Unanswered

Kieran Noback – Honorable Mention

I’m originally from Wyoming, and back then, I knew everyone at school and life felt comfortably predictable. Back then, my family was whole. My mom and dad worked hard in our small town’s hospital; scrubs and the scent of chemicals wafting through the door as they came home was common. They were certainly kept busy, but in between shifts my parents made time for us. I still remember the nights our father read to my brother and me, the soft amber glow of the living room lamp illuminating our enraptured faces as the gentle tones of his voice guided us down the path of story after story. Mom and Dad took turns reading to us, occasionally delving into something a little more realistic, but my brother and I always preferred fantasy. Thus, the shelves of our home became lined with Harry Potter, Eragon, Lord of the Rings, and countless others.

But time with our parents was not always quietly spent indoors. We had an acre of land which had to be maintained. Every summer, Mom armed us with oversized leather gloves and heavy jeans and put us to work. Ripping fallen tree branches from their beds of grass allowed Mom, atop her rumbling behemoth of a riding lawnmower, to obliterate the tall ranks of grass threatening to swallow the old oaks behind the house. Weed whackers in our small hands then dispatched what little grass escaped the mower’s blades. Along with this periodic maintenance, we hauled rocks and soil and planted seeds to help Mom with her landscaping and gardening. In the winters, our battle against nature was with the snow. Mom cleared the driveway by way of snow blower, but did not save us from work. Snow blown away always revealed ice, despite my prayers. Every few days, my brother Rowan and I tromped outside, tools in hand, to shatter that ice. But even through mittens, the shock of metal against ice became a familiar buzz in my arms. But I believe both my brother and I secretly enjoyed working with Mom. Her fervent passion blossomed into a beautiful flower garden, a tamed yard, and a constant influx of machinery use and time spent with her. Thus, the call of

potential danger and new experience convinced two young boys again and again to join her.

Still, occasionally my brother and I found the freedom to meet with friends. Often when both parents were working, my brother and I would don our helmets and venture into town atop our oversized bikes; the rattle of wheels over gravel accompanying our anticipation of adventure. As long as we were back in the evening, our parents didn’t mind. Still, I remember desperate struggles uphill against the setting sun, my legs burning with the effort of pedaling back home in time. The occasional scolding waited for me when I did get back late, but for the most part I strictly adhered to my parents’ rules; I didn’t want to upset them, but I also knew I could leverage my good behavior later. When the time was right, I would beg and plead with my parents for the privilege of spending the night at a friend’s house. It didn’t always work, but on some lucky evenings Mom or Dad would concede.

It was one of these lucky evenings when Mom guided our ridiculous yellow car up a gravel driveway. My eyes wandered over the eclectic smattering of stickers haphazardly pasted on the rear seat windows by Rowan and me: Spiderman, Simba, a stylized skateboarder, and whatever other generalized figures might interest a child. Tellers at the town bank slipped them in with paperwork whenever we ran errands with Mom. It always felt special as a little kid, but now that I was a little older, I couldn’t understand the impulse to immediately paste them to the car windows. My fingers picked idly at the paper, hoping to fix the unsightly smattering, but never succeeded at cleanly removing any; sticky fingertips and tiny shreds of paper remained my only consolation prize. As the car lurched to a halt my mom twisted in the seat in front of me. Her kind green eyes traced briefly over my feeble attempts to repair the windows before meeting mine.

“Hey, we’re here.” I glanced up and returned the smile she was giving me. “All right, um, and I can stay the night, right?” After a moment’s pause, as if to consider, she responded: “Of course, and your dad or I will be here in the morning to pick you up ok, so don’t stay up too late.”

“Thank you! I’ll see you later then, Mom.” I collected my scattered belongings and eagerly threw open the car door, dashing up the creaky wooden steps to knock on Vortex

the red-stained door. I paused a second to wave goodbye to Mom, who was already beginning to urge the workhorse of a vehicle into reverse. She smiled and returned the gesture.

“Come in,” my head snapped to attention as the familiar sound of Tyson’s voice echoed from the house. The hinges squeaked in protest as I pushed open the door and squinted my eyes against the evening sun shining through the faintly smudged windows across the room. The rush of warm air pulled me out of the winter cold. The pellet stove nestled in the corner blazed with a life that reminded me I was in good company; and besides, I had managed to negotiate a sleepover, there was no time to waste. We quickly got to work plotting out every activity for the night to come. My friend, Tyson, was the proud owner of more video games than I could ever dream of, so each journey to his home carried with it the promise of blue screens and bleary eyes. This trip was no different, and as the night hours ticked away, I broke the promise to my mom I made just that afternoon.

I was awoken the next morning to the sound of loud knocking. Foggy headed, I sat up in the pile of blankets we had strewn on the floor as a makeshift bed, and the cold air crept into my ears, pushing out the morning drowsiness. Still, it took me a moment to register the words being spoken to me. “Hey Kieran, your dad is on his way to get you, you should start getting your stuff together.” My protests were silenced by the quiet insistence on the face of Tyson’s mom. “Oh, ok.” I shook my head as she smiled and closed the door with a click. Both of us confusedly extricated ourselves from our shelter, the grey winter light harsh in our tired eyes and our movements clumsy from lack of sleep.

I quickly tore through a breakfast of hot pancakes, and, hands still sticky with syrup, gathered up my things as the doorbell rang. Its plea was answered, and I was ushered out into the crisp air with my father, who, aside from a brief hello, had said nothing. A strained smile crinkled the corners of his eyes as I looked up at him, but he refused to answer the question in my tired face. His eyes were puffier than I remembered. He led the way to the car, each step of his tall frame, once comforting, now intimidating in the winter silence. Every crunch of snow dragged my mind into further confusion. Clambering into the vehicle, I saw my brother waiting inside. He shot me the same

confused look I knew I had, but his silence told me questions would have to wait. The car door shut and the engine gasped to life, carrying me to a new chapter of my life.

We arrived home and received the news. Stepping out of the car onto a fresh dusting of snow, we rushed to match pace with our father’s long strides. I crunched up to his side, “What’s going on Dad? Why’d you get us so early?”

He kept walking. “Just wait until we’re inside, please…”

So I waited. We stuffed ourselves into the mudroom, stepped out of our boots, hung our jackets. We followed Dad into the living room, where I threw myself onto a beanbag. Rowan sat down beside me, but Dad remained standing.

My father’s words barely outraced his tears. “Your mom--Erin’s gone.”

I leaped up in disbelief.

“H-how?” Rowan’s voice screamed in the silence, even if it was just a whisper.

“Last night, I found her in her room, with a rope around her neck--”

It didn’t feel like I was there. The world was tilted and out of focus. Everything was falling out of place, I had no sense of up or down, my fingertips grew cold, I couldn’t breathe. The Christmas tree across the room silently mocked me. I sought the reassurance this wasn’t happening in my father’s face, but the warble in his voice and tears tracing his face spoke the truth. He slumped into a chair, mumbling apologies I wasn’t ready to hear. I fell back into the beanbag, now like gravel beneath me, and stared at nothing. I couldn’t believe I was so stupid to not see anything was wrong, to believe Mom when she said she’d be there to get me.

In that moment, a worm of uncertainty burrowed deep into my chest. It’s still lurking there to this day, telling me the next disaster is just around the corner, that those I love will always leave me. I remember crying, I remember all of us crying. I don’t remember anything else from that day. I couldn’t find the colors existing in my memories from when she was there, while the weeks and months after her death blended and smeared into a choking cloud in my mind. I never knew the darkness of depression Mom went through, and I’ve never had the heart to ask my dad for details. If there was a note, anything, Dad didn’t tell us.

The year afterward was filled with uncertainty. My dad worked more than ever before at the hospital, the emptiness of the house refused to leave, and the yard decayed. That summer, he found better work in Arizona so we would be moving there in the fall. He met a new woman, but after a couple of her visits I knew she would never be our new mom. She was as shy as I was, and my brother was bitter. Gifts of ice cream and candy were sweet, but never filling like fixing a lawnmower of painting a canvas. Despite her kindness, we weren’t ready for her. School friends watched me with concern, but I wasn’t sad. I didn’t know what to feel; my life was unrecognizable, and I realized I had never thought about the future before.

Eventually the time came for us to move. After a year of grief-laden wandering in the once bright town, my life would be shuttled to the desert. I gulped down my fears, promising Mom I would stop wasting time stumbling in the fog of her absence. I owed her that much at least. So, when I left my childhood home for the last time, I looked back at the darkened lights, the rooms empty of furniture, the overgrown yard, and knew I had to give it up for my own sake. Those memories of happiness, of peaceful summer evenings on the porch, of wrestling with her and my brother on the living room floor, of relaxing and talking after a hard day of yard work, would cause too much pain.

When I first landed in Phoenix, the air tasted like gasoline and our new home had no grass, and when I looked out of my window there was only the wall of the next house. But my convictions strengthened, and I chased away the thought of Mom just so I could survive.

I’ve now navigated four years of high school and just started the journey into college and I’m still uncertain. My new life has never been what I wanted, but that hasn’t stopped the color from bleeding back into it. I’ve met people I am now brave enough to call friends; Cacti bloom in vivid shades of red and violet in the desert. But despite my best efforts, her face never left me. I remember when I was angry at her for vanishing, thinking she was selfish for leaving me behind. It wasn’t until a late night at a campfire with friends that I said it and realized the anger was there. Now, those feelings have been replaced by the warmth of our shared memories. I thought that I had forced the painful remembrance of her away, but it crept back in, not as a shadowy jailor, but a

warm friend. I’ve seen myself draw from her well of kindness and share the water with others. She may be gone, but I refuse to forget.

In the end, I think it’s impossible to know if she would be proud of me, and my questions may not have answers now or ever. But in the silence that replaces answers, I feel a swell of pride knowing that I am her son. I don’t need to hear her voice to know that she loves me. In the same way her hands worked the earth and her actions showed her light, she nurtured and tended me as long as she was able.