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The Drawing

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IT DIDN'T take me long to remember where and what my situation was the next morning. Guess I was getting used to it. Should that be a good thing?

I sat up and frowned when I noticed Jane fussing around in my room.

"What are you looking for?" I asked, not caring how bitter I sounded.

"Oh, hey! Good morning. No, I was just looking through your art book," she said.

My eyes moved to my art book resting unopened on the table at the other end of the room, far from where she stood, before rolling back to her.

She cast her eyes to what caught my attention before realizing how her statement didn't match up given how far she was from the said art book.

The laughter she let out sounded misplaced and lasted longer than I wanted. My frown only deepened at the nervous energy she was exuding. But she went on, her voice drifting into the tense silence she had caused, "I, uh, really like the child at the park drawing."

"Um okay. Could you please leave?" I said not so politely, even with the 'please'.

"Yeah, sure." She moved to open the door but stopped and veered around.

"I..."

I knew she had something to say.

"Yeah?" I prompted, bristling in my bed when she said nothing at first.

"I'm just gonna ask... Is everything okay?" I tilted my head with eyes narrowed in confusion at her question.

"As in..." I trailed off.

"It's just when you woke up yesterday, you seemed weird. Something was different."

I blinked.

What did she mean? Does she know something related to the reason I'm here? And is that why she noticed? Just like Mrs. Morris. If so, should I listen to her? She might say something like Mrs. Morris and end up—

"Um, I don't know what you're talking about," I said, trying my darndest to mask the undertones of an emotion akin to fear.

As much as I didn't like her, I knew my dad loved her and if she mysteriously died like Mrs. Morris because of me, that would hurt my dad. As much as I didn't want to admit it, that would hurt me, too.

"Okay. Never mind then. If you're sure everything is alright then..."

"Everything is fine," I quipped to erase any doubt she had, following it up with a tight-lipped smile.

Her eyes rested on mine before she sighed.

"Sure. And I'm sorry for waking you up."

"No problem."

That was a lie. I never liked her presence in my space and the questions she had just brought upon my mind set an unease in my gut.

"And you also have an appointment today in case you forgot."

"I'll get ready now... Thanks."

She finally left.

True to my word, I got ready for the hospital visit Dad had planned.

Have you ever felt there was a gathering you did not want to attend and wished the person who invited you would call to cancel? Making your wildest dream at the moment come true.

My wildest dream now was a call from the doctor to cancel the appointment, wilder than the one I was living in. But I swished the fantasy away and headed down for breakfast.

Once my dad was ready, we set off on a quiet ride. The hospital wasn't near our house and I knew better than to leave my sketchbook—art book, as Jane called it—alone at home.

My eyes remained on the white mini-canvas nestled in my lap.

"Thinking of what to draw next?" my dad asked as he glanced down at the empty page.

"Yeah. I have nothing in mind, but my hands are itching to draw something," I confessed.

"I'm sure before you know it, you'll start something." He flashed me a small smile before he continued, "You're a great artist, you know that, right?"

I couldn't help but smile at his statement. We might not always get along, but he always told Tony and me we were great at whatever we did, no matter how little or big it was.

He liked to call himself our biggest fan and who was I to deny that he was?

"Thanks, Dad," I said as I returned my gaze to the blank page.

Soon enough, my hands started moving, even if I wasn't sure of what it was going to be. But I resolved to put down the image that was half-formed in my head.

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When we arrived at the hospital, I held on to my sketchbook as if my life depended on it, willing it to shield me from the oncoming nausea.

As usual, the scent of disinfectant attacked first. And as usual, my body responded with waves of nausea bubbling from my stomach, up my throat to settle in my mouth, testing my ability to hold it in.

For some reason, my body felt the smell of vomit was better than that of disinfectants.

My dad proceeded to the reception to inform the nurse of our appointment, which was in about fifteen minutes. She told us we might have to wait longer, but when our doctor was ready, she would let us know.

So, while we sat in waiting, I continued my drawing. A few more minutes passed and just before I raised my head to complain, the nurse informed us it was our turn.

It had been a while since I'd seen Dr. Prowe, but that didn't mean I wouldn't recognize him. His rough face, bald head, and a thick scar just above his right eyebrow had imprinted itself in my memory after he gave me my first shot.

Despite how much I had tried, it was a memory I couldn't ever forget.

"Hello, Clara. Good day Mr. Williams," he greeted us both and my dad went on narrating the recent events, leaving out the part of my aunt's mistake.

They engaged in a conversation that I wasn't willing to partake in, so I used my shield the best way I could. I put pencil to paper, bringing life to strokes of lead.

After their conversation, the doctor checked my vitals and advised us to be sure of whatever I was eating before eating it. It was common information he had told us several times, so my attention drifted as he droned on.

When all was clear, we left, and it felt like I could breathe again when my feet touched the concrete floor outside the hospital. The skies looked too dull for a regular afternoon but at the same time, normal since we were in the last month of the year.

The trip back was lighter and Dad's incessant talks of the Christmas party he and Jane were planning filled the silence. Christmas Day was this Sunday, and he was thinking of going tree shopping tomorrow.

His mood was better, and it made me consider asking him if I could visit Aunt Vera tomorrow. The fact she had forgotten had been bugging me ever since. I couldn't even call it a full fact, as a part of me began thinking otherwise. Could she have been lying? But that begot the question, why.

I had to hear her side of the story. I'd known her for years and I trusted my skills of ascertaining when she wasn't being truthful.

"Dad." I took the opportunity of silence after he had gone into deliberation of what tree size would fit the living room. He couldn't decide whether to get the same size as last year's tree or a bigger one that would touch the ceiling.

"I'm planning on going to see Aunt Vera tomorrow," I said, and he sighed. It seemed like he was going to refuse, so I continued.

"I don't know why she would have put nuts in the cake. That's not something she would do. Maybe she wasn't even the one who baked the cake."

No response. I took it as an avenue to continue.

"And maybe you kinda overreacted. The only way I can know what really happened is if I talk to her. How am I going to do that when she doesn't like to come over and you've banned me from going to her place?"

Once he glanced at me with my puppy eyes on full display, I knew he was giving in. He let out a sigh and drew his hands over his face before returning them to the steering wheel.

"We can consider the fact that she had never done this before, which could mean it was an honest mistake. Maybe I overreacted, but can you blame me for worrying?" he paused and I watched him with bated breath. "Fine."

I let my breath out.

"You can go visit her tomorrow. Today's already gone," he said even though it was minutes past five pm. Yet I understood why. The skies being dark at five pm was only normal during this time of the year.

"Thanks," I said and managed a smile before it soon dropped, weighed down my impending conversation with Aunt Vera.

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We got back around eight pm and Jane had already made dinner. Tony was still at the neighbor's house. He was friends with Julian Walker, their only son at the time, who was around the same age as Tony.

I had my plate in my hands and feet ready to go up to my room with my dinner when Jane called out.

"Why not eat dinner down here today? You hardly do," she suggested and looked at my dad.

I internally groaned, knowing he was going to agree with her.

"Yeah. Once in a while, have dinner with us. Plus, I'm allowing you to go to your aunt's tomorrow."

What if I said no? Would you stop me from going even after you agreed to?

I let out a sigh to mask the angry retort bubbling within and instead, murmured a word of agreement before I sat opposite them on the rectangular table.

The last time I ate dinner with them, I ended up finding out how they had kept the truth about my mom for all these years. Then I realized they were doing so now.

Every time I had dinner with them, they could have told me, but they didn't. Every time I got into an argument with them over Mom, they tried to calm me down but never resolved to tell me what happened.

Why had they never told me about Mom and if I asked this very moment, would they?

"So," Jane started, "How's your scar healing up? Does it still hurt?" she asked, and I was sure it was her attempt to make small talk.

"It's okay. Already forgot about it."

Trying to find a reason for my aunt's unwise decision pushed that out of the driving seat of my mind.

"I know you don't want to say anything and your dad said I shouldn't push it but, you know I'm here to talk about what happened. You've not said a word about it since you got back. There's never a wrong time to talk."

While she said that, I couldn't help but wonder if there was a connection between these memories. Was what happened in one supposed to affect events in another memory? Wasn't this just supposed to be a 'lesson'?

"Clara," Jane prompted, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"I, uh..." I trailed on and she saw it as a chance to continue.

"I know the girl was very close to you, your best friend even. Have you spoken to her this holiday?"

"No, I haven't."

"Maybe you should. You know, ask her what she was thinking and—"

"Jane, please, that's enough. The girl stabbed her for crying out loud."

Dad spoke with a clipped voice and I could tell how tight he was holding onto the fork in his hand just by looking at his whitening knuckles.

"That is enough for you to never talk to her again—" First Aunt Vera, now Mariana "—It's only because she was once your close friend. That's why I didn't press charges. And they also didn't let her continue at your school," he said to me and I paused, whipping up to look at him.

It felt like his statement knocked the wind out of my lungs as my question came out small. "What?"

"They expelled her, remember?" Jane said, and I darted from my dad to her. But that was a mistake, as I recognized the look on her face almost immediately.

It reminded me of the same one Mrs. Morris gave me when I told her I forgot about the presentation. The only difference was that her eyes were not as blue, cold, or blank as the ones that haunted me.

"Um... I'm not so hungry. I'm gonna go up now," I said and didn't even give them time to object. I rushed to clean up after myself before heading to my room.

They expelled Mariana! That didn't happen in my real life. I still remember the picture Mariana, Naomi and I took together in our graduation gowns, all smiles with the tassels of our caps on the left.

I remember because we had the picture printed in three copies and framed for each of us.

So why was this different, especially since it was just a memory? Wasn't it supposed to be the way I remembered? And what's with all these changes? You can't fix a memory, you can only go through it, right? Just like Miss Loveleen had said.

If things were changing, could I still be sure this was all in my head? And would things be back to normal when I woke up?

I reached my room and pushed the door with a slight pounding in my head. I didn't know if I could get the answers to these questions, but having the questions alone made me realize I had to get out of here, and soon.

My eyes fell to my sketchbook, the half-image in my head taunting and tugging at me to finish it on paper, and so I did. I understood why I had a pull to do so when I had finished.

My mouth hung open in shock and my brows drew together in confusion as I stared down at the portrait of a girl who looked like me, the younger me. I knew her. She was the girl I met in the forest.

And then I remembered.

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The Sparkling Authoress
Mis. A

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