M Box
I'm down here to find a few of my favorite books that I refuse to get rid of. But I spot a particular stack of boxes and I can't ignore them anymore.
These boxes are sealed with yellowing tape. I'm pretty sure none of them have been opened since dad packed them the very first time we moved. Five years and three months ago. They have the letter M written on them in black marker.
M is for Maggie. My mother.
I stare inside the box. I don't know what will be in there. What I'd like to find is a picture of the three of us, five-year old me and my parents, that was taken at Disneyworld. We're all wearing mouse ears, and dad's hamming it up by also wearing a princess tiara. I haven't seen this photo, or any of the photos we used to have around the house since right after it happened. I don't think dad threw them out. He did get rid of her clothes while I was away at Grammy Potter's. But he kept some of her stuff, and that's what I always figured must be in these boxes.
He says we're here for good. She needs to be here, too.
With my free hand, I reach over and open one of the flaps of this M box. There are DVDs on top, our family movies. I forgot about these. I take them out. Her jewelry box takes up much more of the interior. Along the side, on their edges, I see picture frames. I pull one out, and yes, it's the one I'm looking for. Me and dad, redhaired, the same smile, mine minus a front tooth. So clearly father and daughter. And there's my pretty blonde mom. Maggie.
Sometimes when you're supposed to smile for a photo, you don't feel like smiling. But you do your best, you smile. And then you see the pic of yourself later and you can just tell, in spite of the smile, that you weren't happy. If you put your hand over the lower part of the picture so you can just see your eyes, it's pretty clear what you were really feeling.
I do that now. And I shiver. My mom's eyes don't seem to have any expression. They look lifeless. Her eyes look...
dead.
Stop it, Alison, I tell myself. You're being stupid.
I put that frame down and pull out another. This one is a wedding photo, taken in Vegas.
I'm in this one, too, but I wouldn't be born for another week. Mom looks happier here. She's wearing a baggy cotton dress and holding a ribbonwrapped bunch of echinacea. Dad is dressed like Elvis with a microphone, and is posed accordingly.
I used to hide this picture when my friends came over. Now I decide to put it on the table by the front door where my dad's girlfriend can't miss it. And I'll put the Disney photo in my room, I guess. Even though it kind of creeps me out now. Probably I'll turn it to face away from my bed so she won't be looking at me as I sleep.
Finally, I reach in to take out the third frame. As I do, I notice my finger has started bleeding and my hand is slick. The frame slips from my hand and I hear the glass crack as it hits the floor. I wipe off my hand and reach down to pick it up.
It's a black and white photo of me as a baby with my mom holding me. My eyes are closed and my thumb is in my mouth. My mom is sitting next to a window, looking out. I resist the urge to interpret the look in her eyes. I use my shirt to clean my blood off the frame and I put it back in the box.
I want to look at everything in the M boxes, but I don't have time before dad gets home, and I'm dusty and kind of bloody and I need a shower. I close the flaps and put another box on top.
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Author's Note
An excerpt from my YA novel in progress. Feedback welcome.
Other stories by Lynn Beighley
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The opening description of the basement is so vivid I almost wiped the dust off my own arms. And I connected with the narrator's need and ambivalence to open the box and relive her mother's presence.
I really liked the change in rhythm of these paragraphs, after so many "I do this" sentences-
"With my free hand, I reach over and open one of the flaps of this M box. There are DVDs on top, our family movies. I forgot about these. I take them out. Her jewelry box takes up much more of the interior. Along the side, on their edges, I see picture frames. I pull one out, and yes, it's the one I'm looking for. Me and dad, redhaired, the same smile, mine minus a front tooth. So clearly father and daughter. And there's my pretty blonde mom. Maggie.
Sometimes when you're supposed to smile for a photo, you don't feel like smiling. But you do your best, you smile. And then you see the pic of yourself later and you can just tell, in spite of the smile, that you weren't happy. If you put your hand over the lower part of the picture so you can just see your eyes, it's pretty clear what you were really feeling."
I stalled briefly at,
"He says we're here for good. She needs to be here, too." Then I got it and carried on, just a blip.
Thank you, Carol, I really appreciate the comments.
I look forward to reading more. Strong opener. Telling of narrator's relationship to the father.
This feels like a very important YA story. The running theme about the eyes in the photos is very powerful.
.....
Watch out for this type of thing:
"
I use the bottom edge of my tshirt and wipe my finger. I sit on a box and hold it as I wait for it to stop oozing blood."
'I sit on a box and hold it until'
The 'it' *could* be seen to refer back to the 'box', making it sound like she's holding the box.
Spotted a couple of those. Yeah, it's *very* nit-picky, but might cause the reader to pause. It's got a nice flow, so you don't want even a tiny speed bump.
I'd like to read more of this.
This stands well on its own, but I'm with the other readers who commented -- I hope this is part of a larger story. In just a few words, you've made me care about this person, and you've made me curious about her mother, and even her dad's girlfriend. Nicely done!
Warm, musty basements have an odor. You might want to throw that into the creep factor.
Good writing. The Dad is coming off as a bit of a buffoon. Don't know if that was intended.
Oh, duh. You did say it's part of a larger whole. Sorry, just noticed. Anyway, you are off to a great start!
Feedback appreciated, DH. I was trying to create a very self-conscious and nervous scene for my narrator. It may not work. I'll ponder. I will. Thanks.