An Argument

The parking lot was empty. It was dark below me, very dark. There was a coating of snow, just enough to obscure the lines and give a little sparkle to the blacktop. A black car, light from the headlights grazing the road, windshield wipers working intermittently, came down the narrow one-way street and turned left into the lot. It pulled to the middle and stopped, its red brake lights the only bright color in the world. A young woman got out quickly from the passenger side, slamming the door closed. I could hear the clashing thump and the shouting from inside the vehicle up to where I was on the twelfth floor.

The car backed up in a three-point turn, almost perfect in the coating of snow, like the illustration in the driver’s ed manual. It skidded a little on the snow as it pulled out of the parking lot. The girl just stood there for a minute. She didn’t have a coat on. I thought she must have been getting cold.

I was thinking about going down there and offering to help her, but, while I was still considering this, she hunched her shoulders in a defeated way, pulled up the hood on her hoodie, and shoved her bare hands into its unipocket. I noticed a small bag over her shoulder swing around to her back, and I thought she might at least have a wallet with a bank card and a phone with her. It was probably just an argument where everyone would cool down on the way home. I remembered having a few of those with my mother.

There are some people in the world, no matter how you try, you won’t be able to please them. My mother is one of them. It would start in the morning with something I forgot to do the night before or something I forgot to do since I’d gotten up. Not even a good morning first. I’d leave, stomach in knots, for school, already thinking, nothing would go right that day. It would feel like a miracle if it did. I’d be happy for just a few minutes buoyed up by some praise from a teacher, ninety-eight on a test, a friendly word from one of the other students in my class, or even if the free lunch they were serving that day was something I liked a lot.

Then I’d get home, and it would be there again. I’d settle down into watching some show after two or three hours of homework and chores. Then she would get home from work, and I’d forgotten to do something- take something for dinner out of the freezer, put the laundry she needed for her night job into the dryer.

I know- she worked hard, but you know something, so did I. I worked so flipping hard. It just wasn’t something I was getting paid for most of the time.

After I turned fourteen, I did have some babysitting jobs, mainly in the afternoons for kids whose mothers were at work too, that way I could have some clothes I liked sometimes. She didn’t make me use it to help pay the rent or for food or the electric bill. Sometimes I’d help with the phone bill, but mostly the money was mine to do whatever I liked. I even bought Christmas gifts for her and birthdays too. I didn’t ignore her existence or anything like that.

But, you know, a little gratitude coming my way would have been nice, too. I cleaned the house most of the time, did the dishes, and even cooked dinner occasionally. Though that was nothing to brag about, I admit. A ‘nice work’ here and there, maybe a smile or a hug on the way out the door, or an ‘I’m so glad to see you’ on the way in the door was all I wanted.

I remember one time we were in the car and she went off on me, shouting. I don’t even remember what it was about now. It was winter. I was shouting back because I couldn’t take it anymore.

She pulled into an empty parking lot shouting.

“Get out! Get out!”

Just like that and I was so mad I just flung myself out of the car without even a coat.

I looked at the girl, now trudging head down along the street, probably crying. Bad neighborhood to be alone in I thought. I never did get home that night. I’ve always wondered what my mother said when she got the call.

~~~

Thank you for reading my story! This was written as a winter 2024 entry into a first line competition. The first line was supplied and reminded me of a nightmare I used to have about my mother abandoning me in an empty parking lot. The rest is fiction (several people have expressed their concern).

If you'd like to see or enter the challenges, here is a link to the 2025 first lines. The First Line Literary Journal. The only request they make is to not publish your piece publicly until after the judging takes place. There is also a last line challenge.

Happy New Year!

Natalie

This piece was previously published on Medium in The Lark.