Algebra and Auburn Clouds

(Content Warning: Domestic abuse, grief, and algebra homework.)

“Homework,” Aunt Lorraine says, slamming a thick packet of off-white, grainy pages of mathematics onto the kitchen table; the grids and functions burrow into my brain. I feel dizzy just looking at it. “You have to do your homework,” she says, cold and pleading. Her eyes lock onto my hand as I slowly shift a dull number two pencil over the first page. I quickly scribble my name and the date. Suddenly, I feel a muted slap to the back of my skull.

“You spelled your name wrong, Jesse,” she says. “Skipped an ‘s.’” I wince and rub the back of my head. Aunt Lorraine sighs and leaves to smoke a cigarette, her third in the last hour. I try to erase my mistake, but the eraser on my pencil is too worn. The metal casing around what remains of it tears through the soft page before me. Frustrated, I take the metal end of the pencil and use it to shred the page apart. My blood boils as I stab and drag it through the pages until the packet is unrecognizable. I stare into the shambles. It makes as much sense to me now as it did before.

The screen door slams open and shut, and I choke on the smell of a freshly burned cigarette. “What. The. HELL. Did. You. DO.”

I shut my eyes as tightly as I can. All I want to do is disappear. I messed up. I know. I messed up.

Aunt Lorraine lunges at me, but I bolt from my chair before she can grab me. Panicking, I run through the screen door. Whether I broke through the screen or managed to slide it open before falling through, I can’t recall. My skin is burning all the same.

I don’t know where I am running, but I don’t stop. My bare feet ache against the rocks and the grass. I run until my chest hurts. I taste the blood pumping through my tongue.

Eventually, the chill of the autumn evening cools my breath as it leaves me, and a fog forms in front of my face. As my strength dwindles, I lie on a grassy hill. The pointed edges of the blades tickle my skin. Above me, I watch pale pink clouds drifting across an orange sky.

The clouds are bulbous, their broad and rounded edges making intriguing shapes. One cloud looks like a heart; another looks like a dog floating across the sky. My chest flutters as I notice a large cloud hovering just over the setting sun. Vaguely shaped as an angelic figure with auburn hair and a pale, pink face: this cloud glows in front of me. It looks just like you, Mom. Overwhelmed with what I think is grief, I start to cry. I wish she could be here. I wish she could rescue me. The cloud’s arms stretch towards me. She doesn’t understand me like you did.

I breathe out heavily, causing the fog of my breath to combine with the clouds above me. Blurred by the tears, I can almost feel your touch. Held by breath and grass, I drift to sleep on the hill as the evening grows darker. I dream of the days before my mom got sick. I dream of the days when she still had color in her face and auburn in her hair, the days when she would laugh at my bad jokes and make me laugh with hers. She was the only person on the planet who understood me. She made learning fun. She made learning comprehensible. (She taught me that word.) When she got sick, things stopped making sense. Other people had to take over my home-schooling. Her death was so slow and so sudden all the same; I hate that you had to watch the world replace you. I hate that you can’t see how miserably that failed.

The cold autumn night eases me awake. A full and luminous moon overhead casts light onto the hill. My arms and legs itch and ache with mosquito bites. My back contorts through a spasm. My stomach growls. Perhaps running away was not the brightest idea. I sigh as I start walking in what I hope is the direction home.

My memory serves correctly for once, and soon I am stumbling towards the stocky one-floor house. I stop just short of the backyard to assess the battlefield from behind a shrub. All of the lights in the house are on. I can see Aunt Lorraine in the kitchen. Surprisingly, she doesn’t look angry. She seems… worried. She is pacing around the kitchen table, running a nervous hand through her auburn hair. She is frantically speaking into the phone. I see her mouth my name over and over. She slams the phone onto its hook, shaking her head. She walks towards the unbroken screen door, steps outside, and lights a cigarette. Closer now, I can see her shaking. I can’t tell if it is from frustration or the cold night air.

About halfway through her cigarette, I step forward. When she sees me, she drops the cigarette into her ashtray and runs towards me. She lunges at me, and I flinch, but this time she wraps her arms around me and pulls me into a tight embrace. She holds me closely and begins to sob over my shoulder. Awkwardly, I rub her on the back. She sobs harder.

“I just…” she starts. She pushes me away by the shoulders and looks me in the eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she sobs, whiplashing me back into a hug. “I can’t lose you, too,” she cries. Suddenly, I feel tears streaming down my face as well. I lost a mother, but she lost a sister, too. Am I just the personification of a bad replacement for you?

The warmth of her body lulls me into drowsiness, and I start to fall limp into her arms. She helps me to the couch. I drift in and out of consciousness as she roams around the house. She makes calls, calling off the search for me. She starts a pot of water on the stove. She digs through a cabinet to find some calamine lotion. I sleepily raise my arms and legs, and she dabs on the cool pink liquid. She blows on it to speed the drying, and I shiver. When the lotion has dried, she covers me in a soft throw blanket and returns to the stove. I close my eyes as I hear the shifting and shaking of macaroni and cheese being made. In one long blink, a bowl of warm, gooey, golden sustenance is placed on the side table. As I sit up to eat, I see Aunt Lorraine staring at me from across the living room. The rising sun pouring in through the windows illuminates the red in her hair.