Wings of an Owl

The young boy was slammed into the wall with enough force to expel the air from his lungs. He was fighting tears as he huddled himself up into a ball. She was screaming at him, telling him to stand up. He wanted to do anything else, be anywhere else, than to stand up for her at that moment. He knew though, if he didn’t stand up, she would come over to him and it wouldn’t matter anyway. He couldn’t run anywhere. He had nowhere else to go. She was screaming profanities at him still, telling him how worthless he was. He bit his lip to try and stop the tears as he stood up against the wall before her. He wanted to stand tall. He wanted to stay strong, but he was just a child, and the moment she started throwing things at him he instinctively cowered.

Some of the things she would throw would miss, but not all of them. Never all of them. A sharp pain to his ribs, another deep bruise on his shins. He felt his lips break as the blood started dripping from the impact. He covered his face with his arms, but she would just aim for his head. He knew he was bleeding from somewhere on his head, exactly where it didn't matter. Everywhere hurt. He just tried not to cry. He held back sobs that only escaped when she hit him so hard, he had to cry out. He bit his lip or his tongue until the taste of copper was more comforting than water.

“I never should’ve had you.”

“You’re worthless. You’ll never amount to anything.”

“I never should’ve met your father.”

“I gave up my future to have you, I lost what I wanted because of you.”

I opened my eyes, choking on the lump in my throat. I took deep breaths forcing it back down. Just a nightmare. I caught myself wringing my hands, a habit when I’m stressed. I need to get out of bed, get out of here. I quickly got dressed and left my apartment. I walked without a sense of purpose just trying to escape my mind, I ended up where I always did. A terrible diner with a questionably small menu and even more terrible coffee. Say what you will about shoddy diners and terrible coffee though, there is something undeniably therapeutic about a crappy cup of coffee, sitting alone in an uncomfortable booth. Or maybe I’m just broken.

I ordered a single cup of coffee with sugar and continued to stare down at the coffee. Only occasionally grabbing the mug and bringing it to my lips for a sip of the bitter liquid.

Suddenly a person slid into the booth opposite me. I kept my head down, maybe they just didn’t see me, I’m sure they’ll quickly exclaim an apology and leave–

“Well, aren’t you going to look up? It’s rude not to look someone in the eyes when they’re trying to talk to you.”

“I’m not trying to talk to anyone. Isn’t it rude to seat yourself at a table already seated?” I asked as I lifted my head, but I was startled at who was across from me.

It was one of the waitresses that worked here. We’d never spoken before and she’s never waited on me. I’ve seen her here so many different times at all times of the day. She’s cute, the too-cute kind of cute. Short brown hair that danced around her ears as she spoke. Warm hazel eyes, perfectly pink lips, with an average build but a smaller chest. I have to admit she’s my type, but I don’t know what she could possibly want right now.

“So, you want me to leave?” She gestured to exit the booth.

I looked away. “I didn’t say that.”

Her smile was adorable, but heavily arrogant somehow. “That’s good, I wasn’t going to leave.”

I rolled my eyes as I looked back at her and couldn’t help but notice the small necklace that hung from her neck. It was a very thin, fragile design, and hanging from the silver chain was a small silver owl.

“You like owls?” She lowered her head slightly trying to look into my eyes.

I shifted my eyes quickly. “I could’ve been looking at something else,” I said quickly.

She smirked. “My chest isn’t that impressive, thanks though cutie.”

“I don’t like owls.” I changed the subject.

“Sure, you stared for a moment for someone who doesn’t like owls.”

I stayed silent for a moment unwilling to keep talking about it, but she just kept staring at me so patiently. I broke.

“My mother. They were her favorite,” My voice got low.

“That bad, huh?”

“What?” I was taken back by her tone; it was almost judgmental sounding.

“Your relationship with your mom.”

“I never said–”

“Mother. You said, mother. No one calls their mom, ‘mother’ unless there is some kind of drama in the relationship. So, what is it? Didn’t go to the right college? Dating the wrong girl? Drugs?” She sounded as though it was a lighthearted joke. Something to mock, my evident distress in the relationship I held with my mother.

“Was.”

She paused her mockery. “Was?”

“Not what is it, what was it. The drama between my mother and I will never change again. She’s dead, and my crime was being born.” I grabbed a few dollars and slammed them down on the table, sliding out of the booth and walking away.

“Thanks for the coffee.”

“They ‘were’ her favorite,” the waitress repeated under her breath.

“Shit. Hey, come back–” but the boy was already gone, and she was left sitting in the empty booth alone.

I walked past the gravestones without so much as a glance. I kept my head down as I navigated the path; I knew all too well by now. It’d been a few days since the diner, I’d been avoiding it and I don’t even know why. I don’t even know that girl.

I arrived at the same spot at the same time, on the same day. I stared at the tombstone with empty eyes.

A faithful believer, a true friend, a loving mother

I stood there in silence. Waiting for the words to say, wishing I could hear what she wanted to say. The silence I’ve known so well, the silence that is both comforting and torturing was broken.

“Why don’t you say anything to her?”

I knew the voice. I knew before looking who was behind me.

“Why are you here?” I said it as an accusation almost, not a question.

“Because I knew you would be.” She said.

I didn’t say anything. She’s been following me? For how long?

“I live in the house across the street. I can see this grave from my window. You’re always here, every Thursday. At four pm, without fail for several weeks now. You come here and you stand in front of this grave, but your lips never move. You never bring flowers. You just stand here alone, for an hour, and then you leave.”

“This isn’t a spectacle for you.”

“This is your mother’s grave, isn’t it?”

“What’s it to you? It doesn’t matter, does it?” My patience was starting to wear thin again. She loved inserting herself into other people’s lives I guess.

“You have something you need to say, don’t you? Something you want to say.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Why am I answering her?

“Then say that to her. She’s waiting for you.”

I scoffed. “My mother has never wanted anything from me, in my entire life. Except once.” My eyes darkened and I clenched my fists.

“Maybe so. But she’s gone now, and you’re still here. She has something to say to you.”

Her words hit a mark she didn’t know was there. My voice almost broke. “Something to say? Can you hear yourself? She’s gone, just like you said. She can’t say a word. She can’t take anything back now. I can’t hear what she wanted to say.”

“Mhm. Not with words.” She walked up to me and placed herself between me and the grave, placing a gentle hand on my chest looking up at me. “With feelings. When we can’t use our words anymore, we can still communicate with our feelings.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” I pulled away from her and turned my back.

“Emotions don’t need words. They don’t need sense. They are the purest, rawest form of connection between two things. Living or dead. There are emotions in the air here. They are waiting for you.”

Like so many times before when I’d stood here unsure of what to say, how to feel, what to think. I now stood before someone I barely even knew, nevertheless someone who was reaching out, someone who was trying to talk to me. The way I so desperately wished my mother would say something when I stood before her week after week in silence.

“I have to go.” I left without giving her so much as another glance.

“Come back to the diner!” She called after me.

The young boy sat in a small room, there was no light. It was cold. All he had with him was his multiplication table helper. A simple toy-like mechanism that revealed the answers to the multiplication table one through ten. Press the button, get the answer.

4x4. 16.

7x8. 56.

The door was closed but it wasn’t locked. Yet, he dare not leave. He would not leave until he memorized every answer. He would not eat until he memorized every answer. Occasionally, after hours of being alone, she might come to get him and force him to repeat the answers. His lungs would lock up, his voice would stutter, the fear would clutch him so deeply he would forget everything else. She’d scream at him for every wrong answer, berate him. He felt stupid. If he didn’t know the answer, he couldn’t ask for help. If he didn’t understand, he was only made to be aware of how incompetent he was. He was supposed to teach himself. He was supposed to just understand. He hated that room. He hated that multiplication table. He hated her.

I opened my eyes again. It was late, or early depending on how you looked at the time. I hate sleeping, it never works. Everyone talks about how you can just forget everything and go to a world where nothing matters. That’s not true. Your mind never forgets, even in sleep. It vividly replays scenes you’d rather forget, words engraved in the stone walls of your mind.

Can we talk? Please. I need to tell you something. Call me back.

I sat up and grabbed my phone. I wanted to open up the message, I wanted to reply. That’s impossible now. I put my phone back down without opening up the message. I’ll just stare at it and the words won’t come. They never come. I checked the time again. I didn’t want to go, but where else was there to go? Maybe she won’t be working. I don’t even know her name.

I walked in the cold I dressed poorly for, down the blocks, I could navigate just by staring at my feet. I crossed the quiet streets and empty roads lit only by the traffic signals that never slept, just like me. And when I made it to the diner, I walked inside and looked around. As soon as the bell rang from my entrance she walked out from the back and saw me. She gave me a wave with the warmest smile anyone had given me in months. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel the slightest bit of warmth inside just from her reaction to seeing me. I sat myself at the normal booth and a cup of terrible coffee was immediately placed in front of me.

I looked up at her and she just winked playfully, “it’s on the house.”

“It should be for how terrible this coffee is,” I said.

She laughed loudly. “One sugar. I’ll be back in a minute, I’m almost on break.”

She returned shortly and slid into the booth across from me just making herself at home. I thought she’d say something, anything. That she would push me for answers, and have questions about the day in the graveyard. But she didn’t say anything. She just sat quietly across from me and when I would look up, she’d smile at me with eyes that made me want to stay there forever.

“You’re not going to ask?” I said finally.

“You’re not going to just tell me?” She answered.

I rolled my eyes. This girl. But dammit, she was right. I was just going to tell her.

“We never had a good relationship. It was bad, things were bad growing up. My mother got pregnant with me at an early age and my father didn’t stay in the picture. She had no support and a child who was just a burden on her. She used to say terrible things to me, and I couldn’t say anything because they were true. I stole her future.”

“You didn’t steal anything.”

“You weren’t there.”

“Maybe not. But I know your mother didn’t mean those things when she said them. She wasn’t ready for you, but she tried. She raised you the only way she knew how and the only way she knew, was wrong. But that is not your fault.”

“I know. But, I blamed her. I resented her. I moved away the moment I could. I left her and I wanted nothing to do with her. I don’t know what happened in the years after I left. We barely spoke. We became strangers. What an awful son, right?”

“You were in survival mode. It takes time to deal with trauma and anger towards a figure that’s supposed to be maternal especially. Why is that wrong of you?”

“Because I didn’t even know my own mother. Not really. I could tell you what she was like, I could tell you what I remember. But those things aren’t pleasant memories. Maybe she changed after I left. Maybe she found a way to be better. Maybe she wanted to say something to me.”

“She tried to reach you, near the end. Didn’t she?”

I clenched my fists. “She texted me and asked me to talk to her. She said she needed to tell me something. When I didn’t answer she tried to call me a few days later. I screened her call. I was still bitter. Angry. The next time my phone rang, it was someone I had never met telling me that she had passed away.” My eyes watered, from frustration or pain, I could not tell.

She reached across the table and placed a soft hand on my clenched fist.

“That’s why you go to her grave every Thursday at four pm.” She said with a gentle tone.

“Three years ago, Thursday at four pm, she called me for the last time. She wanted to say something to me, her last wish. Probably her dying words, and I don’t know what she wanted to say. Because I didn’t care. I didn’t know how to forgive her. I don’t know. So, I go to her grave every week and every week I think I’m going to know what to say, how to say it and I don’t. I don’t know what to say. I can’t say anything.”

“You’re trying to answer a phone call that can’t be answered anymore. You can’t go back, and you can’t stay where you are. She won’t pick up the phone, you said it yourself. It’s up to you now, you have to start the conversation.” She had tears in her eyes now but her smile was still there.

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Nor I yours,” She said with a chuckle.

“Jenner.”

“Hannah.”

“Nice to meet you, finally, Hannah,” I said.

She wiped the tears from her eyes. “Give me your number, she passed me a pen and a napkin.”

I didn’t even hesitate. I passed the napkin back to her.

“I should get back to work, but I’ll see you soon. I mean, you’re here all the time.” She mocked.

“I could just stop coming.”

“You could, but that won’t happen,” She smirked at me before she left.

A few days later at night, my phone rang. It was fairly unusual for me to get phone calls, let alone calls so late at night. It was a local area code, so my first thought was Hannah was finally calling. I hadn’t seen her since I gave her my number.

I answered the phone anticipating her voice on the other end.

“Hello?”

Instead, it was the voice of a panic-stricken woman who sounded much older than Hannah. “Hello? Can you hear me? Is Hannah there with you? Please, can I talk to her?”

“What? Slow down, no Hannah is not here. Who is this? How did you get this number?”

“She’s not with you?” The woman’s voice was so desperate.

“Who is this?” I asked again, fear starting to creep up on me.

“This is Hannah’s mother. I found your number in one of her apron pockets, calling was the only thing I could think to do. I haven’t seen her in three days. I’m so worried, Michael is getting so worried as well. You haven’t spoken to her at all?”

Three days? That’s the same time frame since I’d had any contact with her.

“Michael? Who is Michael?”

“Her son.”

Hannah has a son. I barely know her so why should I be surprised? I don't know a lot about her.

“You live across from the cemetery on Oak right?”

“Yes, yes we live here. Can I ask who you are? How do you know my daughter?”

“It’s a complicated story. Can I come over? I’d like to meet you and help try and find Hannah.” There was a pause of silence as she contemplated my request.

“Okay.”

I arrived at Hannah’s house and met her mother, Anne, and her son, Michael. Michael was just barely five years old. A bright boy for his age, definitely more mature than most five-year-olds I’d interacted with. I asked Anne why she hadn’t contacted the police if Hannah had been missing for three days. She said this isn’t unusual for Hannah to disappear like this, but it never makes it any easier to handle. And as Michael gets older he notices longer absences of his mother.

“Do you know where she goes?”

“She never tells me. Not where she was or when she is going.”

Just then the sound of a car pulling up to the house could be heard and then a car door slamming shut. We waited with bated breath as footsteps approached the front door and it swung open to reveal Hannah.

“Mommy!” Michael was the first to break the silence as he ran over to her enthusiastically to embrace Hannah. She immediately knelt down to receive his embrace.

“Hey, big man. I missed you,” She said while her eyes scanned the room and met mine with a look of confusion and almost annoyance. She gave her mom a stiff look as well.

“Your friend came over looking for you, mommy.” Michael looked back at me and I smiled.

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Mom, can you take Michael upstairs. I’ll talk with–”

“You’ll do no such thing. Michael hasn’t seen you in days and your friend here came over because he was worried about you. We all were. When are you going to learn not to do this to us? He’s staying for supper, I will get it ready. You stay with Michael.” With that, her mother left the room to go to the kitchen.

Hannah reluctantly sat down on the couch and sighed. She looked exhausted, drained, done. She just put her face in her hands. I didn’t know what to say, so I just stood up and walked over to her, slowly sitting beside her. She didn’t respond to my movement, she just stayed there. I put a gentle hand on her back. Michael was playing with his toys on the ground in front of her.

“Are you okay?”

She scoffed. “What is this? Are you comforting me now? How far I’ve fallen.”

“Everyone needs to be comforted from time to time. You haven’t fallen. Where did you go, Hannah?”

She pulled her head up to look at me. Tears were flooding her eyes.

“To make ends meet. Diner doesn’t pay that well, surely that comes as a shock.”

I don’t know why but I couldn’t look her in the face. I diverted my gaze to Michael. “Where is the father?”

“How did you phrase it? Isn’t in the picture.” She said coldly.

“Look, if you need help or if you’re in some kind of trouble–”

“I do. I need a ton of help. Like most of us do, Jenner. I have no fucking clue what I am doing half the time. I wasn’t ready to have Michael. I wasn’t ready for my boyfriend to just walk out when he found out I was pregnant. I wasn’t ready to drop school to pick up as many part-time jobs as I could juggle. I hate leaving him for so long just to try and scrape together enough money to pay for life. I’m just trying. I’m trying to do everything I can and it’s not always enough but it has to be. Because if it isn’t enough then where will he end up? What will happen to us? So, I might be failing and you might think I’m a terrible mother. But I am trying my best.” She finished with tears freely falling down her face as she stared back at me.

Her defiant expression was beautiful.

“Mommy!” Michael dropped his toys and rushed over to her. “Mommy, don’t–don’t cry mommy. It’s okay. I love you, mommy.” Michael tried to wipe the tears off her cheeks and she tightly embraced him.

At that moment, with that scene before me, hundreds of memories flooded me. Images of my mother crying alone when she thought no one was watching and I was in bed. Time and time again she would embrace me and apologize over and over to me, swearing it wouldn’t happen again, even though it always did. Late nights when she wouldn’t come home until after midnight, always bringing some kind of fast food for me to eat. Even if I ate at terrible hours, I ate. All the times she tried to talk to me as I grew older into my teenage years I shunned her, ignored her, and stormed out on her.

I resented her so deeply for all the times she failed me, I forgot all the times she tried her hardest. No, that’s not right. I didn’t forget. I didn’t care. And because I didn’t care I missed the opportunity to say goodbye and to forgive her.

“I’ll help.” What I said came out of nowhere and interrupted the moment, almost out of place.

“What?” Hannah was surprised.

“I said, I will help. You and Michael.”

“You don’t even know us, you can’t just–”

“You didn’t know me when you slid into that booth and swept away the loneliness that had been plaguing me. You didn’t know me when you watched me stand in front of my mother’s grave for months. But you walked into my life anyway, like you owned the place. So, I’m not going to ask permission to walk into yours. I mean,” I gestured around us. “I’m already here.”

She laughed, tears still swelling in her eyes. She leaned in and placed her head against my chest, Michael still in her arms. I accepted her embrace and placed my arms around them both.

I stayed in Hannah and Michael’s lives. I came by the house every day and night, it started to feel more like home than my apartment. Almost a year had come to pass since that night I had come over. Hannah became the love of my life that filled the gap I was carrying around. We still had our usual routine at the Diner as well, but she was working on going back to school and I was helping watch Michael and getting him ready for school soon as he turned six. I had stopped going to see my mother’s grave every week. Not because I had thought I healed or moved away from her, I just didn’t need to go every week now. Being so close to her, almost helped in a way. Sometimes I would stare out the window on the second floor from Hannah’s room, where I could see my mother’s grave. The spot Hannah must have watched me from for so long.

Until the morning Michael changed my world, for the second time. We were all sitting in the living room. Hannah and I were drinking a much better cup of coffee than the diner could offer. Anne was in the kitchen preparing a hearty breakfast. Michael was on the floor playing with his favorite crayons. It was perfect, or so I thought.

Michael ran over to us so excited. “Look! Look, I drew us!” He hopped up into my lap so naturally. Hannah smiled at us as she leaned in closer to look at his drawing with me.

“Let me see, buddy,” I said. It was drawn out of crayon, but the attempt at little details was there. I could tell by hair color who was who, and it was evident it was a family photo from Michael’s perspective of us as a family.

In the picture, there were six figures. I could tell Hannah and I were the two standing behind Michael, the smallest figure. Anne was standing next to Hannah on her other side. But two figures were floating above us I did not recognize. They had wings, but one of their wings was different. Instead of being arched behind the figure, they kind of spread out to the sides. They were very fluffy too.

Hannah noticed it too. “Michael, who are these people?” She indicated the floating figures.

“This one is Grandpa! Grandma always says he’s watching over me like an angel, so I gave him angel wings because angels can fly.”

“And this other one?” I asked.

Michael looked up at me with the biggest most innocent smile I had ever seen. “That’s your angel.”

“My angel? Why are the wings so different?” I was confused.

“They’re not angel wings, they’re owl wings.”

Hannah and I looked at each other startled.

“Why are they owl’s wings instead of angel wings? Angel’s don’t have owl wings, silly boy.” Hannah teased him.

“His does mommy. Look, I can show you!” He jumped off my lap and ran over to the front window. I followed after him, curious what he was going to show me or what he could see that I could not.

“See! It’s here again. It’s always here, whenever Jenner is here. It is there.” He pointed out the window enthusiastically as though his point was proven to us.

Both Hannah and I were staring out the window trying to see what he saw. Hannah gasped when she saw it.

My heart skipped a beat, or maybe three. Across the street, sitting a tree staring directly at us and the house was a barn owl. It peacefully met my eyes and just stared at me, as if into my soul.

“With the wings of an owl, instead of an angel,” Hannah whispered.

Tears were welling up in my eyes and I could not tell you why. I was overwhelmed with emotions.

“Babe, what day is it?” I asked, almost choking through tears.

“It’s Thursday.”

“I need to go, I’m sorry. I will be right back, I just need–”

Hannah was smiling through her own tears now.

“Go.” That was all she said.

I left the house quickly and ran across the street. Through the cemetery, I knew so well, down the path I had walked a hundred and hundred times over. Where I arrived beneath the tree that resided over my mother’s grave. I was out of breath, tears still falling down my face.

I didn’t know how to say everything I wanted to say, needed to say. I felt as though there wasn’t enough time in the world to make up for every visit I failed to say a single word.

I didn’t know how to make up for it all, but I knew the words this time. I knew where to start.

“Hi, mom.”