s treadmill was there. So was Dad’s stinky futon from college that our old dog liked to sleep on. And my programmable Legos were scattered all over the floor. It smelled damp. Mom was running on the treadmill, a murder mystery cranked up on her earbuds. All I could hear were her sneakers beating out the time against the cranky whir of the treadmill belt. Step. Whir. Step. Whir.
Then there was banging upstairs. Men yelling. Mom kept running in place. Step. Whir. Step. Whir.
I ran into the next room, expecting to find the stairs. It was a closet. I backed out of it into the garage. I opened the door to the backyard, and I was in the attic. Then the guest room. The kitchen. I ran through rooms I didn’t know we had. All the time I could hear her steps, steady like an old-fashioned clock.
Step. Whir. Step. Whir.
And everything smelled musty. The walls closed in on me, and I ran faster through room after room, calling for Mom and Dad in Japanese. A language I never learned.
Step. Whir. Step. Whir.
The sound grew louder, but I was no closer to getting back to her. Or anywhere familiar.
Then my grandfather ran past me and opened a door. It led into a big, white, empty room. He took me by the hand to the center. Then he bowed and disappeared. It was so quiet there, and there were no other doors or rooms; but I could still hear the sound of my mother running in my head. Running and going nowhere. The sound got louder, and I had no place else to go.
I always woke up at that point. Well, 99 percent of the time. Sometimes I dreamed I was filling up the white room with junk. But most of the time I’d wake up, fix a triple espresso, and then go out to my garden or workshop and tinker with my toys.
I know; my shrink told me I’m filling up that big white room in my soul with my creations, always moving, always making sounds to drown out that step-whir in
We’d stayed at a little cabin a block from the beach. The sheets smelled funky, and it had been cold out, too cold to swim. We’d walked barefoot on the rocky beach, eaten popcorn shrimp and saltwater taffy, and watched the stars at night. The beach town didn’t have a curfew like Hamilton and the other big cities did. I’d loved that freedom. The world seemed so much bigger.
Then one evening just before sunset, as Mom and I hunted for sea beans along the shore, I saw a familiar figure walking toward us.
“Nora,” Dad called. He was wearing jeans and flip-flops and a golf shirt under his Windbreaker.
I ran to him, but Mom didn’t budge from her spot on the sand.
“I’ve missed you, Princess,” he said as he wrapped me up in his jacket. It was warm and smelled like him. He gently steered me toward his car waiting by the road. “Ready to go home?” I turned back toward Mom, who was still standing there staring at us. “Mommy can bring your things when she comes. She has a new job starting soon,” he said loud enough for her to hear.
Mom had come home at the end of the week.
I had to ask it now.
“Mom, were the Nomuras your clients, you know, before you switched?” I looked at her as if I were Winter watching one of her creations through those X-ray eyes, trying to see where it had gone wrong.
Mom looked at me blankly. “I don’t think so, but my memory of clients from those days is a little hazy.”
Then I remembered. The day after she’d come home from the beach, Mom had made her first trip to TFC.
The mall was beginning to close in around me. I needed some air.
“Can we get out of here?” I asked, not really waiting for her to answer as I threw away my cookie and half-filled cup of caffeinated crap.
We didn’t buy anything else that day.
12
I Hate Pudding
Therapeutic Statement 42-03282028-13
Subject: NOMURA, WINTER, 14
Facility: HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42
I was in this room. It’s the basement of our old house. Mom’s treadmill was there. So was Dad’s stinky futon from college that our old dog liked to sleep on. And my programmable Legos were scattered all over the floor. It smelled damp. Mom was running on the treadmill, a murder mystery cranked up on her earbuds. All I could hear were her sneakers beating out the time against the cranky whir of the treadmill belt. Step. Whir. Step. Whir.
Then there was banging upstairs. Men yelling. Mom kept running in place. Step. Whir. Step. Whir.
I ran into the next room, expecting to find the stairs. It was a closet. I backed out of it into the garage. I opened the door to the backyard, and I was in the attic. Then the guest room. The kitchen. I ran through rooms I didn’t know we had. All the time I could hear her steps, steady like an old-fashioned clock.
Step. Whir. Step. Whir.
And everything smelled musty. The walls closed in on me, and I ran faster through room after room, calling for Mom and Dad in Japanese. A language I never learned.
Step. Whir. Step. Whir.
The sound grew louder, but I was no closer to getting back to her. Or anywhere familiar.
Then my grandfather ran past me and opened a door. It led into a big, white, empty room. He took me by the hand to the center. Then he bowed and disappeared. It was so quiet there, and there were no other doors or rooms; but I could still hear the sound of my mother running in my head. Running and going nowhere. The sound got louder, and I had no place else to go.
I always woke up at that point. Well, 99 percent of the time. Sometimes I dreamed I was filling up the white room with junk. But most of the time I’d wake up, fix a triple espresso, and then go out to my garden or workshop and tinker with my toys.
I know; my shrink told me I’m filling up that big white room in my soul with my creations, always moving, always making sounds to drown out that step-whir in
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